"Guilt," "Bad Conscience," and Related Ideas

The breeding of an animal that can promise—is not this just that very paradox of a task which nature has set itself in regard to man? Is not this the very problem of man? The fact that this problem has been to a great extent solved, must appear all the more phenomenal to one who can estimate at its full value that force of forgetfulness which works in opposition to it. Forgetfulness is no mere vis inertiæ, as the superficial believe, rather is it a power of obstruction, active and, in the strictest sense of the word, positive—a power responsible for the fact that what we have lived, experienced, taken into ourselves, no more enters into consciousness during the process of digestion (it might be called psychic absorption) than all the whole manifold process by which our physical nutrition, the so-called "incorporation," is carried on. The temporary shutting of the doors and windows of consciousness, the relief from the clamant alarums and excursions, with which our subconscious world of servant organs works in mutual co-operation and antagonism; a little quietude, a little tabula rasa of the consciousness, so as to make room again for the new, and above all for the more noble functions and functionaries, room for government, foresight, predetermination (for our organism is on an oligarchic model)—this is the utility, as I have said, of the active forgetfulness, which is a very sentinel and nurse of psychic order, repose, etiquette; and this shows at once why it is that there can exist no happiness, no gladness, no hope, no pride, no real present, without forgetfulness. The man in whom this preventative apparatus is damaged and discarded, is to be compared to a dyspeptic, and it is something more than a comparison—he can "get rid of" nothing. But this very animal who finds it necessary to be forgetful, in whom, in fact, forgetfulness represents a force and a form of robust health, has reared for himself an opposition-power, a memory, with whose help forgetfulness is, in certain instances, kept in check—in the cases, namely, where promises have to be made;—so that it is by no means a mere passive inability to get rid of a once indented impression, not merely the indigestion occasioned by a once pledged word, which one cannot dispose of, but an active refusal to get rid of it, a continuing and a wish to continue what has once been willed, an actual memory of the will; so that between the original "I will," "I shall do," and the actual discharge of the will, its act, we can easily interpose a world of new strange phenomena, circumstances, veritable volitions, without the snapping of this long chain of the will. But what is the underlying hypothesis of all this? How thoroughly, in order to be able to regulate the future in this way, must man have first learnt to distinguish between necessitated and accidental phenomena, to think causally, to see the distant as present and to anticipate it, to fix with certainty what is the end, and what is the means to that end; above all, to reckon, to have power to calculate—how thoroughly must man have first become calculable, disciplined, necessitated even for himself and his own conception of himself, that, like a man entering into a promise, he could guarantee himself as a future.

To breed an animal that can promise: isn't this precisely the paradoxical task nature has set itself for humanity? Isn't this the very problem of humanity? This problem has largely been solved. That achievement must seem all the more extraordinary to anyone who fully appreciates the opposing force of forgetfulness. Forgetfulness is not merely inertia, as superficial people believe. Rather, it is an active blocking power, a positive force in the strictest sense. Because of this power, what we have lived through, experienced, and absorbed stays outside consciousness while we digest it. We might call this process psychological absorption. It is no more conscious than the many processes involved in digesting our food, the so-called "incorporation." For a time, forgetfulness closes the doors and windows of consciousness. It relieves us of the noisy commotion of our subconscious world of serving organs, working together and against one another. It gives consciousness a little quiet, a little blank slate, making room again for something new. Above all, it makes room for the higher functions and officials: governing, looking ahead, and deciding in advance. For our organism is organized as an oligarchy, ruled by a few. This, as I have said, is the purpose of active forgetfulness. It guards and nurtures psychological order, rest, and proper conduct. We can see at once why, without forgetfulness, there can be no happiness, joy, hope, pride, or real present. A person whose protective mechanism is damaged and no longer works resembles someone with indigestion. This is more than a comparison: such a person can "get rid of" nothing. But this very animal needs to forget. In fact, forgetfulness is a strength in this animal, a form of robust health. Yet this animal has developed an opposing power for itself: memory. Memory keeps forgetfulness in check in certain cases, namely, when promises must be made. This memory is by no means a merely passive inability to shake off an impression once it has taken hold. Nor is it merely indigestion caused by a promise one cannot get rid of. Instead, it is an active refusal to let go. It is continuing to will what one once willed, and wanting to continue willing it. It is an actual memory of the will. Between the original "I will," "I shall do," and the will's actual fulfillment, its act, a whole world can intervene. New, strange events, circumstances, and even new acts of willing can easily intervene without breaking this long chain of will. But what must all this presuppose? To control the future in this way, how thoroughly must people first have learned to distinguish necessary events from accidental ones! They must have learned to think in terms of cause and effect. They must have learned to see distant events as present and anticipate them. They must have learned to establish with certainty both their goal and the means of reaching it. Above all, they must have learned to reckon and calculate. How thoroughly must people first have become predictable, disciplined, bound by necessity, even to themselves and in their own self-understanding! Only then could someone making a promise guarantee themselves as a future.

This is simply the long history of the origin of responsibility. That task of breeding an animal which can make promises, includes, as we have already grasped, as its condition and preliminary, the more immediate task of first making man to a certain extent, necessitated, uniform, like among his like, regular, and consequently calculable. The immense work of what I have called, "morality of custom"¹ (cp. Dawn of Day, Aphs. 9, 14, and 16), the actual work of man on himself during the longest period of the human race, his whole prehistoric work, finds its meaning, its great justification (in spite of all its innate hardness, despotism, stupidity, and idiocy) in this fact: man, with the help of the morality of customs and of social strait-waistcoats, was made genuinely calculable. If, however, we place ourselves at the end of this colossal process, at the point where the tree finally matures its fruits, when society and its morality of custom finally bring to light that to which it was only the means, then do we find as the ripest fruit on its tree the sovereign individual, that resembles only himself, that has got loose from the morality of custom, the autonomous "super-moral" individual (for "autonomous" and "moral" are mutually-exclusive terms),—in short, the man of the personal, long, and independent will, competent to promise, and we find in him a proud consciousness (vibrating in every fibre), of what has been at last achieved and become vivified in him, a genuine consciousness of power and freedom, a feeling of human perfection in general. And this man who has grown to freedom, who is really competent to promise, this lord of the free will, this sovereign—how is it possible for him not to know how great is his superiority over everything incapable of binding itself by promises, or of being its own security, how great is the trust, the awe, the reverence that he awakes—he "deserves" all three—not to know that with this mastery over himself he is necessarily also given the mastery over circumstances, over nature, over all creatures with shorter wills, less reliable characters? The "free" man, the owner of a long unbreakable will, finds in this possession his standard of value: looking out from himself upon the others, he honours or he despises, and just as necessarily as he honours his peers, the strong and the reliable (those who can bind themselves by promises),—that is, every one who promises like a sovereign, with difficulty, rarely and slowly, who is sparing with his trusts but confers honour by the very fact of trusting, who gives his word as something that can be relied on, because he knows himself strong enough to keep it even in the teeth of disasters, even in the "teeth of fate,"—so with equal necessity will he have the heel of his foot ready for the lean and empty jackasses, who promise when they have no business to do so, and his rod of chastisement ready for the liar, who already breaks his word at the very minute when it is on his lips. The proud knowledge of the extraordinary privilege of responsibility, the consciousness of this rare freedom, of this power over himself and over fate, has sunk right down to his innermost depths, and has become an instinct, a dominating instinct—what name will he give to it, to this dominating instinct, if he needs to have a word for it? But there is no doubt about it—the sovereign man calls it his conscience.

This is simply the long history of the origins of responsibility. As we have already seen, breeding an animal capable of making promises requires a more immediate task first. We must first make human beings somewhat predictable, uniform, similar to one another, regular, and therefore capable of being calculated. This is the immense work of what I have called "morality of custom"¹ (see Dawn of Day, Aphs. 9, 14, and 16). It is humanity’s work on itself throughout the longest period of its existence, its entire prehistoric work. That work finds its meaning and its great justification in one fact, despite all its inherent harshness, tyranny, stupidity, and idiocy. Through the morality of customs and social straitjackets, human beings were made genuinely predictable. But suppose we place ourselves at the end of this enormous process, when the tree finally bears ripe fruit. Society and its morality of custom finally reveal the goal for which they were merely the means. Then we find the tree’s ripest fruit: the sovereign individual, who resembles only himself. He has broken free from the morality of custom. He is the autonomous, "super-moral" individual (for "autonomous" and "moral" are mutually exclusive terms). In short, he possesses a will of his own, enduring and independent, and is competent to promise. We find in him a proud awareness, alive in every fiber, of what has finally been achieved and embodied in him. He has a genuine awareness of power and freedom, a feeling of human perfection in general. This man has grown into freedom and is truly competent to promise. He is the master of free will, the sovereign. How could he fail to know his superiority over everything incapable of binding itself by promises or guaranteeing its own word? How could he fail to know the trust, awe, and reverence he inspires? He "deserves" all three. How could he fail to know that mastery over himself necessarily also gives him mastery over circumstances and nature? It also gives him mastery over all creatures with less enduring wills and less reliable characters. The "free" man possesses a lasting, unbreakable will, and this possession gives him his standard of value. Judging others by himself, he honors or despises them. He necessarily honors his equals, the strong and reliable, those who can bind themselves by promises. These are people who promise like sovereigns: reluctantly, rarely, and slowly. They give their trust sparingly, but bestow honor simply by trusting someone. They give their word as something others can rely on, because they know themselves strong enough to keep it. They can keep it even in the face of disasters, even in the "teeth of fate." Just as necessarily, he is ready to kick the scrawny, empty-headed jackasses who promise when they have no business promising. He is equally ready with his punishing rod for the liar who breaks his word even as he speaks it. He proudly knows the extraordinary privilege of responsibility. His awareness of this rare freedom, this power over himself and fate, has sunk into his deepest being. That awareness has become an instinct, a ruling instinct. What name will he give this ruling instinct, if he needs a word for it? There is no doubt: the sovereign man calls it his conscience.

His conscience?—One apprehends at once that the idea "conscience," which is here seen in its supreme manifestation, supreme in fact to almost the point of strangeness, should already have behind it a long history and evolution. The ability to guarantee one's self with all due pride, and also at the same time to say yes to one's self—that is, as has been said, a ripe fruit, but also a late fruit:—How long must needs this fruit hang sour and bitter on the tree! And for an even longer period there was not a glimpse of such a fruit to to be had—no one had taken it on himself to promise it, although everything on the tree was quite ready for it, and everything was maturing for that very consummation. "How is a memory to be made for the man-animal? How is an impression to be so deeply fixed upon this ephemeral understanding, half dense, and half silly, upon this incarnate forgetfulness, that it will be permanently present?" As one may imagine, this primeval problem was not solved by exactly gentle answers and gentle means; perhaps there is nothing more awful and more sinister in the early history of man than his system of mnemonics. "Something is burnt in so as to remain in his memory: only that which never stops hurting remains in his memory." This is an axiom of the oldest (unfortunately also the longest) psychology in the world. It might even be said that wherever solemnity, seriousness, mystery, and gloomy colours are now found in the life of the men and of nations of the world, there is some survival of that horror which was once the universal concomitant of all promises, pledges, and obligations. The past, the past with all its length, depth, and hardness, wafts to us its breath, and bubbles up in us again, when we become "serious." When man thinks it necessary to make for himself a memory, he never accomplishes it without blood, tortures, and sacrifice; the most dreadful sacrifices and forfeitures (among them the sacrifice of the first-born), the most loathsome mutilation (for instance, castration), the most cruel rituals of all the religious cults (for all religions are really at bottom systems of cruelty)—all these things originate from that instinct which found in pain its most potent mnemonic. In a certain sense the whole of asceticism is to be ascribed to this: certain ideas have got to be made inextinguishable, omnipresent, "fixed," with the object of hypnotising the whole nervous and intellectual system through these "fixed ideas"—and the ascetic methods and modes of life are the means of freeing those ideas from the competition of all other ideas so as to make them "unforgettable." The worse memory man had, the ghastlier the signs presented by his customs; the severity of the penal laws affords in particular a gauge of the extent of man's difficulty in conquering forgetfulness, and in keeping a few primal postulates of social intercourse ever present to the minds of those who were the slaves of every momentary emotion and every momentary desire. We Germans do certainly not regard ourselves as an especially cruel and hard-hearted nation, still less as an especially casual and happy-go-lucky one; but one has only to look at our old penal ordinances in order to realise what a lot of trouble it takes in the world to evolve a "nation of thinkers" (I mean: the European nation which exhibits at this very day the maximum of reliability, seriousness, bad taste, and positiveness, which has on the strength of these qualities a right to train every kind of European mandarin). These Germans employed terrible means to make for themselves a memory, to enable them to master their rooted plebeian instincts and the brutal crudity of those instincts: think of the old German punishments, for instance, stoning (as far back as the legend, the millstone falls on the head of the guilty man), breaking on the wheel (the most original invention and speciality of the German genius in the sphere of punishment), dart-throwing, tearing, or trampling by horses ("quartering"), boiling the criminal in oil or wine (still prevalent in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries), the highly popular flaying ("slicing into strips"), cutting the flesh out of the breast; think also of the evil-doer being besmeared with honey, and then exposed to the flies in a blazing sun. It was by the help of such images and precedents that man eventually kept in his memory five or six "I will nots" with regard to which he had already given his promise, so as to be able to enjoy the advantages of society—and verily with the help of this kind of memory man eventually attained "reason"! Alas! reason, seriousness, mastery over the emotions, all these gloomy, dismal things which are called reflection, all these privileges and pageantries of humanity: how dear is the price that they have exacted! How much blood and cruelty is the foundation of all "good things"!

His conscience? We can see at once that the idea of "conscience" must already have a long history of development. Here we see its highest form, so highly developed that it almost seems strange. To vouch for yourself with rightful pride, and at the same time to say yes to yourself: this is, as we have said, a ripe fruit. But it is also a late fruit. How long this fruit must have hung sour and bitter on the tree! And for an even longer time, there was no sign of such a fruit. No one had undertaken to promise it, although everything on the tree was ready and ripening toward that very outcome. "How can the human animal be given a memory? How can an impression be fixed so deeply in this fleeting mind, half dull and half foolish, this living embodiment of forgetfulness, that it remains permanently present?" As we might imagine, this ancient problem was not solved with gentle answers or gentle methods. Perhaps nothing in early human history is more horrifying and sinister than the system of memory training. "Something is burned in so that it stays in the memory: only what never stops hurting stays in the memory." This is a basic principle of the world's oldest psychology (unfortunately also its longest-lasting). We might even say that wherever solemnity, seriousness, mystery, and gloomy colors appear in human life today, some ancient horror survives. That horror once accompanied all promises, pledges, and obligations. When we become "serious," the past breathes on us and rises within us again, in all its length, depth, and harshness. Whenever people find it necessary to create a memory for themselves, they never do so without blood, torture, and sacrifice. They use the most dreadful sacrifices and penalties (including the sacrifice of the firstborn). They use the most disgusting mutilations (castration, for example) and the cruelest rituals of all religious cults. For all religions are, at bottom, systems of cruelty. All these practices arise from the instinct that found its most powerful aid to memory in pain. In a certain sense, the whole of asceticism can be traced to this instinct. Certain ideas must become impossible to extinguish, always present, "fixed." The aim is to hypnotize the entire nervous and intellectual system through these "fixed ideas." Ascetic practices and ways of life remove the competition of all other ideas, making these ideas "unforgettable." The worse people's memory was, the more gruesome their customs became. The severity of criminal laws especially shows how difficult people found it to overcome forgetfulness. They had to keep a few basic rules of social life constantly before their minds. Yet they were slaves to every passing emotion and desire. We Germans certainly do not consider ourselves an especially cruel or hard-hearted nation. Still less do we consider ourselves especially carefree or happy-go-lucky. But look at our old criminal laws. They show how much trouble the world must take to produce a "nation of thinkers." I mean the European nation that, even today, displays the greatest reliability, seriousness, bad taste, and dogmatic certainty. These qualities entitle it to train every kind of European mandarin. These Germans used terrible methods to give themselves a memory. They needed to master their deeply rooted common people's instincts and the brutal coarseness of those instincts. Think of the old German punishments, such as stoning. Even in the legend, a millstone falls on the guilty man's head. Think of breaking on the wheel, the German genius's most original invention and specialty in punishment. Think of throwing darts at people, or having horses tear them apart or trample them ("quartering"). Think of boiling criminals in oil or wine, still common in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Think of the highly popular flaying ("slicing into strips"), or cutting flesh from the chest. Think, too, of the criminal smeared with honey and left to the flies in the blazing sun. Such images and precedents eventually enabled people to remember five or six "I will nots." They had already given their promise to observe these prohibitions so they could enjoy the advantages of society. And truly, with this kind of memory, humanity eventually attained "reason"! Alas! Reason, seriousness, control over the emotions, all those gloomy, dismal things called reflection, all humanity's privileges and grand displays: what a price they have demanded! How much blood and cruelty underlie all "good things"!

But how is it that that other melancholy object, the consciousness of sin, the whole "bad conscience," came into the world? And it is here that we turn back to our genealogists of morals. For the second time I say—or have I not said it yet?—that they are worth nothing. Just their own five-spans-long limited modern experience; no knowledge of the past, and no wish to know it; still less a historic instinct, a power of "second sight" (which is what is really required in this case)—and despite this to go in for the history of morals. It stands to reason that this must needs produce results which are removed from the truth by something more than a respectful distance.

But how did that other gloomy thing, the consciousness of sin, the whole "bad conscience," come into the world? Here we return to our genealogists of morals. For the second time I say that they are worthless. Or have I not said so yet? They have only their own narrow, modern experience, barely five handspans long. They have no knowledge of the past and no desire to know it. Still less do they have a historical instinct, a power of "second sight" (which is what is really needed here). Yet despite all these shortcomings, they set out to write the history of morals. Naturally, the results must fall more than a respectful distance from the truth.

Have these current genealogists of morals ever allowed themselves to have even the vaguest notion, for instance, that the cardinal moral idea of "ought"² originates from the very material idea of "owe"? Or that punishment developed as a retaliation absolutely independently of any preliminary hypothesis of the freedom or determination of the will?—And this to such an extent, that a high degree of civilisation was always first necessary for the animal man to begin to make those much more primitive distinctions of "intentional," "negligent," "accidental," "responsible," and their contraries, and apply them in the assessing of punishment. That idea—"the wrong-doer deserves punishment because he might have acted otherwise," in spite of the fact that it is nowadays so cheap, obvious, natural, and inevitable, and that it has had to serve as an illustration of the way in which the sentiment of justice appeared on earth, is in point of fact an exceedingly late, and even refined form of human judgment and inference; the placing of this idea back at the beginning of the world is simply a clumsy violation of the principles of primitive psychology. Throughout the longest period of human history punishment was never based on the responsibility of the evil-doer for his action, and was consequently not based on the hypothesis that only the guilty should be punished;—on the contrary, punishment was inflicted in those days for the same reason that parents punish their children even nowadays, out of anger at an injury that they have suffered, an anger which vents itself mechanically on the author of the injury—but this anger is kept in bounds and modified through the idea that every injury has somewhere or other its equivalent price, and can really be paid off, even though it be by means of pain to the author. Whence is it that this ancient deep-rooted and now perhaps ineradicable idea has drawn its strength, this idea of an equivalency between injury and pain? I have already revealed its origin, in the contractual relationship between creditor and ower, that is as old as the existence of legal rights at all, and in its turn points back to the primary forms of purchase, sale, barter, and trade.

Have today’s genealogists of morals ever had even the vaguest idea that the central moral concept of "ought"² comes from the very material concept of "owe"? Or that punishment developed as retaliation, entirely independently of any prior assumption about whether the will is free or determined? So much so that a high level of civilization was needed before the human animal could begin making much more basic distinctions. These were distinctions between "intentional," "negligent," "accidental," "responsible," and their opposites, applied when deciding punishments. Consider the idea that "the wrongdoer deserves punishment because he could have acted otherwise." Today, this idea is commonplace, obvious, natural, and inevitable. It has even had to serve as an explanation of how the sense of justice appeared on earth. Yet this judgment and reasoning actually emerged extremely late, and are even sophisticated. Placing this idea at the very beginning simply shows a clumsy disregard for the principles of early human psychology. Throughout the longest period of human history, punishment was never based on the wrongdoer’s responsibility for his action. Consequently, punishment was not based on the assumption that only the guilty should be punished. On the contrary, people punished others for the same reason parents still punish their children today: anger at an injury suffered. This anger automatically vents itself on whoever caused the injury. But the anger is restrained and modified by the idea that every injury has, somewhere, its equivalent price. The injury can actually be paid off, even through pain inflicted on whoever caused it. Where has this ancient, deeply rooted, and now perhaps ineradicable idea drawn its strength? This idea that injury and pain are equivalent? I have already revealed its origin: the contractual relationship between creditor and debtor. This relationship is as old as legal rights themselves. In turn, it points back to the earliest forms of buying, selling, barter, and trade.

The realisation of these contractual relations excites, of course (as would be already expected from our previous observations), a great deal of suspicion and opposition towards the primitive society which made or sanctioned them. In this society promises will be made; in this society the object is to provide the promiser with a memory; in this society, so may we suspect, there will be full scope for hardness, cruelty, and pain: the "ower," in order to induce credit in his promise of repayment, in order to give a guarantee of the earnestness and sanctity of his promise, in order to drill into his own conscience the duty, the solemn duty, of repayment, will, by virtue of a contract with his creditor to meet the contingency of his not paying, pledge something that he still possesses, something that he still has in his power, for instance, his life or his wife, or his freedom or his body (or under certain religious conditions even his salvation, his soul's welfare, even his peace in the grave; so in Egypt, where the corpse of the ower found even in the grave no rest from the creditor—of course, from the Egyptian standpoint, this peace was a matter of particular importance). But especially has the creditor the power of inflicting on the body of the ower all kinds of pain and torture—the power, for instance, of cutting off from it an amount that appeared proportionate to the greatness of the debt;—this point of view resulted in the universal prevalence at an early date of precise schemes of valuation, frequently horrible in the minuteness and meticulosity of their application, legally sanctioned schemes of valuation for individual limbs and parts of the body. I consider it as already a progress, as a proof of a freer, less petty, and more Roman conception of law, when the Roman Code of the Twelve Tables decreed that it was immaterial how much or how little the creditors in such a contingency cut off, "si plus minusve secuerunt, ne fraude esto." Let us make the logic of the whole of this equalisation process clear; it is strange enough. The equivalence consists in this: instead of an advantage directly compensatory of his injury (that is, instead of an equalisation in money, lands, or some kind of chattel), the creditor is granted by way of repayment and compensation a certain sensation of satisfaction—the satisfaction of being able to vent, without any trouble, his power on one who is powerless, the delight "de faire le mal pour le plaisir de le faire," the joy in sheer violence: and this joy will be relished in proportion to the lowness and humbleness of the creditor in the social scale, and is quite apt to have the effect of the most delicious dainty, and even seem the foretaste of a higher social position. Thanks to the punishment of the "ower," the creditor participates in the rights of the masters. At last he too, for once in a way, attains the edifying consciousness of being able to despise and ill-treat a creature—as an "inferior"—or at any rate of seeing him being despised and ill-treated, in case the actual power of punishment, the administration of punishment, has already become transferred to the "authorities." The compensation consequently consists in a claim on cruelty and a right to draw thereon.

Understanding these contractual relations naturally arouses deep suspicion and hostility toward the primitive society that created or sanctioned them. Our earlier observations already give us reason to expect this reaction. In this society, people will make promises. In this society, the aim is to give the person making a promise a memory. In this society, we may suspect, there will be plenty of room for harshness, cruelty, and pain. The "debtor" wants his promise of repayment to inspire trust. He wants to guarantee that his promise is serious and sacred. He also wants to drill into his own conscience the duty, the solemn duty, to repay. So he contracts with his creditor to pledge something he still possesses or controls if he fails to pay. He might pledge his life or his wife, his freedom or his body. Under certain religious conditions, he might even pledge his salvation, his soul's well-being, or his peace in the grave. In Egypt, for example, the debtor's corpse found no rest from the creditor even in the grave. Of course, from the Egyptian perspective, this peace was particularly important. Above all, the creditor has the power to inflict all kinds of pain and torture on the debtor's body. For instance, he can cut off an amount that seems proportionate to the size of the debt. This way of thinking led, early on, to the widespread use of precise scales of value. Their detailed and meticulous application was often horrifying. These legally sanctioned scales assigned values to individual limbs and body parts. I already consider the Roman Code of the Twelve Tables a step forward on this point. Its ruling shows a freer, less petty, and more Roman understanding of law. The Code declared that, in such cases, it did not matter how much or how little the creditors cut off. "si plus minusve secuerunt, ne fraude esto." Let us clarify the logic behind this whole process of settling accounts. It is strange enough. The equivalence works like this: the creditor does not receive something that directly makes up for his loss. He receives no equivalent in money, land, or some kind of movable property. Instead, as repayment and compensation, he is granted a certain feeling of satisfaction. He can enjoy freely exercising his power over someone powerless. He gets the delight of "doing harm for the pleasure of doing it," the joy of sheer violence. The lower and humbler the creditor's social position, the more he will relish this joy. It may taste like the most delicious treat, even seeming to offer a foretaste of higher social standing. Through the punishment of the "debtor," the creditor shares in the rights of masters. At last, for once, he too gains the uplifting awareness that he can despise and mistreat another creature as an "inferior." Or at least he can enjoy seeing that creature despised and mistreated. This applies if the actual power to punish, the administration of punishment, has already passed to the "authorities." The compensation, then, consists in a claim to cruelty and the right to exercise it.

It is then in this sphere of the law of contract that we find the cradle of the whole moral world of the ideas of "guilt," "conscience," "duty," the "sacredness of duty,"—their commencement, like the commencement of all great things in the world, is thoroughly and continuously saturated with blood. And should we not add that this world has never really lost a certain savour of blood and torture (not even in old Kant; the categorical imperative reeks of cruelty). It was in this sphere likewise that there first became formed that sinister and perhaps now indissoluble association of the ideas of "guilt" and "suffering." To put the question yet again, why can suffering be a compensation for "owing"?—Because the infliction of suffering produces the highest degree of happiness, because the injured party will get in exchange for his loss (including his vexation at his loss) an extraordinary counter-pleasure: the infliction of suffering—a real feast, something that, as I have said, was all the more appreciated the greater the paradox created by the rank and social status of the creditor. These observations are purely conjectural; for, apart from the painful nature of the task, it is hard to plumb such profound depths: the clumsy introduction of the idea of "revenge" as a connecting-link simply hides and obscures the view instead of rendering it clearer (revenge itself simply leads back again to the identical problem—"How can the infliction of suffering be a satisfaction?"). In my opinion it is repugnant to the delicacy, and still more to the hypocrisy of tame domestic animals (that is, modern men; that is, ourselves), to realise with all their energy the extent to which cruelty constituted the great joy and delight of ancient man, was an ingredient which seasoned nearly all his pleasures, and conversely the extent of the naïveté and innocence with which he manifested his need for cruelty, when he actually made as a matter of principle "disinterested malice" (or, to use Spinoza's expression, the sympathia malevolens) into a normal characteristic of man—as consequently something to which the conscience says a hearty yes. The more profound observer has perhaps already had sufficient opportunity for noticing this most ancient and radical joy and delight of mankind; in Beyond Good and Evil, Aph. 188 (and even earlier, in The Dawn of Day, Aphs. 18, 77, 113), I have cautiously indicated the continually growing spiritualisation and "deification" of cruelty, which pervades the whole history of the higher civilisation (and in the larger sense even constitutes it). At any rate the time is not so long past when it was impossible to conceive of royal weddings and national festivals on a grand scale, without executions, tortures, or perhaps an auto-da-fé", or similarly to conceive of an aristocratic household, without a creature to serve as a butt for the cruel and malicious baiting of the inmates. (The reader will perhaps remember Don Quixote at the court of the Duchess: we read nowadays the whole of Don Quixote with a bitter taste in the mouth, almost with a sensation of torture, a fact which would appear very strange and very incomprehensible to the author and his contemporaries—they read it with the best conscience in the world as the gayest of books; they almost died with laughing at it.) The sight of suffering does one good, the infliction of suffering does one more good—this is a hard maxim, but none the less a fundamental maxim, old, powerful, and "human, all-too-human"; one, moreover, to which perhaps even the apes as well would subscribe: for it is said that in inventing bizarre cruelties they are giving abundant proof of their future humanity, to which, as it were, they are playing the prelude. Without cruelty, no feast: so teaches the oldest and longest history of man—and in punishment too is there so much of the festive.

It is in this sphere of contract law that we find the birthplace of the whole moral world. Here began the ideas of "guilt," "conscience," "duty," and the "sacredness of duty." Like the beginnings of all great things in the world, their beginnings are soaked in blood throughout. And should we not add that this moral world has never really lost a certain taste of blood and torture? Not even in old Kant: the categorical imperative reeks of cruelty. Here, too, the sinister and perhaps now inseparable link between "guilt" and "suffering" first took shape. Let us ask again: why can suffering compensate for "owing"? Because the infliction of suffering produces the greatest happiness. In exchange for his loss, including his annoyance at that loss, the injured party receives an extraordinary pleasure. That pleasure is the infliction of suffering, a real feast. As I have said, this pleasure was valued more highly the greater the paradox arising from the creditor's social rank. These observations are purely speculative. Quite apart from how painful the task is, such depths are hard to explore. Clumsily inserting "revenge" as a connecting link only hides and clouds the issue instead of clarifying it. Revenge itself simply brings us back to the same problem: "How can inflicting suffering bring satisfaction?" In my opinion, the sensitivity of tame domestic animals recoils from fully recognizing how much ancient people enjoyed cruelty. Still more does their hypocrisy recoil from it. By tame domestic animals, I mean modern people, ourselves. Cruelty was their great joy and delight, an ingredient that seasoned nearly all their pleasures. Conversely, these ancient people expressed their need for cruelty with extraordinary innocence and lack of self-consciousness. They actually made "disinterested malice" (or, in Spinoza's words, sympathia malevolens) a normal human characteristic as a matter of principle. Consequently, cruelty was something their conscience greeted with a hearty yes. A deeper observer has perhaps already had enough opportunities to notice this most ancient and deeply rooted human delight. In Beyond Good and Evil, Aph. 188, I cautiously pointed to cruelty's ever-growing spiritualization and "deification." I did so even earlier in The Dawn of Day, Aphs. 18, 77, 113. This transformation runs through the whole history of higher civilization and, in a broader sense, even constitutes that history. At any rate, not so long ago, grand royal weddings and national festivals were unimaginable without executions or torture. Perhaps there would even be an auto-da-fé", a public ceremony of the Inquisition. An aristocratic household was likewise unimaginable without some creature for its members to torment with cruel and malicious teasing. (The reader may remember Don Quixote at the Duchess's court. Nowadays, we read the whole of Don Quixote with a bitter taste in our mouths, almost feeling tortured. The author and his contemporaries would find our reaction very strange and completely incomprehensible. They read the book with perfectly clear consciences as the most cheerful of books. They almost died laughing at it.) Seeing suffering feels good, and inflicting suffering feels even better. This is a harsh principle, but a fundamental one nonetheless: ancient, powerful, and "human, all-too-human." Perhaps even apes would agree with it. For their invention of bizarre cruelties is said to offer abundant evidence of their future humanity. They are, so to speak, rehearsing for it. Without cruelty, no feast: this is what humanity's oldest and longest history teaches. And punishment, too, contains so much of the festive.

Entertaining, as I do, these thoughts, I am, let me say in parenthesis, fundamentally opposed to helping our pessimists to new water for the discordant and groaning mills of their disgust with life; on the contrary, it should be shown specifically that, at the time when mankind was not yet ashamed of its cruelty, life in the world was brighter than it is nowadays when there are pessimists. The darkening of the heavens over man has always increased in proportion to the growth of man's shame before man. The tired pessimistic outlook, the mistrust of the riddle of life, the icy negation of disgusted ennui, all those are not the signs of the most evil age of the human race: much rather do they come first to the light of day, as the swamp-flowers, which they are, when the swamp to which they belong, comes into existence—I mean the diseased refinement and moralisation, thanks to which the "animal man" has at last learnt to be ashamed of all his instincts. On the road to angelhood (not to use in this context a harder word) man has developed that dyspeptic stomach and coated tongue, which have made not only the joy and innocence of the animal repulsive to him, but also life itself:—so that sometimes he stands with stopped nostrils before his own self, and, like Pope Innocent the Third, makes a black list of his own horrors ("unclean generation, loathsome nutrition when in the maternal body, badness of the matter out of which man develops, awful stench, secretion of saliva, urine, and excrement"). Nowadays, when suffering is always trotted out as the first argument against existence, as its most sinister query, it is well to remember the times when men judged on converse principles because they could not dispense with the infliction of suffering, and saw therein a magic of the first order, a veritable bait of seduction to life.

Holding these views, I am fundamentally opposed to giving our pessimists fresh fuel for their noisy, groaning mills of disgust with life. Let me make that point as an aside. On the contrary, we should show something specific. When humanity was not yet ashamed of its cruelty, life was brighter than it is today, when pessimists exist. The skies over humanity have always darkened in proportion to humanity’s growing shame before other people. The weary, pessimistic outlook, the distrust of life’s riddle, the icy rejection born of disgust and boredom: none of these marks the most evil age of humanity. Rather, these attitudes first emerge like the swamp flowers they are, once their swamp comes into existence. I mean the diseased refinement and moral training that have finally taught the "animal man" to be ashamed of all his instincts. On the road to becoming an angel, man has developed an upset stomach and a coated tongue. I avoid using a harsher word than angel here. This stomach trouble has made not only animal joy and innocence repulsive to him, but life itself. So he sometimes stands before himself holding his nose. Like Pope Innocent the Third, he draws up a blacklist of his own horrors ("unclean conception, loathsome nourishment in the womb, foulness of the material from which man develops, terrible stench, discharge of saliva, urine, and excrement"). Today, suffering is always trotted out as the first argument against existence, as the darkest question hanging over it. So we would do well to remember times when people judged by opposite principles. They did so because they could not do without inflicting suffering. In causing suffering, they saw magic of the highest order, a truly seductive lure toward life.

Perhaps in those days (this is to solace the weaklings) pain did not hurt so much as it does nowadays: any physician who has treated negroes (granted that these are taken as representative of the prehistoric man) suffering from severe internal inflammations which would bring a European, even though he had the soundest constitution, almost to despair, would be in a position to come to this conclusion. Pain has not the same effect with negroes. (The curve of human sensibilities to pain seems indeed to sink in an extraordinary and almost sudden fashion, as soon as one has passed the upper ten thousand or ten millions of over-civilised humanity, and I personally have no doubt that, by comparison with one painful night passed by one single hysterical chit of a cultured woman, the suffering of all the animals taken together who have been put to the question of the knife, so as to give scientific answers, are simply negligible.) We may perhaps be allowed to admit the possibility of the craving for cruelty not necessarily having become really extinct: it only requires, in view of the fact that pain hurts more nowadays, a certain sublimation and subtilisation, it must especially be translated to the imaginative and psychic plane, and be adorned with such smug euphemisms, that even the most fastidious and hypocritical conscience could never grow suspicious of their real nature ("Tragic pity" is one of these euphemisms: another is "les nostalgies de la croix"). What really raises one's indignation against suffering is not suffering intrinsically, but the senselessness of suffering; such a senselessness, however, existed neither in Christianity, which interpreted suffering into a whole mysterious salvation-apparatus, nor in the beliefs of the naive ancient man, who only knew how to find a meaning in suffering from the standpoint of the spectator, or the inflictor of the suffering. In order to get the secret, undiscovered, and unwitnessed suffering out of the world it was almost compulsory to invent gods and a hierarchy of intermediate beings, in short, something which wanders even among secret places, sees even in the dark, and makes a point of never missing an interesting and painful spectacle. It was with the help of such inventions that life got to learn the tour de force, which has become part of its stock-in-trade, the tour de force of self-justification, of the justification of evil; nowadays this would perhaps require other auxiliary devices (for instance, life as a riddle, life as a problem of knowledge). "Every evil is justified in the sight of which a god finds edification," so rang the logic of primitive sentiment—and, indeed, was it only of primitive? The gods conceived as friends of spectacles of cruelty—oh how far does this primeval conception extend even nowadays into our European civilisation! One would perhaps like in this context to consult Luther and Calvin. It is at any rate certain that even the Greeks knew no more piquant seasoning for the happiness of their gods than the joys of cruelty. What, do you think, was the mood with which Homer makes his gods look down upon the fates of men? What final meaning have at bottom the Trojan War and similar tragic horrors? It is impossible to entertain any doubt on the point: they were intended as festival games for the gods, and, in so far as the poet is of a more godlike breed than other men, as festival games also for the poets. It was in just this spirit and no other, that at a later date the moral philosophers of Greece conceived the eyes of God as still looking down on the moral struggle, the heroism, and the self-torture of the virtuous; the Heracles of duty was on a stage, and was conscious of the fact; virtue without witnesses was something quite unthinkable for this nation of actors. Must not that philosophic invention, so audacious and so fatal, which was then absolutely new to Europe, the invention of "free will," of the absolute spontaneity of man in good and evil, simply have been made for the specific purpose of justifying the idea, that the interest of the gods in humanity and human virtue was inexhaustible?

Perhaps pain hurt less in those days than it does today (a comforting thought for the weaklings). Any doctor who has treated Black people with severe internal inflammation could reach this conclusion. This assumes that Black people represent prehistoric humans. Such inflammation would drive a European almost to despair, even one with the strongest constitution. Pain does not affect Black people in the same way. (Human sensitivity to pain seems to drop extraordinarily sharply, almost suddenly, beyond humanity’s overcivilized top ten thousand or ten million. Personally, I have no doubt about the following comparison. Consider all the animals cut open to provide scientific answers. Their combined suffering is simply negligible beside one painful night endured by a single hysterical little woman of culture.) Perhaps we may admit that the craving for cruelty has not necessarily died out. Since pain hurts more today, that craving merely needs some refinement and a more elevated form. Above all, cruelty must move into the realms of imagination and the mind. Cruelty must also wear such smug euphemisms that even the most fastidious, hypocritical conscience would never suspect its real nature. ("Tragic pity" is one such euphemism. Another is "les nostalgies de la croix", longings for the cross.) What really outrages us about suffering is not suffering itself, but its meaninglessness. Yet such meaninglessness existed neither in Christianity nor in the beliefs of naive ancient people. Christianity gave suffering a place within an entire mysterious machinery of salvation. Ancient people could find meaning in suffering only from the viewpoint of its spectator or its inflictor. To eliminate secret, undiscovered, unwitnessed suffering from the world, people almost had to invent gods and ranks of lesser beings. In short, they needed beings who roamed even hidden places and saw even in the dark. These beings made a point of never missing an interesting, painful spectacle. Such inventions helped life learn a tour de force that has become part of its standard repertoire. This tour de force was justifying itself, justifying evil. Today, such justification would perhaps need other supporting devices (for instance, life as a riddle, life as a problem of knowledge). "Every evil is justified if a god finds edification in watching it." Such was the logic of primitive feeling. But was that logic really limited to primitive feeling? Gods imagined as lovers of cruel spectacles: oh, how deeply this ancient idea still reaches into our European civilization! One might perhaps like to consult Luther and Calvin on this point. At any rate, even the Greeks certainly knew no sharper seasoning for their gods’ happiness than the pleasures of cruelty. In what mood, do you think, does Homer have his gods look down on human destinies? What ultimate meaning lies behind the Trojan War and similar tragic horrors? There can be no doubt: these horrors were intended as festival games for the gods. And insofar as poets belong to a more godlike breed than other people, these horrors were festival games for poets too. Later, Greece’s moral philosophers imagined God still watching virtuous people’s moral struggles, heroism, and self-torture. They imagined this in exactly the same spirit, and no other. Their Heracles of duty stood on a stage and knew he was on a stage. For this nation of actors, virtue without witnesses was utterly unthinkable. Must not the philosophers’ bold and disastrous invention of "free will" have served precisely this purpose? The invention was entirely new to Europe: human beings could act entirely spontaneously, for good or evil. Was its specific purpose not to justify the idea that the gods’ interest in humanity and human virtue was inexhaustible?

There would never on the stage of this free-will world be a dearth of really new, really novel and exciting situations, plots, catastrophes. A world thought out on completely deterministic lines would be easily guessed by the gods, and would consequently soon bore them—sufficient reason for these friends of the gods, the philosophers, not to ascribe to their gods such a deterministic world. The whole of ancient humanity is full of delicate consideration for the spectator, being as it is a world of thorough publicity and theatricality, which could not conceive of happiness without spectacles and festivals.—And, as has already been said, even in great punishment there is so much which is festive.

On the stage of this free-will world, there would never be a shortage of truly new and exciting situations, plots, and catastrophes. The gods could easily predict a world governed entirely by fixed causes, and so would soon find it boring. That was reason enough for these friends of the gods, the philosophers, not to give their gods such a world. All of ancient humanity shows a delicate concern for the spectator. Everything in that world was public and theatrical, and happiness was unimaginable without spectacles and festivals. And, as already noted, even great punishment has much that is festive about it.

The feeling of "ought," of personal obligation (to take up again the train of our inquiry), has had, as we saw, its origin in the oldest and most original personal relationship that there is, the relationship between buyer and seller, creditor and ower: here it was that individual confronted individual, and that individual matched himself against individual. There has not yet been found a grade of civilisation so low, as not to manifest some trace of this relationship. Making prices, assessing values, thinking out equivalents, exchanging—all this preoccupied the primal thoughts of man to such an extent that in a certain sense it constituted thinking itself: it was here that was trained the oldest form of sagacity, it was here in this sphere that we can perhaps trace the first commencement of man's pride, of his feeling of superiority over other animals. Perhaps our word "Mensch" (manas) still expresses just something of this self-pride: man denoted himself as the being who measures values, who values and measures, as the "assessing" animal par excellence. Sale and purchase, together with their psychological concomitants, are older than the origins of any form of social organisation and union: it is rather from the most rudimentary form of individual right that the budding consciousness of exchange, commerce, debt, right, obligation, compensation was first transferred to the rudest and most elementary of the social complexes (in their relation to similar complexes), the habit of comparing force with force, together with that of measuring, of calculating. His eye was now focussed to this perspective; and with that ponderous consistency characteristic of ancient thought, which, though set in motion with difficulty, yet proceeds inflexibly along the line on which it has started, man soon arrived at the great generalisation, "everything has its price, all can be paid for," the oldest and most naive moral canon of justice, the beginning of all "kindness," of all "equity," of all "goodwill," of all "objectivity" in the world. Justice in this initial phase is the goodwill among people of about equal power to come to terms with each other, to come to an understanding again by means of a settlement, and with regard to the less powerful, to compel them to agree among themselves to a settlement.

The feeling of "ought," of personal obligation, began, as we saw, in the oldest and most basic personal relationship. Let us return to that line of inquiry. This was the relationship between buyer and seller, creditor and debtor. Here, one individual faced another and measured himself against another. No civilization has yet been found so primitive that it shows no trace of this relationship. Setting prices, judging values, working out equivalents, exchanging: these activities occupied humanity’s earliest thoughts so completely that, in a sense, they constituted thinking itself. Here the oldest form of practical intelligence developed. Perhaps here, too, we can trace the beginnings of human pride, of feeling superior to other animals. Perhaps our word "Mensch" (manas) still expresses something of this pride. Humans named themselves as beings who measure values, who value and measure, as the ultimate "assessing" animal. Buying and selling, along with their psychological effects, predate the origins of every form of social organization and association. Rather, the emerging awareness of exchange, trade, debt, rights, obligation, and compensation began with the simplest form of individual rights. From there, that awareness spread to the crudest and most basic social groups in their dealings with similar groups. So did the habit of comparing strength with strength, along with measuring and calculating. Humanity’s attention was now fixed on this perspective. Ancient thought had a slow, heavy consistency. Although difficult to set in motion, once moving it followed its chosen path without wavering. With that same consistency, humanity soon reached the great generalization: "everything has its price, all can be paid for." This was the oldest and most naive moral principle of justice. It was the beginning of all "kindness," all "equity," all "goodwill," and all "objectivity" in the world. In this earliest phase, justice means the willingness of people with roughly equal power to reach terms with one another. They seek to restore mutual understanding through a settlement. As for the less powerful, justice means to force them to agree on a settlement among themselves.

Measured always by the standard of antiquity (this antiquity, moreover, is present or again possible at all periods), the community stands to its members in that important and radical relationship of creditor to his "owers." Man lives in a community, man enjoys the advantages of a community (and what advantages! we occasionally underestimate them nowadays), man lives protected, spared, in peace and trust, secure from certain injuries and enmities, to which the man outside the community, the "peaceless" man, is exposed,—a German understands the original meaning of "Elend" (êlend),—secure because he has entered into pledges and obligations to the community in respect of these very injuries and enmities. What happens when this is not the case? The community, the defrauded creditor, will get itself paid, as well as it can, one can reckon on that. In this case the question of the direct damage done by the offender is quite subsidiary: quite apart from this the criminal³ is above all a breaker, a breaker of word and covenant to the whole, as regards all the advantages and amenities of the communal life in which up to that time he had participated. The criminal is an "ower" who not only fails to repay the advances and advantages that have been given to him, but even sets out to attack his creditor: consequently he is in the future not only, as is fair, deprived of all these advantages and amenities—he is in addition reminded of the importance of those advantages. The wrath of the injured creditor, of the community, puts him back in the wild and outlawed status from which he was previously protected: the community repudiates him—and now every kind of enmity can vent itself on him. Punishment is in this stage of civilisation simply the copy, the mimic, of the normal treatment of the hated, disdained, and conquered enemy, who is not only deprived of every right and protection but of every mercy; so we have the martial law and triumphant festival of the væ victis! in all its mercilessness and cruelty. This shows why war itself (counting the sacrificial cult of war) has produced all the forms under which punishment has manifested itself in history.

By the standards of antiquity, the community has a fundamental relationship with its members: a creditor’s relationship with his "debtors." And this antiquity exists, or can return, in any era. People live in a community and enjoy its advantages (and what advantages! We sometimes underestimate them today). They live protected and spared from harm, in peace and trust. They are safe from certain injuries and hostilities that threaten anyone outside the community, the "peaceless" person. A German understands the original meaning of "Elend" (êlend). Community members are safe because they have made pledges and accepted obligations to the community concerning these very injuries and hostilities. What happens when this is not the case? The community, the cheated creditor, will collect payment as best it can. You can count on that. In such cases, the direct harm caused by the offender is quite secondary. Apart from that harm, the criminal³ is above all someone who breaks his word and his agreement with the whole community. That agreement covers all the advantages and comforts of communal life he has enjoyed until then. The criminal is a "debtor" who fails to repay the advances and benefits he has received. But he also goes so far as to attack his creditor. Consequently, he is not merely deprived of all these advantages and comforts in the future, as is fair. He is also reminded of the importance of those advantages. The anger of the injured creditor, the community, returns him to the wild, outlawed condition from which he was previously protected. The community rejects him, and now every kind of hostility can be unleashed against him. At this stage of civilization, punishment simply copies the usual treatment of the hated, despised, and conquered enemy. Such an enemy is stripped of every right and protection, and of all mercy. So punishment brings martial law and the victory celebration of væ victis! ("woe to the conquered!"), with all their mercilessness and cruelty. This shows why war itself, including the sacrificial worship associated with war, has produced every historical form of punishment.

As it grows more powerful, the community tends to take the offences of the individual less seriously, because they are now regarded as being much less revolutionary and dangerous to the corporate existence: the evil-doer is no more outlawed and put outside the pale, the common wrath can no longer vent itself upon him with its old licence,—on the contrary, from this very time it is against this wrath, and particularly against the wrath of those directly injured, that the evil-doer is carefully shielded and protected by the community. As, in fact, the penal law develops, the following characteristics become more and more clearly marked: compromise with the wrath of those directly affected by the misdeed; a consequent endeavour to localise the matter and to prevent a further, or indeed a general spread of the disturbance; attempts to find equivalents and to settle the whole matter (compositio); above all, the will, which manifests itself with increasing definiteness, to treat every offence as in a certain degree capable of being paid off, and consequently, at any rate up to a certain point, to isolate the offender from his act. As the power and the self-consciousness of a community increases, so proportionately does the penal law become mitigated; conversely every weakening and jeopardising of the community revives the harshest forms of that law. The creditor has always grown more humane proportionately as he has grown more rich; finally the amount of injury he can endure without really suffering becomes the criterion of his wealth. It is possible to conceive of a society blessed with so great a consciousness of its own power as to indulge in the most aristocratic luxury of letting its wrong-doers go scot-free.—"What do my parasites matter to me?" might society say. "Let them live and flourish! I am strong enough for it."—The justice which began with the maxim, "Everything can be paid off, everything must be paid off," ends with connivance at the escape of those who cannot pay to escape—it ends, like every good thing on earth, by destroying itself.—The self-destruction of Justice! we know the pretty name it calls itself—Grace! it remains, as is obvious, the privilege of the strongest, better still, their super-law.

As a community grows more powerful, it tends to take individual offenses less seriously. Such offenses now seem much less threatening to the community’s order and survival. The wrongdoer is no longer outlawed and cast out. The community’s anger can no longer fall on him with its old freedom. On the contrary, the community now carefully shields and protects him against that anger, especially the anger of those directly harmed. In fact, as criminal law develops, the following features become increasingly clear. It seeks a compromise with the anger of those directly affected by the offense. Consequently, it tries to keep the matter local and prevent the disturbance from spreading further, or even throughout the community. It tries to find equivalent compensation and settle the whole matter (compositio). Above all, an increasingly clear determination emerges to treat every offense as something that can, to some degree, be paid off. Consequently, at least up to a certain point, the law seeks to separate the offender from his act. As a community’s power and awareness of itself increase, its criminal law becomes proportionately less severe. Conversely, whenever the community weakens or comes under threat, the harshest forms of that law return. The creditor has always grown more humane in proportion to his growing wealth. Eventually, his wealth is measured by how much harm he can endure without truly suffering. We can imagine a society blessed with so great an awareness of its own power that it allows itself the most aristocratic luxury: letting its wrongdoers go unpunished. "What do my parasites matter to me?" society might say. "Let them live and flourish! I am strong enough for that." Justice began with the principle, "Everything can be paid off, everything must be paid off." It ends by knowingly allowing those who cannot pay to escape. Like every good thing on earth, it ends by destroying itself. The self-destruction of Justice! We know the pretty name it gives itself: Grace! Grace remains, obviously, the privilege of the strongest. Better still, it is their law above the law.

A deprecatory word here against the attempts, that have lately been made, to find the origin of justice on quite another basis—namely, on that of resentment. Let me whisper a word in the ear of the psychologists, if they would fain study revenge itself at close quarters: this plant blooms its prettiest at present among Anarchists and anti-Semites, a hidden flower, as it has ever been, like the violet, though, forsooth, with another perfume. And as like must necessarily emanate from like, it will not be a matter for surprise that it is just in such circles that we see the birth of endeavours (it is their old birthplace—compare above, First Essay, paragraph 14), to sanctify revenge under the name of justice (as though Justice were at bottom merely a development of the consciousness of injury), and thus with the rehabilitation of revenge to reinstate generally and collectively all the reactive emotions. I object to this last point least of all. It even seems meritorious when regarded from the standpoint of the whole problem of biology (from which standpoint the value of these emotions has up to the present been underestimated). And that to which I alone call attention, is the circumstance that it is the spirit of revenge itself, from which develops this new nuance of scientific equity (for the benefit of hate, envy, mistrust, jealousy, suspicion, rancour, revenge). This scientific "equity" stops immediately and makes way for the accents of deadly enmity and prejudice, so soon as another group of emotions comes on the scene, which in my opinion are of a much higher biological value than these reactions, and consequently have a paramount claim to the valuation and appreciation of science: I mean the really active emotions, such as personal and material ambition, and so forth. (E. Dühring, Value of Life; Course of Philosophy, and passim.) So much against this tendency in general: but as for the particular maxim of Dühring's, that the home of Justice is to be found in the sphere of the reactive feelings, our love of truth compels us drastically to invert his own proposition and to oppose to him this other maxim: the last sphere conquered by the spirit of justice is the sphere of the feeling of reaction! When it really comes about that the just man remains just even as regards his injurer (and not merely cold, moderate, reserved, indifferent: being just is always a positive state); when, in spite of the strong provocation of personal insult, contempt, and calumny, the lofty and clear objectivity of the just and judging eye (whose glance is as profound as it is gentle) is untroubled, why then we have a piece of perfection, a past master of the world—something, in fact, which it would not be wise to expect, and which should not at any rate be too easily believed. Speaking generally, there is no doubt but that even the justest individual only requires a little dose of hostility, malice, or innuendo to drive the blood into his brain and the fairness from it. The active man, the attacking, aggressive man is always a hundred degrees nearer to justice than the man who merely reacts; he certainly has no need to adopt the tactics, necessary in the case of the reacting man, of making false and biassed valuations of his object. It is, in point of fact, for this reason that the aggressive man has at all times enjoyed the stronger, bolder, more aristocratic, and also freer outlook, the better conscience. On the other hand, we already surmise who it really is that has on his conscience the invention of the "bad conscience,"—the resentful man! Finally, let man look at himself in history. In what sphere up to the present has the whole administration of law, the actual need of law, found its earthly home? Perchance in the sphere of the reacting man? Not for a minute: rather in that of the active, strong, spontaneous, aggressive man? I deliberately defy the above-mentioned agitator (who himself makes this self-confession, "the creed of revenge has run through all my works and endeavours like the red thread of Justice"), and say, that judged historically law in the world represents the very war against the reactive feelings, the very war waged on those feelings by the powers of activity and aggression, which devote some of their strength to damming and keeping within bounds this effervescence of hysterical reactivity, and to forcing it to some compromise. Everywhere where justice is practised and justice is maintained, it is to be observed that the stronger power, when confronted with the weaker powers which are inferior to it (whether they be groups, or individuals), searches for weapons to put an end to the senseless fury of resentment, while it carries on its object, partly by taking the victim of resentment out of the clutches of revenge, partly by substituting for revenge a campaign of its own against the enemies of peace and order, partly by finding, suggesting, and occasionally enforcing settlements, partly by standardising certain equivalents for injuries, to which equivalents the element of resentment is henceforth finally referred. The most drastic measure, however, taken and effectuated by the supreme power, to combat the preponderance of the feelings of spite and vindictiveness—it takes this measure as soon as it is at all strong enough to do so—is the foundation of law, the imperative declaration of what in its eyes is to be regarded as just and lawful, and what unjust and unlawful: and while, after the foundation of law, the supreme power treats the aggressive and arbitrary acts of individuals, or of whole groups, as a violation of law, and a revolt against itself, it distracts the feelings of its subjects from the immediate injury inflicted by such a violation, and thus eventually attains the very opposite result to that always desired by revenge, which sees and recognises nothing but the standpoint of the injured party. From henceforth the eye becomes trained to a more and more impersonal valuation of the deed, even the eye of the injured party himself (though this is in the final stage of all, as has been previously remarked)—on this principle "right" and "wrong" first manifest themselves after the foundation of law (and not, as Dühring maintains, only after the act of violation). To talk of intrinsic right and intrinsic wrong is absolutely non-sensical; intrinsically, an injury, an oppression, an exploitation, an annihilation can be nothing wrong, inasmuch as life is essentially (that is, in its cardinal functions) something which functions by injuring, oppressing, exploiting, and annihilating, and is absolutely inconceivable without such a character. It is necessary to make an even more serious confession:—viewed from the most advanced biological standpoint, conditions of legality can be only exceptional conditions, in that they are partial restrictions of the real life-will, which makes for power, and in that they are subordinated to the life-will's general end as particular means, that is, as means to create larger units of strength. A legal organisation, conceived of as sovereign and universal, not as a weapon in a fight of complexes of power, but as a weapon against fighting, generally something after the style of Dühring's communistic model of treating every will as equal with every other will, would be a principle hostile to life, a destroyer and dissolver of man, an outrage on the future of man, a symptom of fatigue, a secret cut to Nothingness.—

A word of criticism here about recent attempts to trace justice to an entirely different source: resentment. Let me whisper something to psychologists who would like to study revenge up close. This plant now blooms most beautifully among Anarchists and anti-Semites. As always, it is a hidden flower, like the violet, though with quite another perfume, to be sure. And since like must necessarily produce like, we should not be surprised by what emerges from these circles. Here we find attempts to sanctify revenge under the name of justice. These circles are the old birthplace of such attempts (compare above, First Essay, paragraph 14). The assumption is that Justice is basically nothing more than a developed awareness of having been injured. By restoring revenge to respectability, these attempts seek to restore all the reactive emotions together. I object least of all to this last point. From the standpoint of the whole problem of biology, restoring these emotions even seems meritorious. From that standpoint, their value has so far been underestimated. I am simply drawing attention to one circumstance. The spirit of revenge itself produces this new shade of scientific fairness. The beneficiaries are hate, envy, mistrust, jealousy, suspicion, bitterness, and revenge. This scientific "equity" immediately stops when another group of emotions appears. Fairness then gives way to expressions of deadly hostility and prejudice. In my opinion, these other emotions have much greater biological value than reactive emotions. They therefore have the strongest claim to scientific assessment and appreciation. I mean the genuinely active emotions, such as ambition for personal advancement and material possessions, and so on. (E. Dühring, Value of Life; Course of Philosophy, and passim.) So much for this tendency in general. But Dühring specifically claims that Justice has its home among reactive feelings. Our love of truth forces us to turn his claim completely upside down. Against him, we must assert this: reactive feeling is the last territory conquered by the spirit of justice! Sometimes a just person really does remain just even toward someone who has injured him. He is not merely cold, restrained, reserved, or indifferent. Being just is always a positive state. Personal insult, contempt, and slander may strongly provoke him. Yet his elevated, clear, objective judgment remains undisturbed, his gaze as penetrating as it is gentle. When this happens, we have an example of perfection, someone who has mastered the world. We would be unwise to expect such a person. At any rate, we should not too readily believe in such a person. Generally speaking, even the fairest individual undoubtedly needs only a little hostility, malice, or insinuation to lose his fairness. The blood rushes to his head, and fairness rushes from it. The active, attacking, aggressive person is always a hundred degrees closer to justice than someone who merely reacts. The reactive person needs to judge his target falsely and with bias. The aggressive person certainly has no need for such tactics. Indeed, this is why the aggressive person has always had a stronger, bolder, more aristocratic, and also freer outlook. He has also had a better conscience. By contrast, we can already guess who bears responsibility for inventing the "bad conscience": the resentful person! Finally, let us look at ourselves in history. Where, until now, have the entire administration of law and the actual need for law found their earthly home? Perhaps among reactive people? Not for a moment. Rather, among active, strong, spontaneous, aggressive people. I deliberately challenge the agitator mentioned above. He himself confesses, "the creed of revenge has run through all my works and endeavours like the red thread of Justice". Historically, I say, law represents the very war against reactive feelings. Active and aggressive powers wage this war. They devote some of their strength to containing this seething, hysterical reactivity and forcing it toward some compromise. Wherever justice is practiced and maintained, we can observe the same thing. A stronger power confronts weaker powers beneath it, whether groups or individuals. The stronger power looks for weapons to end resentment's senseless fury. It pursues this aim partly by rescuing resentment's target from the clutches of revenge. It also replaces private revenge with its own campaign against the enemies of peace and order. It finds, proposes, and sometimes enforces settlements. It also establishes standard compensation for particular injuries. From then on, resentment is definitively directed toward these established equivalents. But the supreme power's most drastic measure against spite and vindictiveness is the establishment of law. It takes this measure as soon as it is strong enough. It authoritatively declares what counts, in its eyes, as just and lawful, and what counts as unjust and unlawful. Once law is established, the supreme power treats aggressive and arbitrary acts as violations of law and rebellions against itself. This applies to acts by individuals and entire groups alike. In doing so, the supreme power redirects its subjects' feelings away from the immediate injury caused by the violation. Eventually, it achieves the exact opposite of what revenge always wants. Revenge sees and recognizes only the injured party's perspective. From then on, people learn to assess actions more and more impersonally. Even the injured party learns this, though only at the very last stage, as already noted. On this principle, "right" and "wrong" first appear after law is established. They do not arise only after an act of violation, as Dühring maintains. Talk of intrinsic right and intrinsic wrong is complete nonsense. In themselves, injury, oppression, exploitation, and destruction cannot be wrong. For life essentially, in its basic functions, operates by injuring, oppressing, exploiting, and destroying. Life is utterly inconceivable without these characteristics. We must make an even more serious admission. From the most advanced biological standpoint, conditions governed by law can only be exceptional conditions. They partially restrict life's true will, which seeks power. As specific means, these restrictions serve the life-will's overall purpose: creating larger units of strength. Imagine a legal order conceived as supreme and universal. It would not be a weapon in the struggle between power formations, but a weapon against struggle itself. It would resemble Dühring's communistic model, which treats every will as equal to every other will. Such an order would be a principle hostile to life. It would destroy and dissolve humanity, violate humanity's future, and signal exhaustion. It would be a hidden path to Nothingness.

A word more on the origin and end of punishment—two problems which are or ought to be kept distinct, but which unfortunately are usually lumped into one. And what tactics have our moral genealogists employed up to the present in these cases? Their inveterate naïveté. They find out some "end" in the punishment, for instance, revenge and deterrence, and then in all their innocence set this end at the beginning, as the causa fiendi of the punishment, and—they have done the trick. But the patching up of a history of the origin of law is the last use to which the "End in Law"⁴ ought to be put. Perhaps there is no more pregnant principle for any kind of history than the following, which, difficult though it is to master, should none the less be mastered in every detail.—The origin of the existence of a thing and its final utility, its practical application and incorporation in a system of ends, are toto cœlo opposed to each other—everything, anything, which exists and which prevails anywhere, will always be put to new purposes by a force superior to itself, will be commandeered afresh, will be turned and transformed to new uses; all "happening" in the organic world consists of overpowering and dominating, and again all overpowering and domination is a new interpretation and adjustment, which must necessarily obscure or absolutely extinguish the subsisting "meaning" and "end." The most perfect comprehension of the utility of any physiological organ (or also of a legal institution, social custom, political habit, form in art or in religious worship) does not for a minute imply any simultaneous comprehension of its origin: this may seem uncomfortable and unpalatable to the older men,—for it has been the immemorial belief that understanding the final cause or the utility of a thing, a form, an institution, means also understanding the reason for its origin: to give an example of this logic, the eye was made to see, the hand was made to grasp. So even punishment was conceived as invented with a view to punishing. But all ends and all utilities are only signs that a Will to Power has mastered a less powerful force, has impressed thereon out of its own self the meaning of a function; and the whole history of a "Thing," an organ, a custom, can on the same principle be regarded as a continuous "sign-chain" of perpetually new interpretations and adjustments, whose causes, so far from needing to have even a mutual connection, sometimes follow and alternate with each other absolutely haphazard. Similarly, the evolution of a "thing," of a custom, is anything but its progressus to an end, still less a logical and direct progressus attained with the minimum expenditure of energy and cost: it is rather the succession of processes of subjugation, more or less profound, more or less mutually independent, which operate on the thing itself; it is, further, the resistance which in each case invariably displayed this subjugation, the Protean wriggles by way of defence and reaction, and, further, the results of successful counter-efforts. The form is fluid, but the meaning is even more so—even inside every individual organism the case is the same: with every genuine growth of the whole, the "function" of the individual organs becomes shifted,—in certain cases a partial perishing of these organs, a diminution of their numbers (for instance, through annihilation of the connecting members), can be a symptom of growing strength and perfection. What I mean is this: even partial loss of utility, decay, and degeneration, loss of function and purpose, in a word, death, appertain to the conditions of the genuine progressus; which always appears in the shape of a will and way to greater power, and is always realised at the expense of innumerable smaller powers. The magnitude of a "progress" is gauged by the greatness of the sacrifice that it requires: humanity as a mass sacrificed to the prosperity of the one stronger species of Man—that would be a progress. I emphasise all the more this cardinal characteristic of the historic method, for the reason that in its essence it runs counter to predominant instincts and prevailing taste, which much prefer to put up with absolute casualness, even with the mechanical senselessness of all phenomena, than with the theory of a power-will, in exhaustive play throughout all phenomena. The democratic idiosyncrasy against everything which rules and wishes to rule, the modern misarchism (to coin a bad word for a bad thing), has gradually but so thoroughly transformed itself into the guise of intellectualism, the most abstract intellectualism, that even nowadays it penetrates and has the right to penetrate step by step into the most exact and apparently the most objective sciences: this tendency has, in fact, in my view already dominated the whole of physiology and biology, and to their detriment, as is obvious, in so far as it has spirited away a radical idea, the idea of true activity. The tyranny of this idiosyncrasy, however, results in the theory of "adaptation" being pushed forward into the van of the argument, exploited; adaptation—that means to say, a second-class activity, a mere capacity for "reacting"; in fact, life itself has been defined (by Herbert Spencer) as an increasingly effective internal adaptation to external circumstances. This definition, however, fails to realise the real essence of life, its will to power. It fails to appreciate the paramount superiority enjoyed by those plastic forces of spontaneity, aggression, and encroachment with their new interpretations and tendencies, to the operation of which adaptation is only a natural corollary: consequently the sovereign office of the highest functionaries in the organism itself (among which the life-will appears as an active and formative principle) is repudiated. One remembers Huxley's reproach to Spencer of his "administrative Nihilism": but it is a case of something much more than "administration."

One more word on the origin and purpose of punishment. These are two separate problems, or ought to be, but unfortunately people usually lump them together. And what tactics have our moral genealogists used in such cases until now? Their habitual naïveté. They identify some "purpose" in punishment, such as revenge and deterrence. Then, in all innocence, they place this purpose at the beginning, as punishment’s cause of coming into being. And with that, they think they have done the trick. But cobbling together a history of law’s origins is the last use anyone should make of the "End in Law"⁴. Perhaps no principle is more fruitful for any kind of history than the following. Difficult though this principle is to grasp, it should nevertheless be mastered in every detail. A thing’s origin and its eventual usefulness are entirely different matters. So are its origin and its practical use or incorporation into a system of purposes. Everything that exists and holds its ground anywhere will always be assigned new purposes by a superior force. It will be taken over again, redirected, and transformed for new uses. All "happening" in the organic world consists of overpowering and dominating. And all overpowering and domination involves a new interpretation and adjustment. This new interpretation must necessarily obscure or completely erase the existing "meaning" and "purpose." Even a perfect understanding of an organ’s usefulness does not imply any understanding of its origin. The same holds for a legal institution, social custom, political habit, artistic form, or form of religious worship. This may seem uncomfortable and unpalatable to the older generation. For people have believed since ancient times that understanding a thing’s purpose or usefulness also explains why it originated. This belief applies equally to a form or an institution. Consider the logic: the eye was made to see, the hand was made to grasp. So punishment, too, was thought to have been invented for the purpose of punishing. But all purposes and all uses are only signs that a Will to Power has mastered a weaker force. That Will to Power has imposed on the weaker force its own meaning and function. On the same principle, the entire history of a "Thing," an organ, or a custom becomes a continuous "sign-chain." This chain consists of constantly renewed interpretations and adjustments. Their causes need not even be connected. Sometimes these causes follow and alternate with one another entirely at random. Similarly, the development of a "thing" or custom is anything but its progress toward a goal. Still less is it a logical, direct progress achieved with the least expenditure of energy and resources. Rather, development consists of successive processes of subjugation acting on the thing itself. These processes vary in depth and are more or less independent of one another. Development also includes the resistance invariably offered to each subjugation, and the Protean twists of defense and reaction. It also includes the results of successful counterefforts. Form is fluid, but meaning is even more so. The same holds even within each individual organism. Every genuine growth of the whole shifts the "function" of its individual organs. Sometimes organs partly die off or decrease in number, for example through the destruction of connecting parts. Such losses can indicate growing strength and perfection. Here is what I mean: even a partial loss of usefulness belongs among the conditions of genuine progress. So do decay, degeneration, and the loss of function and purpose. In a word, so does death. Such progress always takes the form of a will and a path to greater power. It always comes at the expense of countless smaller powers. The scale of a "progress" is measured by the greatness of the sacrifice it demands. Humanity as a whole sacrificed so that one stronger type of human being could flourish: that would be progress. I stress this central feature of historical method all the more because it fundamentally opposes dominant instincts and prevailing taste. These would much rather accept absolute randomness, even the mechanical meaninglessness of all events. They prefer either to the theory that a will to power operates fully throughout all events. The democratic hostility toward everything that rules or seeks to rule has gradually taken on an intellectual disguise. This modern misarchism (to coin a bad word for a bad thing) has become intellectualism of the most abstract kind. The transformation has been so thorough that this hostility now penetrates even the most exact and apparently objective sciences. It does so step by step, and has the right to do so. In my view, this tendency has already come to dominate all of physiology and biology. The damage is obvious insofar as this tendency has made a fundamental idea disappear: the idea of true activity. Under this hostility’s tyranny, however, the theory of "adaptation" is pushed to the front of the argument and exploited. Adaptation means a second-rate activity, a mere ability to "react." Indeed, Herbert Spencer defined life itself as an increasingly effective internal adaptation to external conditions. But this definition misses life’s true essence, its will to power. It fails to recognize the overwhelming superiority of the shaping forces of spontaneity, aggression, and encroachment. These forces bring new interpretations and directions, and adaptation is only a natural consequence of their activity. As a result, the ruling role of the organism’s own highest governing functions is denied. Among these, the will to life appears as an active, formative principle. One remembers Huxley’s criticism of Spencer’s "administrative Nihilism." But what is at stake is much more than "administration."

To return to our subject, namely punishment, we must make consequently a double distinction: first, the relatively permanent element, the custom, the act, the "drama," a certain rigid sequence of methods of procedure; on the other hand, the fluid element, the meaning, the end, the expectation which is attached to the operation of such procedure. At this point we immediately assume, per analogiam (in accordance with the theory of the historic method, which we have elaborated above), that the procedure itself is something older and earlier than its utilisation in punishment, that this utilisation was introduced and interpreted into the procedure (which had existed for a long time, but whose employment had another meaning), in short, that the case is different from that hitherto supposed by our naïf genealogists of morals and of law, who thought that the procedure was invented for the purpose of punishment, in the same way that the hand had been previously thought to have been invented for the purpose of grasping. With regard to the other element in punishment, its fluid element, its meaning, the idea of punishment in a very late stage of civilisation (for instance, contemporary Europe) is not content with manifesting merely one meaning, but manifests a whole synthesis "of meanings." The past general history of punishment, the history of its employment for the most diverse ends, crystallises eventually into a kind of unity, which is difficult to analyse into its parts, and which, it is necessary to emphasise, absolutely defies definition. (It is nowadays impossible to say definitely the precise reason for punishment: all ideas, in which a whole process is promiscuously comprehended, elude definition; it is only that which has no history, which can be defined.) At an earlier stage, on the contrary, that synthesis of meanings appears much less rigid and much more elastic; we can realise how in each individual case the elements of the synthesis change their value and their position, so that now one element and now another stands out and predominates over the others, nay, in certain cases one element (perhaps the end of deterrence) seems to eliminate all the rest. At any rate, so as to give some idea of the uncertain, supplementary, and accidental nature of the meaning of punishment and of the manner in which one identical procedure can be employed and adapted for the most diametrically opposed objects, I will at this point give a scheme that has suggested itself to me, a scheme itself based on comparatively small and accidental material.—Punishment, as rendering the criminal harmless and incapable of further injury.—Punishment, as compensation for the injury sustained by the injured party, in any form whatsoever (including the form of sentimental compensation).—Punishment, as an isolation of that which disturbs the equilibrium, so as to prevent the further spreading of the disturbance.—Punishment as a means of inspiring fear of those who determine and execute the punishment.—Punishment as a kind of compensation for advantages which the wrong-doer has up to that time enjoyed (for example, when he is utilised as a slave in the mines).—Punishment, as the elimination of an element of decay (sometimes of a whole branch, as according to the Chinese laws, consequently as a means to the purification of the race, or the preservation of a social type).—-Punishment as a festival, as the violent oppression and humiliation of an enemy that has at last been subdued.—Punishment as a mnemonic, whether for him who suffers the punishment—the so-called "correction," or for the witnesses of its administration. Punishment, as the payment of a fee stipulated for by the power which protects the evil-doer from the excesses of revenge.—Punishment, as a compromise with the natural phenomenon of revenge, in so far as revenge is still maintained and claimed as a privilege by the stronger races.—Punishment as a declaration and measure of war against an enemy of peace, of law, of order, of authority, who is fought by society with the weapons which war provides, as a spirit dangerous to the community, as a breaker of the contract on which the community is based, as a rebel, a traitor, and a breaker of the peace.

To return to our subject, punishment, we must therefore distinguish two elements. First comes the relatively permanent element: the custom, the act, the "drama," a fixed sequence of procedures. Then comes the changing element: the meaning, purpose, and expectation attached to carrying out those procedures. Here we immediately assume, by analogy, that the procedure itself predates its use as punishment. This follows the theory of historical method developed above. We assume that this use was introduced into the procedure and imposed on it as an interpretation. The procedure had long existed, but its use had carried another meaning. In short, the case is different from what our naive genealogists of morality and law have supposed until now. They thought the procedure was invented for punishment, just as people once thought the hand was invented for grasping. Now consider punishment’s other element, its changing meaning. At a very late stage of civilization, such as contemporary Europe, the idea of punishment expresses more than one meaning. It expresses a whole synthesis "of meanings." The entire history of punishment, its use for the most varied purposes, eventually crystallizes into a kind of unity. This unity is difficult to separate into its parts and, I must emphasize, utterly defies definition. (Today it is impossible to state the precise reason for punishment. All ideas that gather an entire process together without distinction resist definition. Only what has no history can be defined.) At an earlier stage, by contrast, this synthesis of meanings seems much less rigid and much more flexible. We can see how its elements change their value and position in each individual case. Now one element stands out and dominates the others, now another does. Indeed, in certain cases, one element (perhaps the aim of deterrence) seems to eliminate all the rest. At any rate, I will now offer an outline that has occurred to me. The outline itself rests on relatively little evidence, gathered by chance. It should suggest how uncertain, added-on, and accidental the meaning of punishment is. It should also show how the very same procedure can be used and adapted for completely opposite purposes. Punishment as making the criminal harmless and incapable of causing further injury. Punishment as compensation for the injury suffered by the injured party, in whatever form (including emotional compensation). Punishment as isolating whatever disturbs the balance, to prevent the disturbance from spreading further. Punishment as a means of inspiring fear of those who decide on and carry out the punishment. Punishment as a kind of repayment for advantages the wrongdoer has enjoyed until then. For example, the wrongdoer may be used as a slave in the mines. Punishment as eliminating an element of decay (sometimes an entire family branch, as under Chinese laws). Thus, punishment as a means of purifying the race or preserving a social type. Punishment as a festival, as the violent subjugation and humiliation of an enemy who has finally been defeated. Punishment as a memory aid, either for the person punished (so-called "correction") or for those who witness the punishment. Punishment as payment of a fee demanded by the authority that protects the wrongdoer from excessive revenge. Punishment as a compromise with the natural phenomenon of revenge. This applies insofar as the stronger races still preserve revenge and claim it as a privilege. Punishment as a declaration and act of war against an enemy of peace, law, order, and authority. Society fights this enemy with the weapons of war, as a spirit dangerous to the community. Society fights the enemy as someone who breaks the contract on which the community rests. It fights the enemy as a rebel, a traitor, and a breaker of the peace.

This list is certainly not complete; it is obvious that punishment is overloaded with utilities of all kinds. This makes it all the more permissible to eliminate one supposed utility, which passes, at any rate in the popular mind, for its most essential utility, and which is just what even now provides the strongest support for that faith in punishment which is nowadays for many reasons tottering. Punishment is supposed to have the value of exciting in the guilty the consciousness of guilt; in punishment is sought the proper instrumentum of that psychic reaction which becomes known as a "bad conscience," "remorse." But this theory is even, from the point of view of the present, a violation of reality and psychology: and how much more so is the case when we have to deal with the longest period of man's history, his primitive history! Genuine remorse is certainly extremely rare among wrong-doers and the victims of punishment; prisons and houses of correction are not the soil on which this worm of remorse pullulates for choice—this is the unanimous opinion of all conscientious observers, who in many cases arrive at such a judgment with enough reluctance and against their own personal wishes. Speaking generally, punishment hardens and numbs, it produces concentration, it sharpens the consciousness of alienation, it strengthens the power of resistance. When it happens that it breaks the man's energy and brings about a piteous prostration and abjectness, such a result is certainly even less salutary than the average effect of punishment, which is characterised by a harsh and sinister doggedness. The thought of those prehistoric millennia brings us to the unhesitating conclusion, that it was simply through punishment that the evolution of the consciousness of guilt was most forcibly retarded—at any rate in the victims of the punishing power. In particular, let us not underestimate the extent to which, by the very sight of the judicial and executive procedure, the wrong-doer is himself prevented from feeling that his deed, the character of his act, is intrinsically reprehensible: for he sees clearly the same kind of acts practised in the service of justice, and then called good, and practised with a good conscience; acts such as espionage, trickery, bribery, trapping, the whole intriguing and insidious art of the policeman and the informer—the whole system, in fact, manifested in the different kinds of punishment (a system not excused by passion, but based on principle), of robbing, oppressing, insulting, imprisoning, racking, murdering.—All this he sees treated by his judges, not as acts meriting censure and condemnation in themselves, but only in a particular context and application. It was not on this soil that grew the "bad conscience," that most sinister and interesting plant of our earthly vegetation— in point of fact, throughout a most lengthy period, no suggestion of having to do with a "guilty man" manifested itself in the consciousness of the man who judged and punished. One had merely to deal with an author of an injury, an irresponsible piece of fate. And the man himself, on whom the punishment subsequently fell like a piece of fate, was occasioned no more of an "inner pain" than would be occasioned by the sudden approach of some uncalculated event, some terrible natural catastrophe, a rushing, crushing avalanche against which there is no resistance.

This list is certainly incomplete. Punishment clearly serves all kinds of purposes. That makes it all the more reasonable to rule out one supposed benefit. In the popular mind, at least, this benefit counts as punishment’s most essential purpose. Even now, this belief provides the strongest support for faith in punishment, a faith now shaken for many reasons. Punishment is supposed to awaken a sense of guilt in the guilty. People see punishment as the proper instrument for producing the psychological reaction known as a "bad conscience," "remorse." But even today, this theory contradicts reality and psychology. How much more so when we consider the longest period of human history, our primitive history! Genuine remorse is certainly extremely rare among wrongdoers and those subjected to punishment. Prisons and reformatories are not the soil where this worm of remorse especially likes to multiply. All careful observers agree on this. In many cases, they reach this judgment reluctantly and against their own wishes. Generally speaking, punishment hardens and numbs people. It makes them more focused, sharpens their sense of alienation, and strengthens their resistance. Sometimes punishment breaks a person’s spirit, leaving them pitifully crushed and degraded. That result is certainly even less beneficial than punishment’s usual effect: a harsh and sinister stubbornness. Thinking of those prehistoric millennia leads us to an unhesitating conclusion. Punishment itself did more than anything else to delay the development of a sense of guilt. At least, this was true of those subjected to the punishing power. In particular, we must not underestimate the effect of watching trials and punishments. The very sight prevents wrongdoers from feeling that their actions are intrinsically wrong. They clearly see the same kinds of actions carried out in the service of justice. Those actions are then called good and performed with a good conscience. They include spying, deception, bribery, entrapment, and all the scheming, underhanded arts of police officers and informers. Indeed, the different forms of punishment display a whole system of robbery, oppression, insult, imprisonment, torture, and murder. This system is not excused by passion but based on principle. Wrongdoers see their judges treating these actions as deserving blame and condemnation only in particular contexts and uses, not in themselves. This was not the soil where the "bad conscience" grew, that most sinister and interesting plant among our earthly growth. In fact, for a very long time, those who judged and punished never thought they were dealing with a "guilty man." They were dealing only with someone who had caused harm, an unaccountable piece of fate. And punishment later fell on that person like another piece of fate. Punishment caused him no more "inner pain" than the sudden arrival of some unforeseen event would have caused. It was like a terrible natural catastrophe, a rushing, crushing avalanche that nothing could resist.

This truth came insidiously enough to the consciousness of Spinoza (to the disgust of his commentators, who (like Kuno Fischer, for instance) give themselves no end of trouble to misunderstand him on this point), when one afternoon (as he sat raking up who knows what memory) he indulged in the question of what was really left for him personally of the celebrated morsus conscientiæ—Spinoza, who had relegated "good and evil" to the sphere of human imagination, and indignantly defended the honour of his "free" God against those blasphemers who affirmed that God did everything sub ratione boni ("but this was tantamount to subordinating God to fate, and would really be the greatest of all absurdities"). For Spinoza the world had returned again to that innocence in which it lay before the discovery of the bad conscience: what, then, had happened to the morsus conscientiæ? "The antithesis of gaudium," said he at last to himself,—"A sadness accompanied by the recollection of a past event which has turned out contrary to all expectation" (Eth. III., Propos. XVIII. Schol. i. ii.). Evil-doers have throughout thousands of years felt when overtaken by punishment exactly like Spinoza, on the subject of their "offence": "here is something which went wrong contrary to my anticipation," not "I ought not to have done this."—They submitted themselves to punishment, just as one submits one's self to a disease, to a misfortune, or to death, with that stubborn and resigned fatalism which gives the Russians, for instance, even nowadays, the advantage over us Westerners, in the handling of life. If at that period there was a critique of action, the criterion was prudence: the real effect of punishment is unquestionably chiefly to be found in a sharpening of the sense of prudence, in a lengthening of the memory, in a will to adopt more of a policy of caution, suspicion, and secrecy; in the recognition that there are many things which are unquestionably beyond one's capacity; in a kind of improvement in self-criticism. The broad effects which can be obtained by punishment in man and beast, are the increase of fear, the sharpening of the sense of cunning, the mastery of the desires: so it is that punishment tames man, but does not make him "better"—it would be more correct even to go so far as to assert the contrary ("Injury makes a man cunning," says a popular proverb: so far as it makes him cunning, it makes him also bad. Fortunately, it often enough makes him stupid).

This truth crept into Spinoza’s awareness, much to his commentators’ disgust. Commentators like Kuno Fischer go to endless trouble to misunderstand him on this point. One afternoon, while digging up who knows what memory, Spinoza asked himself a question. What really remained for him personally of the celebrated morsus conscientiæ, the pangs of conscience? Spinoza had placed "good and evil" in the realm of human imagination. He had indignantly defended the honor of his "free" God against those blasphemers who claimed God did everything sub ratione boni, for the sake of good ("but this amounted to making God subject to fate, and would really be the greatest of all absurdities"). For Spinoza, the world had returned to its innocence before the discovery of bad conscience. What, then, had become of the morsus conscientiæ? "The opposite of gaudium," he finally told himself, "A sadness accompanied by the memory of a past event that turned out contrary to all expectations" (Eth. III., Propos. XVIII. Schol. i. ii.). For thousands of years, wrongdoers caught and punished have felt exactly like Spinoza about their "offence": "something here went wrong, contrary to what I expected," not "I ought not to have done this." They accepted punishment just as people accept disease, misfortune, or death. They showed the stubborn, resigned fatalism that, even today, gives Russians an advantage over us Westerners in dealing with life. If people judged actions critically in that period, their standard was prudence. Punishment’s real effect undoubtedly lies chiefly in sharpening prudence, strengthening memory, and encouraging greater caution, suspicion, and secrecy. Punishment also brings recognition that many things are unquestionably beyond one’s abilities, and a kind of improvement in self-criticism. The general effects punishment can produce in humans and animals are greater fear, sharper cunning, and control over desires. So punishment tames people, but does not make them "better". It would actually be more accurate to claim the opposite ("Harm makes a man cunning," says a popular proverb. To the extent that harm makes him cunning, it also makes him bad. Fortunately, harm often enough makes him stupid).

At this juncture I cannot avoid trying to give a tentative and provisional expression to my own hypothesis concerning the origin of the bad conscience: it is difficult to make it fully appreciated, and it requires continuous meditation, attention, and digestion. I regard the bad conscience as the serious illness which man was bound to contract under the stress of the most radical change which he has ever experienced—that change, when he found himself finally imprisoned within the pale of society and of peace.

At this point, I cannot avoid offering a tentative, provisional version of my own theory about the origin of bad conscience. This theory is difficult to grasp fully and requires sustained reflection, attention, and time to absorb. I see bad conscience as a serious illness that humanity was bound to develop under the strain of its most radical change. This change came when human beings finally found themselves imprisoned within the boundaries of society and peace.

Just like the plight of the water-animals, when they were compelled either to become land-animals or to perish, so was the plight of these half-animals, perfectly adapted as they were to the savage life of war, prowling, and adventure—suddenly all their instincts were rendered worthless and "switched off." Henceforward they had to walk on their feet—"carry themselves," whereas heretofore they had been carried by the water: a terrible heaviness oppressed them. They found themselves clumsy in obeying the simplest directions, confronted with this new and unknown world they had no longer their old guides—the regulative instincts that had led them unconsciously to safety—they were reduced, were those unhappy creatures, to thinking, inferring, calculating, putting together causes and results, reduced to that poorest and most erratic organ of theirs, their "consciousness." I do not believe there was ever in the world such a feeling of misery, such a leaden discomfort—further, those old instincts had not immediately ceased their demands! Only it was difficult and rarely possible to gratify them: speaking broadly, they were compelled to satisfy themselves by new and, as it were, hole-and-corner methods. All instincts which do not find a vent without, turn inwards—this is what I mean by the growing "internalisation" of man: consequently we have the first growth in man, of what subsequently was called his soul. The whole inner world, originally as thin as if it had been stretched between two layers of skin, burst apart and expanded proportionately, and obtained depth, breadth, and height, when man's external outlet became obstructed. These terrible bulwarks, with which the social organisation protected itself against the old instincts of freedom (punishments belong pre-eminently to these bulwarks), brought it about that all those instincts of wild, free, prowling man became turned backwards against man himself. Enmity, cruelty, the delight in persecution, in surprises, change, destruction—the turning all these instincts against their own possessors: this is the origin of the "bad conscience." It was man, who, lacking external enemies and obstacles, and imprisoned as he was in the oppressive narrowness and monotony of custom, in his own impatience lacerated, persecuted, gnawed, frightened, and ill-treated himself; it was this animal in the hands of the tamer, which beat itself against the bars of its cage; it was this being who, pining and yearning for that desert home of which it had been deprived, was compelled to create out of its own self, an adventure, a torture-chamber, a hazardous and perilous desert—it was this fool, this homesick and desperate prisoner—who invented the "bad conscience." But thereby he introduced that most grave and sinister illness, from which mankind has not yet recovered, the suffering of man from the disease called man, as the result of a violent breaking from his animal past, the result, as it were, of a spasmodic plunge into a new environment and new conditions of existence, the result of a declaration of war against the old instincts, which up to that time had been the staple of his power, his joy, his formidableness. Let us immediately add that this fact of an animal ego turning against itself, taking part against itself, produced in the world so novel, profound, unheard-of, problematic, inconsistent, and pregnant a phenomenon, that the aspect of the world was radically altered thereby. In sooth, only divine spectators could have appreciated the drama that then began, and whose end baffles conjecture as yet—a drama too subtle, too wonderful, too paradoxical to warrant its undergoing a non-sensical and unheeded performance on some random grotesque planet! Henceforth man is to be counted as one of the most unexpected and sensational lucky shots in the game of the "big baby" of Heracleitus, whether he be called Zeus or Chance—he awakens on his behalf the interest, excitement, hope, almost the confidence, of his being the harbinger and forerunner of something, of man being no end, but only a stage, an interlude, a bridge, a great promise.

Their plight was like that of water animals forced either to become land animals or to die. These half-animals were perfectly adapted to a savage life of war, prowling, and adventure. Suddenly, all their instincts became useless and were "switched off." From then on, they had to walk on their feet and "carry themselves." Before, the water had carried them. A terrible heaviness weighed them down. They struggled clumsily to follow even the simplest instructions. Facing this new and unknown world, they no longer had their old guides. Those guiding instincts had led them to safety without conscious thought. Now these unhappy creatures were reduced to thinking, drawing conclusions, calculating, and connecting causes with results. They were reduced to relying on their poorest and most unreliable organ, their "consciousness." I do not believe the world has ever known such misery, such leaden discomfort. What is more, their old instincts had not immediately stopped making demands! But satisfying those instincts was difficult and rarely possible. Broadly speaking, those instincts were forced to find satisfaction through new and, so to speak, secretive methods. All instincts that find no outward outlet turn inwards. This is what I mean by humanity's growing "internalisation." As a result, what was later called the human soul began to develop. Originally, the whole inner world was as thin as if stretched between two layers of skin. When humanity's outward outlet became obstructed, that inner world burst open and expanded accordingly, gaining depth, breadth, and height. Society protected itself against the old instincts of freedom with terrible defenses. Punishments were among the most important of these defenses. These defenses turned all the instincts of wild, free, prowling human beings back against human beings themselves. Hostility, cruelty, delight in persecution, in surprises, change, destruction: all these instincts turned against the people who possessed them. This is the origin of the "bad conscience." Human beings lacked external enemies and obstacles, imprisoned within the oppressive narrowness and monotony of custom. In their impatience, they tore at themselves, persecuted themselves, gnawed at themselves, frightened and mistreated themselves. They were animals in the tamer's hands, beating themselves against the bars of their cages. They pined and yearned for the wilderness home they had lost. They were forced to turn themselves into an adventure, a torture chamber, a hazardous and dangerous wilderness. These fools, these homesick and desperate prisoners, invented the "bad conscience." But in doing so, they introduced that gravest and most sinister illness, from which humanity has still not recovered. This is humanity's suffering from the disease called humanity. It resulted from a violent break with our animal past. It resulted, so to speak, from a convulsive plunge into a new environment and new conditions of existence. It resulted from a declaration of war against the old instincts. Until then, those instincts had been the mainstay of humanity's power, joy, and capacity to inspire fear. Let us immediately add that this animal self turned against itself and took sides against itself. The result was something so new, profound, unprecedented, troubling, contradictory, and pregnant with possibility that the world's whole appearance changed. Indeed, only divine spectators could have appreciated the drama that began then, whose ending still defies prediction. This drama is too subtle, too wonderful, too paradoxical to justify a meaningless, unnoticed performance on some random, grotesque planet! From then on, humanity must count among the most unexpected and spectacular lucky throws in the "big baby" of Heracleitus's game. That baby may be called Zeus or Chance. Humanity now arouses interest, excitement, hope, almost confidence that it heralds and prepares the way for something. Humanity is not an end, but only a stage, an interlude, a bridge, a great promise.

It is primarily involved in this hypothesis of the origin of the bad conscience, that that alteration was no gradual and no voluntary alteration, and that it did not manifest itself as an organic adaptation to new conditions, but as a break, a jump, a necessity, an inevitable fate, against which there was no resistance and never a spark of resentment. And secondarily, that the fitting of a hitherto unchecked and amorphous population into a fixed form, starting as it had done in an act of violence, could only be accomplished by acts of violence and nothing else—that the oldest "State" appeared consequently as a ghastly tyranny, a grinding ruthless piece of machinery, which went on working, till this raw material of a semi-animal populace was not only thoroughly kneaded and elastic, but also moulded. I used the word "State": my meaning is self-evident, namely, a herd of blonde beasts of prey, a race of conquerors and masters, which with all its warlike organisation and all its organising power pounces with its terrible claws on a population, in numbers possibly tremendously superior, but as yet formless, as yet nomad. Such is the origin of the "State." That fantastic theory that makes it begin with a contract is, I think, disposed of. He who can command, he who is a master by "nature," he who comes on the scene forceful in deed and gesture—what has he to do with contracts? Such beings defy calculation, they come like fate, without cause, reason, notice, excuse, they are there like the lightning is there, too terrible, too sudden, too convincing, too "different," to be personally even hated. Their work is an instinctive creating and impressing of forms, they are the most involuntary, unconscious artists that there are:—their appearance produces instantaneously a scheme of sovereignty which is live, in which the functions are partitioned and apportioned, in which above all no part is received or finds a place, until pregnant with a "meaning" in regard to the whole. They are ignorant of the meaning of guilt, responsibility, consideration, are these born organisers; in them predominates that terrible artist-egoism, that gleams like brass, and that knows itself justified to all eternity, in its work, even as a mother in her child. It is not in them that there grew the bad conscience, that is elementary—but it would not have grown without them, repulsive growth as it was, it would be missing, had not a tremendous quantity of freedom been expelled from the world by the stress of their hammer-strokes, their artist violence, or been at any rate made invisible and, as it were, latent. This instinct of freedom forced into being latent—it is already clear—this instinct of freedom forced back, trodden back, imprisoned within itself, and finally only able to find vent and relief in itself; this, only this, is the beginning of the "bad conscience."

This theory about the origin of bad conscience rests first on the following claim. The change was neither gradual nor voluntary. It was not an organic adaptation to new conditions. Instead, it was a break, a leap, a necessity, an unavoidable fate. There was no resistance to this fate, and never a spark of resentment. The theory also makes a second claim. A previously unchecked and unstructured population was forced into a fixed form. This process began with violence and could be completed only through violence. The earliest "State" therefore appeared as a horrifying tyranny, a ruthless, grinding machine. This machine kept working on the raw material of a half-animal population. It worked until that material was not only thoroughly kneaded and pliable, but also moulded. I used the word "State": what I mean is obvious. I mean a pack of blond beasts of prey, a race of conquerors and masters. With all their military organization and organizing power, they pounce with terrible claws on another population. Their victims may vastly outnumber them, but are still unstructured and nomadic. Such is the origin of the "State." I think this disposes of the fanciful theory that the State begins with a contract. Someone who can command, a master by "nature," arrives with force in both action and gesture. What does such a person have to do with contracts? Such beings cannot be calculated. They come like fate, without cause, reason, warning, or excuse. They are there as lightning is there. They are too terrible, too sudden, too convincing, too "different" even to be hated personally. Their work is an instinctive creation and imposition of forms. They are the most involuntary, unconscious artists there are. Their arrival instantly produces a living system of rule, with functions divided and assigned. Above all, no part is accepted or finds a place unless it carries a "meaning" for the whole. These born organizers know nothing of guilt, responsibility, or consideration for others. They are ruled by that terrible artist's selfishness, gleaming like brass. This selfishness knows itself justified for all eternity through its work, just as a mother does through her child. Bad conscience did not grow in them. That much is obvious. But bad conscience would not have grown without them, repulsive growth though it was. Their hammer blows, their artistic violence, drove an enormous amount of freedom out of the world. Or at least they made that freedom invisible and, so to speak, latent. Without this, bad conscience would never have existed. This instinct of freedom was forced into hiding, as is already clear. It was driven back, trampled back, imprisoned within itself, until it could find release and relief only in itself. This, and only this, is the beginning of "bad conscience."

Beware of thinking lightly of this phenomenon, by reason of its initial painful ugliness. At bottom it is the same active force which is at work on a more grandiose scale in those potent artists and organisers, and builds states, which here, internally, on a smaller and pettier scale and with a retrogressive tendency, makes itself a bad science in the "labyrinth of the breast," to use Goethe's phrase, and which builds negative ideals; it is, I repeat, that identical instinct of freedom (to use my own language, the will to power): only the material, on which this force with all its constructive and tyrannous nature is let loose, is here man himself, his whole old animal self—and not as in the case of that more grandiose and sensational phenomenon, the other man, other men. This secret self-tyranny, this cruelty of the artist, this delight in giving a form to one's self as a piece of difficult, refractory, and suffering material, in burning in a will, a critique, a contradiction, a contempt, a negation; this sinister and ghastly labour of love on the part of a soul, whose will is cloven in two within itself, which makes itself suffer from delight in the infliction of suffering; this wholly active bad conscience has finally (as one already anticipates)—true fountainhead as it is of idealism and imagination—produced an abundance of novel and amazing beauty and affirmation, and perhaps has really been the first to give birth to beauty at all. What would beauty be, forsooth, if its contradiction had not first been presented to consciousness, if the ugly had not first said to itself, "I am ugly"? At any rate, after this hint the problem of how far idealism and beauty can be traced in such opposite ideas as "selflessness," self-denial, self-sacrifice, becomes less problematical; and indubitably in future we shall certainly know the real and original character of the delight experienced by the self-less, the self-denying, the self-sacrificing: this delight is a phase of cruelty.—So much provisionally for the origin of "altruism" as a moral value, and the marking out the ground from which this value has grown: it is only the bad conscience, only the will for self-abuse, that provides the necessary conditions for the existence of altruism as a value.

Do not dismiss this phenomenon because of its painful ugliness at first. At bottom, the same active force works on a grander scale in powerful artists and organizers, building states. Here, that force turns inward, working on a smaller, pettier scale and moving backward. It becomes a harmful science within the "labyrinth of the breast," to use Goethe's phrase, and builds negative ideals. This is, I repeat, the very same instinct of freedom. In my own terms, it is the will to power. But here, the material subjected to this force, with all its creative and tyrannical power, is the human being himself. It is his entire old animal self. It is not, as in that grander and more spectacular phenomenon, the other person, other people. Consider this secret tyranny over oneself, this artist's cruelty. Consider the delight in shaping oneself as a piece of difficult, resistant, suffering material. A will, a criticism, a contradiction, a contempt, a negation are burned into that material. This is the sinister, horrifying labor of love performed by a soul whose will is split against itself. The soul makes itself suffer because it delights in inflicting suffering. This wholly active bad conscience has finally produced an abundance of new and astonishing beauty and affirmation. We can already anticipate this result, since bad conscience is the true source of idealism and imagination. Perhaps bad conscience was actually the first thing to give birth to beauty at all. Indeed, what would beauty be if its opposite had not first entered consciousness? What would beauty be if the ugly had not first said to itself, "I am ugly"? After this hint, one question at least becomes less puzzling. How far can idealism and beauty be traced to such opposing ideas as "selflessness," self-denial, and self-sacrifice? In the future, we will undoubtedly recognize the true, original nature of the delight felt by the selfless. The same holds for the delight of those who deny and sacrifice themselves: this delight is a form of cruelty. So much, for now, for the origin of "altruism" as a moral value, and for identifying the ground it grew from. Only bad conscience, only the will to mistreat oneself, provides the conditions necessary for altruism to exist as a value.

Undoubtedly the bad conscience is an illness, but an illness like pregnancy is an illness. If we search out the conditions under which this illness reaches its most terrible and sublime zenith, we shall see what really first brought about its entry into the world. But to do this we must take a long breath, and we must first of all go back once again to an earlier point of view. The relation at civil law of the ower to his creditor (which has already been discussed in detail), has been interpreted once again (and indeed in a manner which historically is exceedingly remarkable and suspicious) into a relationship, which is perhaps more incomprehensible to us moderns than to any other era; that is, into the relationship of the existing generation to its ancestors. Within the original tribal association—we are talking of primitive times—each living generation recognises a legal obligation towards the earlier generation, and particularly towards the earliest, which founded the family (and this is something much more than a mere sentimental obligation, the existence of which, during the longest period of man's history, is by no means indisputable). There prevails in them the conviction that it is only thanks to sacrifices and efforts of their ancestors, that the race persists at all—and that this has to be paid back to them by sacrifices and services. Thus is recognised the owing of a debt, which accumulates continually by reason of these ancestors never ceasing in their subsequent life as potent spirits to secure by their power new privileges and advantages to the race. Gratis, perchance? But there is no gratis for that raw and "mean-souled" age. What return can be made?—Sacrifice (at first, nourishment, in its crudest sense), festivals, temples, tributes of veneration, above all, obedience—since all customs are, quâ works of the ancestors, equally their precepts and commands—are the ancestors ever given enough? This suspicion remains and grows: from time to time it extorts a great wholesale ransom, something monstrous in the way of repayment of the creditor (the notorious sacrifice of the first-born, for example, blood, human blood in any case). The fear of ancestors and their power, the consciousness of owing debts to them, necessarily increases, according to this kind of logic, in the exact proportion that the race itself increases, that the race itself becomes more victorious, more independent, more honoured, more feared. This, and not the contrary, is the fact. Each step towards race decay, all disastrous events, all symptoms of degeneration, of approaching disintegration, always diminish the fear of the founders' spirit, and whittle away the idea of his sagacity, providence, and potent presence. Conceive this crude kind of logic carried to its climax: it follows that the ancestors of the most powerful races must, through the growing fear that they exercise on the imaginations, grow themselves into monstrous dimensions, and become relegated to the gloom of a divine mystery that transcends imagination—the ancestor becomes at last necessarily transfigured into a god. Perhaps this is the very origin of the gods, that is, an origin from fear! And those who feel bound to add, "but from piety also," will have difficulty in maintaining this theory, with regard to the primeval and longest period of the human race. And of course this is even more the case as regards the middle period, the formative period of the aristocratic races—the aristocratic races which have given back with interest to their founders, the ancestors (heroes, gods), all those qualities which in the meanwhile have appeared in themselves, that is, the aristocratic qualities. We will later on glance again at the ennobling and promotion of the gods (which of course is totally distinct from their "sanctification"): let us now provisionally follow to its end the course of the whole of this development of the consciousness of "owing."

Bad conscience is undoubtedly an illness, but only in the sense that pregnancy is an illness. We must examine the conditions under which this illness reaches its most terrible and sublime peak. Then we will see what first brought it into the world. But to do this, we must take a deep breath and first return to an earlier viewpoint. We have already discussed the legal relationship between a debtor and a creditor in detail. This relationship has been reinterpreted in a historically remarkable and suspicious way. It has become a relationship perhaps harder for us modern people to understand than for people of any other age. This is the relationship of the living generation to its ancestors. In the original tribal community, each living generation recognizes a legal obligation to earlier generations. We are speaking here of primitive times. This obligation applies especially to the earliest generation, which founded the family. It is much more than a merely sentimental obligation. Indeed, the existence of such sentimental obligations throughout the longest stretch of human history is far from certain. These communities believe that their people continue to exist only because of their ancestors' sacrifices and efforts. And those ancestors must be repaid through sacrifices and services. People thus recognize that they owe a debt, and this debt keeps growing. For the ancestors, living on as powerful spirits, never stop securing new privileges and advantages for their people. For free, perhaps? But nothing is free in that crude and "mean-souled" age. What can people offer in return? Sacrifices (at first, food in the crudest sense), festivals, temples, expressions of reverence, and above all, obedience. For all customs, as the work of the ancestors, are also their instructions and commands. Are the ancestors ever given enough? This doubt persists and grows. From time to time, it forces people to pay a great collective ransom, some monstrous repayment to the creditor. Think, for example, of the notorious sacrifice of the firstborn, of blood, human blood in any case. According to this logic, fear of the ancestors and their power must grow as the people themselves grow. So must the awareness of owing the ancestors a debt. Both increase in exact proportion as the people become more victorious, more independent, more honored, and more feared. This is what happens, not the reverse. Every step toward a people's decline, every disaster, every sign of degeneration or approaching collapse, reduces fear of the founder's spirit. Such events erode belief in his wisdom, protective care, and powerful presence. Now imagine this crude logic taken to its limit. The ancestors of the most powerful peoples must grow to monstrous proportions in the imagination, through the growing fear they inspire. They retreat into the darkness of a divine mystery beyond imagination. In the end, the ancestor must be transformed into a god. Perhaps this is the very origin of the gods: an origin in fear! Anyone who feels compelled to add, "but also in piety," will struggle to defend that theory. This is true of humanity's earliest and longest period. And of course, the theory is even harder to defend for the middle period, when aristocratic peoples were taking shape. These peoples repaid their founders, their ancestors (heroes, gods), with interest. They attributed to those ancestors all the qualities they themselves had developed in the meantime: aristocratic qualities. Later, we will briefly return to this ennobling and elevation of the gods. It is, of course, entirely different from their "sanctification". For now, let us follow this whole development of the awareness of "owing" through to its end.

According to the teaching of history, the consciousness of owing debts to the deity by no means came to an end with the decay of the clan organisation of society; just as mankind has inherited the ideas of "good" and "bad" from the race-nobility (together with its fundamental tendency towards establishing social distinctions), so with the heritage of the racial and tribal gods it has also inherited the incubus of debts as yet unpaid and the desire to discharge them. The transition is effected by those large populations of slaves and bondsmen, who, whether through compulsion or through submission and "mimicry," have accommodated themselves to the religion of their masters; through this channel these inherited tendencies inundate the world. The feeling of owing a debt to the deity has grown continuously for several centuries, always in the same proportion in which the idea of God and the consciousness of God have grown and become exalted among mankind. (The whole history of ethnic fights, victories, reconciliations, amalgamations, everything, in fact, which precedes the eventual classing of all the social elements in each great race-synthesis, are mirrored in the hotch-potch genealogy of their gods, in the legends of their fights, victories, and reconciliations. Progress towards universal empires invariably means progress towards universal deities; despotism, with its subjugation of the independent nobility, always paves the way for some system or other of monotheism.) The appearance of the Christian god, as the record god up to this time, has for that very reason brought equally into the world the record amount of guilt consciousness. Granted that we have gradually started on the reverse movement, there is no little probability in the deduction, based on the continuous decay in the belief in the Christian god, to the effect that there also already exists a considerable decay in the human consciousness of owing (ought); in fact, we cannot shut our eyes to the prospect of the complete and eventual triumph of atheism freeing mankind from all this feeling of obligation to their origin, their causa prima. Atheism and a kind of second innocence complement and supplement each other.

History teaches that the sense of owing debts to a deity by no means ended when clan society declined. Humanity inherited the ideas of "good" and "bad" from hereditary aristocracies, along with their basic drive to establish social distinctions. Just as humanity inherited those ideas, it also inherited the gods of peoples and tribes. With those gods came the burden of unpaid debts and the desire to repay them. Large populations of slaves and bondsmen carried these beliefs beyond clan society. They adopted their masters’ religion through force or through submission and "mimicry," and through them these inherited tendencies flooded the world. The feeling of owing a debt to a deity has grown steadily for several centuries. That feeling has grown in direct proportion to humanity’s increasingly exalted idea and awareness of God. (The entire history of conflicts between peoples, victories, reconciliations, and mergers is reflected in the tangled family histories of their gods. So is everything preceding the eventual arrangement of all social elements within each great fusion of peoples. The gods’ legends of battles, victories, and reconciliations mirror that history. Progress toward universal empires always means progress toward universal deities. Despotism, by subduing the independent nobility, always prepares the way for some form of monotheism.) The Christian god surpassed every previous god. For that very reason, his appearance also brought the greatest sense of guilt the world had ever known. Granted that we have gradually begun moving in the opposite direction, a conclusion seems quite probable. As belief in the Christian god steadily declines, humanity’s sense of indebtedness and obligation is already declining considerably. Indeed, we cannot ignore the prospect that atheism’s eventual, complete triumph will free humanity from all obligation to its origin, its causa prima. Atheism and a kind of second innocence complement and complete each other.

So much for my rough and preliminary sketch of the interrelation of the ideas "ought" (owe) and "duty" with the postulates of religion. I have intentionally shelved up to the present the actual moralisation of these ideas (their being pushed back into the conscience, or more precisely the interweaving of the bad conscience with the idea of God), and at the end of the last paragraph used language to the effect that this moralisation did not exist, and that consequently these ideas had necessarily come to an end, by reason of what had happened to their hypothesis, the credence in our "creditor," in God. The actual facts differ terribly from this theory. It is with the moralisation of the ideas "ought" and "duty," and with their being pushed back into the bad conscience, that comes the first actual attempt to reverse the direction of the development we have just described, or at any rate to arrest its evolution; it is just at this juncture that the very hope of an eventual redemption has to put itself once for all into the prison of pessimism, it is at this juncture that the eye has to recoil and rebound in despair from off an adamantine impossibility, it is at this juncture that the ideas "guilt" and "duty" have to turn backwards—turn backwards against whom? There is no doubt about it; primarily against the "ower," in whom the bad conscience now establishes itself, eats, extends, and grows like a polypus throughout its length and breadth, all with such virulence, that at last, with the impossibility of paying the debt, there becomes conceived the idea of the impossibility of paying the penalty, the thought of its inexpiability (the idea of "eternal punishment")—finally, too, it turns against the "creditor," whether found in the causa prima of man, the origin of the human race, its sire, who henceforth becomes burdened with a curse ("Adam," "original sin," "determination of the will"), or in Nature from whose womb man springs, and on whom the responsibility for the principle of evil is now cast ("Diabolisation of Nature"), or in existence generally, on this logic an absolute white elephant, with which mankind is landed (the Nihilistic flight from life, the demand for Nothingness, or for the opposite of existence, for some other existence, Buddhism and the like)—till suddenly we stand before that paradoxical and awful expedient, through which a tortured humanity has found a temporary alleviation, that stroke of genius called Christianity:—God personally immolating himself for the debt of man, God paying himself personally out of a pound of his own flesh, God as the one being who can deliver man from what man had become unable to deliver himself—the creditor playing scapegoat for his debtor, from love (can you believe it?), from love of his debtor!...

So much for my rough, preliminary account of how "ought" (owe) and "duty" connect with the assumptions of religion. Until now, I have deliberately set aside the actual moralization of these ideas: their being driven inward into conscience. More precisely, I mean the intertwining of bad conscience with the idea of God. At the end of the last paragraph, I spoke as though this moralization had never happened. Consequently, "ought" and "duty" would necessarily have disappeared because their underlying assumption, belief in our "creditor," in God, had collapsed. The actual facts differ terribly from this theory. The first real attempt to reverse the development just described comes when "ought" and "duty" become moralized. They are driven inward into the bad conscience, reversing that development, or at least stopping it. At precisely this point, the very hope of eventual redemption has to lock itself forever in the prison of pessimism. At this point, the eye has to recoil in despair before an impossibility as unyielding as diamond. At this point, "guilt" and "duty" must turn back. But turn back against whom? There is no doubt: first against the "debtor." Bad conscience now takes root in the debtor, eating away, spreading, and growing like a polyp in every direction. Bad conscience grows so viciously that the impossibility of repaying the debt finally produces another idea: the impossibility of paying the penalty. The guilt can never be atoned for (the idea of "eternal punishment"). Finally, this reversal also turns against the "creditor," wherever that creditor is found. The creditor may be found in humanity's causa prima, its first cause, the origin and forefather of the human race. That forefather is now burdened with a curse ("Adam," "original sin," "determination of the will"). Or the creditor may be Nature, from whose womb humanity springs. Nature is now blamed for the principle of evil ("Diabolisation of Nature"). Or the creditor may be existence itself. By this logic, existence is an utterly useless burden that humanity is stuck with. Hence the Nihilistic flight from life, the demand for Nothingness, or for existence's opposite, for some other existence, Buddhism and the like. Then suddenly we confront that paradoxical and terrible remedy through which tortured humanity has found temporary relief. That stroke of genius called Christianity: God sacrificing himself for humanity's debt. God personally paying himself with a pound of his own flesh. God as the one being who can free humanity from what humanity could no longer free itself from. The creditor becoming the scapegoat for his debtor, out of love (can you believe it?), out of love for his debtor!...

The reader will already have conjectured what took place on the stage and behind the scenes of this drama. That will for self-torture, that inverted cruelty of the animal man, who, turned subjective and scared into introspection (encaged as he was in "the State," as part of his taming process), invented the bad conscience so as to hurt himself, after the natural outlet for this will to hurt, became blocked—in other words, this man of the bad conscience exploited the religious hypothesis so as to carry his martyrdom to the ghastliest pitch of agonised intensity. Owing something to God: this thought becomes his instrument of torture. He apprehends in God the most extreme antitheses that he can find to his own characteristic and ineradicable animal instincts, he himself gives a new interpretation to these animal instincts as being against what he "owes" to God (as enmity, rebellion, and revolt against the "Lord," the "Father," the "Sire," the "Beginning of the world"), he places himself between the horns of the dilemma, "God" and "Devil." Every negation which he is inclined to utter to himself, to the nature, naturalness, and reality of his being, he whips into an ejaculation of "yes," uttering it as something existing, living, efficient, as being God, as the holiness of God, the judgment of God, as the hangmanship of God, as transcendence, as eternity, as unending torment, as hell, as infinity of punishment and guilt. This is a kind of madness of the will in the sphere of psychological cruelty which is absolutely unparalleled:—man's will to find himself guilty and blameworthy to the point of inexpiability, his will to think of himself as punished, without the punishment ever being able to balance the guilt, his will to infect and to poison the fundamental basis of the universe with the problem of punishment and guilt, in order to cut off once and for all any escape out of this labyrinth of "fixed ideas," his will for rearing an ideal—that of the "holy God"—face to face with which he can have tangible proof of his own un-worthiness. Alas for this mad melancholy beast man! What phantasies invade it, what paroxysms of perversity, hysterical senselessness, and mental bestiality break out immediately, at the very slightest check on its being the beast of action. All this is excessively interesting, but at the same time tainted with a black, gloomy, enervating melancholy, so that a forcible veto must be invoked against looking too long into these abysses. Here is disease, undubitably, the most ghastly disease that has as yet played havoc among men: and he who can still hear (but man turns now deaf ears to such sounds), how in this night of torment and nonsense there has rung out the cry of love, the cry of the most passionate ecstasy, of redemption in love, he turns away gripped by an invincible horror—in man there is so much that is ghastly—too long has the world been a mad-house.

The reader will already have guessed what happened onstage and behind the scenes of this drama. There was the drive for self-torture, the animal man's cruelty turned inward. Confined within "the State" as part of his taming, he was frightened into turning inward and examining himself. He invented the bad conscience to hurt himself, because the natural outlet for his drive to hurt was blocked. In other words, this man with a bad conscience used the religious hypothesis to push his suffering to horrifying extremes. Owing something to God: this thought becomes his instrument of torture. In God, he sees the strongest possible opposites of his own defining, ineradicable animal instincts. He reinterprets these instincts as violations of what he "owes" to God. They become hostility, rebellion, and revolt against the "Lord," the "Father," the "Sire," the "Beginning of the world." He traps himself between the two opposing forces, "God" and "Devil." Every "no" he feels inclined to say to himself becomes a shouted "yes." This rejection of his nature, his naturalness, and the reality of his being becomes an affirmation of something else. He declares that something real, living, and powerful exists: God, God's holiness, God's judgment, God's work as executioner. He affirms transcendence, eternity, endless torment, hell, and infinite punishment and guilt. This is a madness of the will, a form of psychological cruelty without any parallel. It is man's will to find himself guilty and blameworthy beyond any possibility of atonement. It is his will to think himself punished, yet never punished enough to balance his guilt. It is his will to infect and poison the very foundations of the universe with punishment and guilt. His purpose is to close off, once and for all, every escape from this maze of "fixed ideas." He wills an ideal into existence, the "holy God," whose presence gives him concrete proof of his own unworthiness. Alas for man, this mad, miserable beast! What fantasies invade him! What fits of perversity, hysterical nonsense, and mental bestiality erupt at the slightest restraint on his acting as a beast! All this is immensely interesting. Yet it is also steeped in a dark, gloomy, draining sadness. We must therefore firmly forbid ourselves to stare too long into these depths. Here, beyond doubt, is disease, the most horrifying disease ever to devastate humanity. And there is still the cry that rang out in this night of torment and nonsense. It was the cry of love, of the most passionate ecstasy, of redemption through love. Anyone who can still hear that cry turns away, seized by an overwhelming horror. But people now turn deaf ears to such sounds. There is so much that is horrifying in man. The world has been a madhouse for too long.

Let this suffice once for all concerning the origin of the "holy God." The fact that in itself the conception of gods is not bound to lead necessarily to this degradation of the imagination (a temporary representation of whose vagaries we felt bound give), the fact that there exist nobler methods of utilising the invention of gods than in this self-crucifixion and self-degradation of man, in which the last two thousand years of Europe have been past masters—these facts can fortunately be still perceived from every glance that we cast at the Grecian gods, these mirrors of noble and grandiose men, in which the animal in man felt itself deified, and did not devour itself in subjective frenzy. These Greeks long utilised their gods as simple buffers against the "bad conscience"—so that they could continue to enjoy their freedom of soul: this, of course, is diametrically opposed to Christianity's theory of its god. They went very far on this principle, did these splendid and lion-hearted children; and there is no lesser authority than that of the Homeric Zeus for making them realise occasionally that they are taking life too casually. "Wonderful," says he on one occasion—it has to do with the case of Ægistheus, a very bad case indeed—

Let that settle, once and for all, the question of the origin of the "holy God." The idea of gods does not in itself necessarily lead to this degradation of the imagination. We felt obliged to give a brief account of that imagination’s wild flights. There are nobler ways to use the invention of gods than for human self-crucifixion and self-degradation. Europe has mastered these practices over the last two thousand years. Fortunately, every glance at the Grecian gods still makes these facts clear. These gods mirrored noble and magnificent human beings. In these mirrors, the animal in humanity felt itself made divine, and did not devour itself in inward frenzy. For a long time, these Greeks used their gods simply as buffers against the "bad conscience." They did so to keep enjoying their freedom of spirit. This use of gods is, of course, the exact opposite of Christianity's understanding of its god. These magnificent, lion-hearted children took this principle very far. No less an authority than the Homeric Zeus occasionally made them realize they were taking life too casually. "Wonderful," he says on one occasion, concerning the case of Ægistheus, a very bad case indeed:

Yet the reader will note and observe that this Olympian spectator and judge is far from being angry with them and thinking evil of them on this score. "How foolish they are," so thinks he of the misdeeds of mortals—and "folly," "imprudence," "a little brain disturbance," and nothing more, are what the Greeks, even of the strongest, bravest period, have admitted to be the ground of much that is evil and fatal.—Folly, not sin, do you understand?... But even this brain disturbance was a problem—"Come, how is it even possible? How could it have really got in brains like ours, the brains of men of aristocratic ancestry, of men of fortune, of men of good natural endowments, of men of the best society, of men of nobility and virtue?" This was the question that for century on century the aristocratic Greek put to himself when confronted with every (to him incomprehensible) outrage and sacrilege with which one of his peers had polluted himself. "It must be that a god had infatuated him," he would say at last, nodding his head.—This solution is typical of the Greeks, ... accordingly the gods in those times subserved the functions of justifying man to a certain extent even in evil—in those days they took upon themselves not the punishment, but, what is more noble, the guilt.

Yet the reader will notice that this Olympian spectator and judge is far from angry with mortals over their misdeeds. Nor does he think ill of them on that account. "How foolish they are," he thinks of the wrongs mortals commit. Even in their strongest, bravest age, the Greeks accepted only "folly," "recklessness," "a slight mental disturbance" as causes of much evil and disaster. Folly, not sin, do you understand?... But even this mental disturbance posed a problem. "Come now, how is such a thing even possible? How could it ever enter brains like ours? The brains of men of aristocratic ancestry, men of wealth, men with fine natural gifts? Men of the best society, men of nobility and virtue?" For century after century, aristocratic Greeks asked themselves this question whenever one of their peers committed an outrage or sacrilege. Such acts were incomprehensible to them, and the offender had stained himself by committing them. "A god must have driven him out of his senses," the aristocratic Greek would finally say, nodding his head. This answer is typical of the Greeks, ... so the gods in those days served, to some extent, to justify people even in wrongdoing. Back then, the gods took upon themselves not the punishment but, more nobly, the guilt.

I conclude with three queries, as you will see. "Is an ideal actually set up here, or is one pulled down?" I am perhaps asked.... But have ye sufficiently asked yourselves how dear a payment has the setting up of every ideal in the world exacted? To achieve that consummation how much truth must always be traduced and misunderstood, how many lies must be sanctified, how much conscience has got to be disturbed, how many pounds of "God" have got to be sacrificed every time? To enable a sanctuary to be set up a sanctuary has got to be destroyed: that is a law—show me an instance where it has not been fulfilled!... We modern men, we inherit the immemorial tradition of vivisecting the conscience, and practising cruelty to our animal selves. That is the sphere of our most protracted training, perhaps of our artistic prowess, at any rate of our dilettantism and our perverted taste. Man has for too long regarded his natural proclivities with an "evil eye," so that eventually they have become in his system affiliated to a bad conscience. A converse endeavour would be intrinsically feasible—but who is strong enough to attempt it?—namely, to affiliate to the "bad conscience" all those unnatural proclivities, all those transcendental aspirations, contrary to sense, instinct, nature, and animalism—in short, all past and present ideals, which are all ideals opposed to life, and traducing the world. To whom is one to turn nowadays with such hopes and pretensions?—It is just the good men that we should thus bring about our ears; and in addition, as stands to reason, the indolent, the hedgers, the vain, the hysterical, the tired.... What is more offensive or more thoroughly calculated to alienate, than giving any hint of the exalted severity with which we treat ourselves? And again how conciliatory, how full of love does all the world show itself towards us so soon as we do as all the world docs, and "let ourselves go" like all the world. For such a consummation we need spirits of different calibre than seems really feasible in this age; spirits rendered potent through wars and victories, to whom conquest, adventure, danger, even pain, have become a need; for such a consummation we need habituation to sharp, rare air, to winter wanderings, to literal and metaphorical ice and mountains; we even need a kind of sublime malice, a supreme and most self-conscious insolence of knowledge, which is the appanage of great health; we need (to summarise the awful truth) just this great health!

I will end with three questions, as you will see. "Is an ideal being set up here, or is one being torn down?" someone may ask me.... But have you asked yourselves enough how high a price establishing every ideal in the world has demanded? To reach that goal, how much truth must always be slandered and misunderstood? How many lies must be made sacred? How much conscience must be troubled? How many pounds of "God" must be sacrificed each time? For a sanctuary to be built, a sanctuary must be destroyed: that is a law. Show me a case where this law has not held true!... We modern people have inherited an age-old tradition of cutting into our consciences and treating our animal selves cruelly. This is where we have had our longest training. Perhaps it is where we show artistic skill. At any rate, it is where we indulge our amateur efforts and our twisted tastes. For too long, human beings have looked at their natural impulses with an "evil eye." As a result, those impulses have become linked within us to a bad conscience. The reverse effort would be possible in itself. But who is strong enough to attempt it? That effort would mean linking all those unnatural impulses to the "bad conscience." It would mean linking to it all those otherworldly aspirations that oppose the senses, instinct, nature, and our animal selves. In short, all past and present ideals, all of which oppose life and slander the world. To whom can we turn today with such hopes and ambitions? We would bring the very good people down on our heads. And naturally, we would also face the lazy, the fence-sitters, the vain, the hysterical, the weary.... What could offend or alienate people more than even a hint of the lofty severity we direct toward ourselves? Yet how friendly and loving everyone becomes as soon as we do what everyone does and "let ourselves go" like everyone else. To reach such a goal, we need spirits of a different caliber than seems truly possible in this age. We need spirits made powerful through wars and victories. For such spirits, conquest, adventure, danger, even pain, have become necessities. To reach such a goal, we need to be used to sharp, rarefied air and winter journeys. We need familiarity with ice and mountains, both literal and metaphorical. We even need a kind of sublime malice. We need the supreme, fully self-aware boldness of knowledge that belongs to great health. To sum up the terrible truth, we need precisely this great health!

Is this even feasible to-day?... But some day, in a stronger age than this rotting and introspective present, must he in sooth come to us, even the redeemer of great love and scorn, the creative spirit, rebounding by the impetus of his own force back again away from every transcendental plane and dimension, he whose solitude is misunderstanded (sic) of the people, as though it were a flight from reality;—while actually it is only his diving, burrowing, and penetrating into reality, so that when he comes again to the light he can at once bring about by these means the redemption of this reality; its redemption from the curse which the old ideal has laid upon it. This man of the future, who in this wise will redeem us from the old ideal, as he will from that ideal's necessary corollary of great nausea, will to nothingness, and Nihilism; this tocsin of noon and of the great verdict, which renders the will again free, who gives back to the world its goal and to man his hope, this Antichrist and Antinihilist, this conqueror of God and of Nothingness—he must one day come.

Is this even possible today?... But one day he must truly come to us, in an age stronger than this decaying, inward-looking present. He will be the redeemer of great love and scorn, the creative spirit. His own strength drives him back from every realm and dimension beyond this world. People misunderstand his solitude, as though he were fleeing from reality. Yet he is actually diving, burrowing, and penetrating into reality. He does so in order to bring about the redemption of reality when he returns to the light. He will redeem reality from the curse the old ideal has placed upon it. This man of the future will thus free us from the old ideal. He will also free us from its inevitable consequences: profound disgust, the will to nothingness, and Nihilism. He will be the alarm bell announcing noon and the great verdict that sets the will free again. He will give the world back its goal and humanity its hope. This Antichrist and Antinihilist, this conqueror of God and of Nothingness, he must one day come.

But what am I talking of? Enough! Enough? At this juncture I have only one proper course, silence: otherwise tresspass on a domain open alone to one who is younger than I, one stronger, more "future" than I—open alone to Zarathustra, Zarathustra the godless.

But what am I talking about? Enough! Enough? At this point, my only proper course is silence. Otherwise, I trespass on ground open only to someone younger than I am, stronger, more "future" than I am. Ground open only to Zarathustra, Zarathustra the godless.