What Do Ascetic Ideals Mean?

What is the meaning of ascetic ideals? In artists, nothing, or too much; in philosophers and scholars, a kind of "flair" and instinct for the conditions most favourable to advanced intellectualism; in women, at best an additional seductive fascination, a little morbidezza on a fine piece of flesh, the angelhood of a fat, pretty animal; in physiological failures and whiners (in the majority of mortals), an attempt to pose as "too good" for this world, a holy form of debauchery, their chief weapon in the battle with lingering pain and ennui; in priests, the actual priestly faith, their best engine of power, and also the supreme authority for power; in saints, finally a pretext for hibernation, their novissima gloriæ cupido, their peace in nothingness ("God"), their form of madness.

What do ascetic ideals mean? For artists, nothing, or too much. For philosophers and scholars, they mean a kind of "flair", an instinct for conditions most favorable to advanced intellectual life. For women, at best, they mean an additional seductive charm, a little delicate softness on a fine piece of flesh. They give a plump, pretty animal an angelic air. For the physically ill-constituted and the whiners (the majority of mortals), ascetic ideals mean pretending to be "too good" for this world. They mean a holy form of debauchery, the chief weapon these people wield against persistent pain and boredom. For priests, ascetic ideals are the priestly faith itself, their best instrument of power and their supreme justification for power. Finally, for saints, ascetic ideals mean an excuse to hibernate, their last craving for glory. They mean the saints' peace in nothingness ("God"), their form of madness.

But in the very fact that the ascetic ideal has meant so much to man, lies expressed the fundamental feature of man's will, his horror vacui: he needs a goal—and he will sooner will nothingness than not will at all.—Am I not understood?—Have I not been understood?—"Certainly not, sir?"—Well, let us begin at the beginning.

But the ascetic ideal's great importance to humanity reveals the basic feature of the human will. It is our horror vacui, our fear of emptiness: we need a goal. And we would sooner will nothingness than not will at all. Am I not understood? Have I not been understood? "Certainly not, sir?" Well, let us start at the beginning.

What is the meaning of ascetic ideals? Or, to take an individual case in regard to which I have often been consulted, what is the meaning, for example, of an artist like Richard Wagner paying homage to chastity in his old age? He had always done so, of course, in a certain sense, but it was not till quite the end, that he did so in an ascetic sense. What is the meaning of this "change of attitude," this radical revolution in his attitude—for that was what it was? Wagner veered thereby straight round into his own opposite. What is the meaning of an artist veering round into his own opposite? At this point (granted that we do not mind stopping a little over this question), we immediately call to mind the best, strongest, gayest, and boldest period, that there perhaps ever was in Wagner's life: that was the period, when he was genuinely and deeply occupied with the idea of "Luther's Wedding." Who knows what chance is responsible for our now having the Meistersingers instead of this wedding music? And how much in the latter is perhaps just an echo of the former? But there is no doubt but that the theme would have dealt with the praise of chastity. And certainly it would also have dealt with the praise of sensuality, and even so, it would seem quite in order, and even so, it would have been equally Wagnerian. For there is no necessary antithesis between chastity and sensuality: every good marriage, every authentic heart-felt love transcends this antithesis. Wagner would, it seems to me, have done well to have brought this pleasing reality home once again to his Germans, by means of a bold and graceful "Luther Comedy," for there were and are among the Germans many revilers of sensuality; and perhaps Luther's greatest merit lies just in the fact of his having had the courage of his sensuality (it used to be called, prettily enough, "evangelistic freedom "). But even in those cases where that antithesis between chastity and sensuality does exist, there has fortunately been for some time no necessity for it to be in any way a tragic antithesis. This should, at any rate, be the case with all beings who are sound in mind and body, who are far from reckoning their delicate balance between "animal" and "angel," as being on the face of it one of the principles opposed to existence—the most subtle and brilliant spirits, such as Goethe, such as Hafiz, have even seen in this a further charm of life. Such "conflicts" actually allure one to life. On the other hand, it is only too clear that when once these ruined swine are reduced to worshipping chastity—and there are such swine—they only see and worship in it the antithesis to themselves, the antithesis to ruined swine. Oh what a tragic grunting and eagerness! You can just think of it—they worship that painful and superfluous contrast, which Richard Wagner in his latter days undoubtedly wished to set to music, and to place on the stage! "For what purpose, forsooth?" as we may reasonably ask. What did the swine matter to him; what do they matter to us?

What do ascetic ideals mean? Or take a specific case that people have often asked me about. What does it mean, for example, when an artist like Richard Wagner honors chastity in his old age? Of course, he had always honored it in a certain sense. But only at the very end did he honor it in an ascetic sense. What does this "change of attitude" mean, this radical reversal in his outlook? For that is what it was. Wagner turned into his own opposite. What does it mean when an artist turns into his own opposite? Suppose we do not mind pausing over this question. We immediately recall perhaps the best, strongest, most joyful, and boldest period of Wagner's life. This was when he was genuinely and deeply absorbed in the idea of "Luther's Wedding." Who knows what chance gave us the Meistersingers instead of this wedding music? And how much of the Meistersingers is perhaps just an echo of that earlier project? But there is no doubt that the theme would have included praise of chastity. And certainly it would also have included praise of sensuality. Even so, that combination would seem entirely fitting, and it would have been equally Wagnerian. For chastity and sensuality are not necessarily opposites. Every good marriage, every genuine, heartfelt love rises above this opposition. Wagner would, I think, have done well to remind his Germans of this pleasing reality. He could have done so through a bold and graceful "Luther Comedy." For there were, and still are, many Germans who denounce sensuality. And perhaps Luther's greatest merit was precisely his courage to embrace his sensuality. People once gave that courage the rather pretty name "evangelistic freedom". But even where chastity and sensuality do oppose each other, that opposition has fortunately long ceased to require tragedy. At least, this should hold for all beings sound in mind and body. Such beings are far from seeing their delicate balance between "animal" and "angel" as inherently hostile to existence. The subtlest and most brilliant minds, such as Goethe and Hafiz, have even found a further charm in that balance. Such "conflicts" actually draw us toward life. On the other hand, consider those ruined swine who are reduced to worshipping chastity. Such swine do exist, and their motives are all too clear. They see and worship chastity only as the opposite of themselves, the opposite of ruined swine. Oh, what tragic grunting and eagerness! Just imagine it. They worship that painful and needless contrast that Richard Wagner undoubtedly wanted to set to music in his final years. He wanted to put that contrast onstage! "What on earth for?" we may reasonably ask. What did the swine matter to him? What do they matter to us?

At this point it is impossible to beg the further question of what he really had to do with that manly (ah, so unmanly) country bumpkin, that poor devil and natural, Parsifal, whom he eventually made a Catholic by such fraudulent devices. What? Was this Parsifal really meant seriously? One might be tempted to suppose the contrary, even to wish it—that the Wagnerian Parsifal was meant joyously, like a concluding play of a trilogy or satyric drama, in which Wagner the tragedian wished to take farewell of us, of himself, above all of tragedy, and to do so in a manner that should be quite fitting and worthy, that is, with an excess of the most extreme and flippant parody of the tragic itself, of the ghastly earthly seriousness and earthly woe of old—a parody of that most crude phase in the unnaturalness of the ascetic ideal, that had at length been overcome. That, as I have said, would have been quite worthy of a great tragedian; who like every artist first attains the supreme pinnacle of his greatness when he can look down into himself and his art, when he can laugh at himself. Is Wagner's Parsifal his secret laugh of superiority over himself, the triumph of that supreme artistic freedom and artistic transcendency which he has at length attained. We might, I repeat, wish it were so, for what can Parsifal, taken seriously, amount to? Is it really necessary to see in it (according to an expression once used against me) the product of an insane hate of knowledge, mind, and flesh? A curse on flesh and spirit in one breath of hate? An apostasy and reversion to the morbid Christian and obscurantist ideals? And finally a self-negation and self-elimination on the part of an artist, who till then had devoted all the strength of his will to the contrary, namely, the highest artistic expression of soul and body. And not only of his art; of his life as well. Just remember with what enthusiasm Wagner followed in the footsteps of Feuerbach. Feuerbach's motto of "healthy sensuality" rang in the ears of Wagner during the thirties and forties of the century, as it did in the ears of many Germans (they dubbed themselves "Young Germans"), like the word of redemption. Did he eventually change his mind on the subject? For it seems at any rate that he eventually wished to change his teaching on that subject ... and not only is that the case with the Parsifal trumpets on the stage: in the melancholy, cramped, and embarrassed lucubrations of his later years, there are a hundred places in which there are manifestations of a secret wish and will, a despondent, uncertain, unavowed will to preach actual retrogression, conversion, Christianity, mediævalism, and to say to his disciples, "All is vanity! Seek salvation elsewhere!" Even the "blood of the Redeemer" is once invoked.

At this point, we cannot avoid another question. What did Wagner really have to do with that manly (ah, so unmanly) country bumpkin, Parsifal? That poor devil, that simpleton, whom he finally made a Catholic through such fraudulent tricks. What? Was this Parsifal really meant seriously? We might be tempted to think otherwise, even to wish otherwise. Perhaps Wagner’s Parsifal was meant in a joyful spirit, like the final play of a trilogy or a satyr play. Perhaps Wagner the tragic dramatist wanted to say goodbye to us, to himself, and above all to tragedy. And perhaps he wanted a fitting and worthy farewell: an extravagantly outrageous, flippant parody of tragedy itself. A parody of the terrible earthly seriousness and earthly suffering of the past. A parody of that crudest stage in the unnaturalness of the ascetic ideal, which had finally been overcome. As I have said, such a farewell would have been entirely worthy of a great tragic dramatist. Like every artist, he reaches the very height of greatness only when he can look down into himself and his art. Only when he can laugh at himself. Is Wagner’s Parsifal his secret laugh of superiority over himself? Is it the triumph of the supreme artistic freedom he has finally achieved, his ability to rise above his art? Again, we might wish so, for what can Parsifal amount to when taken seriously? Must we really see it as the product of an insane hatred of knowledge, intellect, and flesh? That was an accusation once directed at me. A curse on flesh and spirit in a single breath of hatred? A renunciation of his beliefs and a return to sickly Christian ideals hostile to enlightenment? And finally, an artist’s denial and cancellation of himself? Until then, Wagner had devoted all his willpower to the opposite: the highest artistic expression of soul and body. And this was true not only of his art, but of his life as well. Just remember how enthusiastically Wagner followed in Feuerbach’s footsteps. During the 1830s and 1840s, Feuerbach’s motto of "healthy sensuality" rang in Wagner’s ears like a message of salvation. The same was true for many Germans, who called themselves "Young Germans". Did Wagner eventually change his mind about this? At any rate, he seems eventually to have wanted to change his teaching on the subject ... Nor is this change heard only in the trumpets of Parsifal onstage. His later years produced gloomy, cramped, and awkward writings. In a hundred passages, those writings reveal a secret desire and intention. A discouraged, uncertain, unacknowledged intention to preach an actual return to the past, conversion, Christianity, and medievalism. An intention to tell his disciples, "All is vanity! Seek salvation elsewhere!" Once, he even invokes the "blood of the Redeemer".

Let me speak out my mind in a case like this, which has many painful elements—and it is a typical case: it is certainly best to separate an artist from his work so completely that he cannot be taken as seriously as his work. He is after all merely the presupposition of his work, the womb, the soil, in certain cases the dung and manure, on which and out of which it grows—and consequently, in most cases, something that must be forgotten if the work itself is to be enjoyed. The insight into the origin of a work is a matter for psychologists and vivisectors, but never either in the present or the future for the æsthetes, the artists. The author and creator of Parsifal was as little spared the necessity of sinking and living himself into the terrible depths and foundations of mediæval soul-contrasts, the necessity of a malignant abstraction from all intellectual elevation, severity, and discipline, the necessity of a kind of mental perversity (if the reader will pardon me such a word), as little as a pregnant woman is spared the horrors and marvels of pregnancy, which, as I have said, must be forgotten if the child is to be enjoyed. We must guard ourselves against the confusion, into which an artist himself would fall only too easily (to employ the English terminology) out of psychological "contiguity"; as though the artist himself actually were the object which he is able to represent, imagine, and express. In point of fact, the position is that even if he conceived he were such an object, he would certainly not represent, conceive, express it. Homer would not have created an Achilles, nor Goethe a Faust, if Homer had been an Achilles or if Goethe had been a Faust. A complete and perfect artist is to all eternity separated from the "real," from the actual; on the other hand, it will be appreciated that he can at times get tired to the point of despair of this eternal "unreality" and falseness of his innermost being—and that he then sometimes attempts to trespass on to the most forbidden ground, on reality, and attempts to have real existence. With what success? The success will be guessed—it is the typical velleity of the artist; the same velleity to which Wagner fell a victim in his old age, and for which he had to pay so dearly and so fatally (he lost thereby his most valuable friends). But after all, quite apart from this velleity, who would not wish emphatically for Wagner's own sake that he had taken farewell of us and of his art in a different manner, not with a Parsifal, but in more victorious, more self-confident, more Wagnerian style—a style less misleading, a style less ambiguous with regard to his whole meaning, less Schopenhauerian, less Nihilistic?...

Let me speak my mind about a case like this, with its many painful aspects. It is a typical case. It is certainly best to separate an artist so completely from his work that he cannot be taken as seriously. After all, he is merely the condition that makes his work possible, the womb, the soil. In some cases, he is the dung and manure on which and out of which the work grows. So, in most cases, the artist must be forgotten if the work itself is to be enjoyed. Understanding the origin of a work is a matter for psychologists and vivisectors. It is never, now or in the future, a matter for lovers of art or artists. The author and creator of Parsifal had to immerse himself in the terrible depths underlying the medieval soul’s inner conflicts. He could not escape a harmful withdrawal from all intellectual elevation, rigor, and discipline. Nor could he escape a kind of mental perversity (if the reader will pardon the word). He was no more spared these necessities than a pregnant woman is spared the horrors and wonders of pregnancy. As I have said, those horrors and wonders must be forgotten if the child is to be enjoyed. We must guard against a confusion into which an artist himself can all too easily fall. This confusion arises from psychological "contiguity", to use the English term. It treats the artist as though he actually were the thing he can represent, imagine, and express. In fact, even if he imagined himself to be that thing, he would certainly not represent, imagine, or express it. Homer would not have created an Achilles if Homer had been an Achilles. Nor would Goethe have created a Faust if Goethe had been a Faust. A complete and perfect artist is forever separated from the "real", from actual life. Yet we can understand how this eternal "unreality" and falseness of his innermost being can sometimes exhaust him to despair. He then sometimes tries to trespass on the most forbidden ground, reality, and tries to have a real existence. With what success? You can guess the outcome. This is the artist’s typical idle wish. Wagner fell victim to the same wish in his old age. He paid for it dearly, with fatal consequences (he lost his most valuable friends). But even apart from this idle wish, who would not strongly wish, for Wagner’s own sake, for a different farewell? Could he not have said goodbye to us and his art without a Parsifal? Could he not have ended in a more triumphant, more self-confident, more Wagnerian style? A less misleading style, less ambiguous about his overall meaning, less Schopenhauerian, less Nihilistic?...

What, then, is the meaning of ascetic ideals? In the case of an artist we are getting to understand their meaning: Nothing at all ... or so much that it is as good as nothing at all. Indeed, what is the use of them? Our artists have for a long time past not taken up a sufficiently independent attitude, either in the world or against it, to warrant their valuations and the changes in these valuations exciting interest. At all times they have played the valet of some morality, philosophy, or religion, quite apart from the fact that unfortunately they have often enough been the inordinately supple courtiers of their clients and patrons, and the inquisitive toadies of the powers that are existing, or even of the new powers to come. To put it at the lowest, they always need a rampart, a support, an already constituted authority: artists never stand by themselves, standing alone is opposed to their deepest instincts. So, for example, did Richard Wagner take, "when the time had come," the philosopher Schopenhauer for his covering man in front, for his rampart. Who would consider it even thinkable, that he would have had the courage for an ascetic ideal, without the support afforded him by the philosophy of Schopenhauer, without the authority of Schopenhauer, which dominated Europe in the seventies? (This is without consideration of the question whether an artist without the milk¹ of an orthodoxy would have been possible at all.) This brings us to the more serious question: What is the meaning of a real philosopher paying homage to the ascetic ideal, a really self-dependent intellect like Schopenhauer, a man and knight with a glance of bronze, who has the courage to be himself, who knows how to stand alone without first waiting for men who cover him in front, and the nods of his superiors? Let us now consider at once the remarkable attitude of Schopenhauer towards art, an attitude which has even a fascination for certain types. For that is obviously the reason why Richard Wagner all at once went over to Schopenhauer (persuaded thereto, as one knows, by a poet, Herwegh), went over so completely that there ensued the cleavage of a complete theoretic contradiction between his earlier and his later æsthetic faiths—the earlier, for example, being expressed in Opera and Drama, the later in the writings which he published from 1870 onwards. In particular, Wagner from that time onwards (and this is the volte-face which alienates us the most) had no scruples about changing his judgment concerning the value and position of music itself. What did he care if up to that time he had made of music a means, a medium, a "woman," that in order to thrive needed an end, a man—that is, the drama? He suddenly realised that more could be effected by the novelty of the Schopenhauerian theory in majorem musicæ gloriam—that is to say, by means of the sovereignty of music, as Schopenhauer understood it; music abstracted from and opposed to all the other arts, music as the independent art-in-itself, not like the other arts, affording reflections of the phenomenal world, but rather the language of the will itself, speaking straight out of the "abyss" as its most personal, original, and direct manifestation. This extraordinary rise in the value of music (a rise which seemed to grow out of the Schopenhauerian philosophy) was at once accompanied by an unprecedented rise in the estimation in which the musician himself was held: he became now an oracle, a priest, nay, more than a priest, a kind of mouthpiece for the "intrinsic essence of things," a telephone from the other world—from henceforward he talked not only music, did this ventriloquist of God, he talked metaphysic; what wonder that one day he eventually talked ascetic ideals.

What, then, do ascetic ideals mean? In an artist’s case, we are beginning to understand their meaning: Nothing at all ... or so much that it amounts to nothing. Indeed, what use are they? For a long time, our artists have not been independent enough, either within the world or against it. Their judgments of value, and changes in those judgments, therefore give us little reason for interest. They have always served as valets to some morality, philosophy, or religion. Unfortunately, they have also often been excessively pliable courtiers to their clients and patrons. They have been nosy flatterers of the powers that exist, or even of new powers yet to come. At the very least, artists always need a protective wall, a support, an established authority. Artists never stand on their own. Standing alone goes against their deepest instincts. So, "when the time had come," Richard Wagner put the philosopher Schopenhauer in front of him as his shield and protection. Who could even imagine that Wagner would have had the courage to embrace an ascetic ideal without Schopenhauer’s philosophical support? Without Schopenhauer’s authority, which dominated Europe in the 1870s? (This leaves aside whether an artist could have existed at all without the milk¹ of an orthodoxy.) This brings us to the more serious question: What does it mean when a real philosopher honors the ascetic ideal? Consider a truly independent mind like Schopenhauer, a man and knight with a gaze of bronze. He has the courage to be himself. He knows how to stand alone, without first waiting for others to shield him or for his superiors’ approval. Let us now consider Schopenhauer’s remarkable attitude toward art, an attitude that even fascinates certain types of people. This attitude is obviously why Richard Wagner all at once became a follower of Schopenhauer. As we know, the poet Herwegh persuaded him to do so. Wagner’s conversion was so complete that his earlier and later views on art became utterly contradictory in theory. His earlier views appear, for example, in Opera and Drama. His later views appear in the writings he published from 1870 onward. From then on, Wagner had no qualms about changing his judgment of the value and status of music itself. This reversal is what alienates us most. Until then, he had treated music as a means, a medium, a "woman." To flourish, this "woman" needed a purpose, a man, that is, drama. What did Wagner care about his earlier position? He suddenly realized that Schopenhauer’s novel theory could do more for the greater glory of music. This meant the sovereignty of music, as Schopenhauer understood it. Music was set apart from and against all the other arts, an independent art in itself. Unlike the other arts, music did not offer reflections of the world of appearances. Instead, music was the language of the will itself. It spoke directly from the "abyss" as the will’s most personal, original, and direct expression. This extraordinary rise in music’s value seemed to spring from Schopenhauer’s philosophy. It immediately brought an unprecedented rise in the esteem enjoyed by the musician himself. The musician now became an oracle, a priest, indeed, more than a priest. He became a kind of mouthpiece for the "inner essence of things," a telephone from the other world. From then on, this ventriloquist of God spoke not only music but metaphysics. No wonder that one day he finally began talking ascetic ideals.

Schopenhauer has made use of the Kantian treatment of the æsthetic problem—though he certainly did not regard it with the Kantian eyes. Kant thought that he showed honour to art when he favoured and placed in the foreground those of the predicates of the beautiful, which constitute the honour of knowledge: impersonality and universality. This is not the place to discuss whether this was not a complete mistake; all that I wish to emphasise is that Kant, just like other philosophers, instead of envisaging the æsthetic problem from the standpoint of the experiences of the artist (the creator), has only considered art and beauty from the standpoint of the spectator, and has thereby imperceptibly imported the spectator himself into the idea of the "beautiful"! But if only the philosophers of the beautiful had sufficient knowledge of this "spectator"!—Knowledge of him as a great fact of personality, as a great experience, as a wealth of strong and most individual events, desires, surprises, and raptures in the sphere of beauty! But, as I feared, the contrary was always the case. And so we get from our philosophers, from the very beginning, definitions on which the lack of a subtler personal experience squats like a fat worm of crass error, as it does on Kant's famous definition of the beautiful. "That is beautiful," says Kant, "which pleases without interesting." Without interesting! Compare this definition with this other one, made by a real "spectator" and "artist"—by Stendhal, who once called the beautiful une promesse de bonheur. Here, at any rate, the one point which Kant makes prominent in the æsthetic position is repudiated and eliminated—le désintéressement. Who is right, Kant or Stendhal? When, forsooth, our æsthetes never get tired of throwing into the scales in Kant's favour the fact that under the magic of beauty men can look at even naked female statues "without interest," we can certainly laugh a little at their expense:—in regard to this ticklish point the experiences of artists are more "interesting," and at any rate Pygmalion was not necessarily an "unæsthetic man." Let us think all the better of the innocence of our æsthetes, reflected as it is in such arguments; let us, for instance, count to Kant's honour the country-parson naïveté of his doctrine concerning the peculiar character of the sense of touch! And here we come back to Schopenhauer, who stood in much closer neighbourhood to the arts than did Kant, and yet never escaped outside the pale of the Kantian definition; how was that? The circumstance is marvellous enough: he interprets the expression, "without interest," in the most personal fashion, out of an experience which must in his case have been part and parcel of his regular routine. On few subjects does Schopenhauer speak with such certainty as on the working of æsthetic contemplation: he says of it that it simply counteracts sexual interest, like lupulin and camphor; he never gets tired of glorifying this escape from the "Life-will" as the great advantage and utility of the æsthetic state. In fact, one is tempted to ask if his fundamental conception of Will and Idea, the thought that there can only exist freedom from the "will" by means of "idea," did not originate in a generalisation from this sexual experience. (In all questions concerning the Schopenhauerian philosophy, one should, by the bye, never lose sight of the consideration that it is the conception of a youth of twenty-six, so that it participates not only in what is peculiar to Schopenhauer's life, but in what is peculiar to that special period of his life.) Let us listen, for instance, to one of the most expressive among the countless passages which he has written in honour of the æsthetic state (World as Will and Idea, i. 231); let us listen to the tone, the suffering, the happiness, the gratitude, with which such words are uttered: "This is the painless state which Epicurus praised as the highest good and as the state of the gods; we are during that moment freed from the vile pressure of the will, we celebrate the Sabbath of the will's hard labour, the wheel of Ixion stands still." What vehemence of language! What images of anguish and protracted revulsion! How almost pathological is that temporal antithesis between "that moment" and everything else, the "wheel of Ixion," "the hard labour of the will," "the vile pressure of the will." But granted that Schopenhauer was a hundred times right for himself personally, how does that help our insight into the nature of the beautiful? Schopenhauer has described one effect of the beautiful,—the calming of the will,—but is this effect really normal? As has been mentioned, Stendhal, an equally sensual but more happily constituted nature than Schopenhauer, gives prominence to another effect of the "beautiful." "The beautiful promises happiness." To him it is just the excitement of the "will" (the "interest") by the beauty that seems the essential fact. And does not Schopenhauer ultimately lay himself open to the objection, that he is quite wrong in regarding himself as a Kantian on this point, that he has absolutely failed to understand in a Kantian sense the Kantian definition of the beautiful—;that the beautiful pleased him as well by means of an interest, by means, in fact, of the strongest and most personal interest of all, that: of the victim of torture who escapes from his torture?—And to come back again to our first question, "What is the meaning of a philosopher paying homage to ascetic ideals?" We get now, at any rate, a first hint; he wishes to escape from a torture.

Schopenhauer drew on Kant’s treatment of aesthetics, though he certainly did not see the problem through Kant’s eyes. Kant thought he honored art by emphasizing qualities of beauty that also give knowledge its dignity: impersonality and universality. This is not the place to ask whether that was a complete mistake. I only want to emphasize that Kant, like other philosophers, did not approach aesthetics through the artist’s experience as a creator. Instead, he considered art and beauty only from the spectator’s standpoint. In doing so, he quietly slipped the spectator himself into the idea of the "beautiful"! But if only the philosophers of beauty knew enough about this "spectator"! If only they knew him as a powerful personality, as a great experience in himself! If only they knew his wealth of intense, deeply individual experiences, desires, surprises, and delights in beauty! But, as I feared, the opposite was always true. So, from the very beginning, our philosophers give us definitions weighed down by their lack of subtle personal experience. That lack squats like a fat worm of gross error on Kant’s famous definition of beauty. "That is beautiful," Kant says, "which pleases without arousing interest." Without arousing interest! Compare that definition with another, offered by a real "spectator" and "artist": Stendhal. He once called beauty a promise of happiness. Here, at least, the very point Kant emphasizes in aesthetic experience is rejected and removed: disinterestedness. Who is right, Kant or Stendhal? Our aestheticians never tire of offering evidence in Kant’s favor. Under beauty’s spell, they say, men can look even at naked female statues "without interest." We can certainly have a little laugh at their expense. On this delicate point, the experiences of artists are more "interesting." And Pygmalion, at any rate, was not necessarily an "unaesthetic man." Let us think all the better of our aestheticians’ innocence, so clearly reflected in such arguments. Let us, for example, give Kant credit for his country parson’s naïveté about the distinctive nature of touch! And here we return to Schopenhauer. He was much closer to the arts than Kant, yet never got beyond Kant’s definition. How did that happen? The explanation is remarkable enough. He interprets "without interest" in the most personal way, drawing on an experience that must have belonged to his daily routine. On few subjects does Schopenhauer speak so confidently as on the effects of aesthetic contemplation. He says it simply suppresses sexual interest, like lupulin and camphor. He never tires of praising this escape from the "will to live" as the great benefit and usefulness of aesthetic experience. Indeed, we are tempted to question the origin of his basic conception of Will and Idea. He holds that freedom from the "will" is possible only through "idea." Did that thought arise from a generalization of this sexual experience? (Whenever we consider Schopenhauer’s philosophy, we should remember that he conceived it as a young man of twenty-six. His philosophy therefore reflects not only his particular life, but also that particular period of his life.) Consider, for example, one of the most expressive of his countless passages praising aesthetic experience (World as Will and Idea, i. 231). Listen to the tone, the suffering, the happiness, the gratitude with which he speaks: "This is the painless state Epicurus praised as the highest good and the state of the gods. For that moment, we are free from the degrading pressure of the will. We celebrate a Sabbath rest from the will’s hard labor. The wheel of Ixion stands still." What violent language! What images of torment and prolonged revulsion! How almost pathological is the contrast between "that moment" and all the rest of time. All the rest is "the wheel of Ixion," "the will’s hard labor," "the degrading pressure of the will." But suppose Schopenhauer was a hundred times right about his own experience. How does that help us understand the nature of beauty? Schopenhauer has described one effect of beauty: the calming of the will. But is that effect really normal? As already mentioned, Stendhal emphasizes another effect of the "beautiful." He was equally sensual, but had a happier temperament than Schopenhauer. "Beauty promises happiness." For Stendhal, the essential fact seems to be precisely beauty’s stimulation of the "will," or "interest." And does Schopenhauer not ultimately expose himself to an objection? He is quite wrong to consider himself a Kantian on this point. He has completely failed to understand Kant’s definition of beauty in Kant’s own sense. Beauty pleased Schopenhauer, too, because of an interest. In fact, his was the strongest and most personal interest of all: that of a torture victim escaping his torment. And now let us return to our first question: "What does it mean when a philosopher pays homage to ascetic ideals?" We now have at least a first hint: he wants to escape from a torment.

Let us beware of making dismal faces at the word "torture"—there is certainly in this case enough to deduct, enough to discount—there is even something to laugh at. For we must certainly not underestimate the fact that Schopenhauer, who in practice treated sexuality as a personal enemy (including its tool, woman, that "instrumentum diaboli"), needed enemies to keep him in a good humour; that he loved grim, bitter, blackish-green words; that he raged for the sake of raging, out of passion; that he would have grown ill, would have become a pessimist (for he was not a pessimist, however much he wished to be), without his enemies, without Hegel, woman, sensuality, and the whole "will for existence" "keeping on." Without them Schopenhauer would not have "kept on," that is a safe wager; he would have run away: but his enemies held him fast, his enemies always enticed him back again to existence, his wrath was just as theirs' was to the ancient Cynics, his balm, his recreation, his recompense, his remedium against disgust, his happiness. So much with regard to what is most personal in the case of Schopenhauer; on the other hand, there is still much which is typical in him—and only now we come back to our problem. It is an accepted and indisputable fact, so long as there are philosophers in the world and wherever philosophers have existed (from India to England, to take the opposite poles of philosophic ability), that there exists a real irritation and rancour on the part of philosophers towards sensuality. Schopenhauer is merely the most eloquent, and if one has the ear for it, also the most fascinating and enchanting outburst. There similarly exists a real philosophic bias and affection for the whole ascetic ideal; there should be no illusions on this score. Both these feelings, as has been said, belong to the type; if a philosopher lacks both of them, then he is—you may be certain of it—never anything but a "pseudo." What does this mean? For this state of affairs must first be, interpreted: in itself it stands there stupid, to all eternity, like any "Thing-in-itself." Every animal, including la bête philosophe, strives instinctively after an optimum of favourable conditions, under which he can let his whole strength have play, and achieves his maximum consciousness of power; with equal instinctiveness, and with a fine perceptive flair which is superior to any reason, every animal shudders mortally at every kind of disturbance and hindrance which obstructs or could obstruct his way to that optimum (it is not his way to happiness of which I am talking, but his way to power, to action, the most powerful action, and in point of fact in many cases his way to unhappiness). Similarly, the philosopher shudders mortally at marriage, together with all that could persuade him to it—marriage as a fatal hindrance on the way to the optimum. Up to the present what great philosophers have been married? Heracleitus, Plato, Descartes, Spinoza, Leibnitz, Kant, Schopenhauer—they were not married, and, further, one cannot imagine them as married. A married philosopher belongs to comedy, that is my rule; as for that exception of a Socrates—the malicious Socrates married himself, it seems, ironice, just to prove this very rule. Every philosopher would say, as Buddha said, when the birth of a son was announced to him: "Râhoula has been born to me, a fetter has been forged for me" (Râhoula means here "a little demon"); there must come an hour of reflection to every "free spirit" (granted that he has had previously an hour of thoughtlessness), just as one came once to the same Buddha: "Narrowly cramped," he reflected, "is life in the house; it is a place of uncleanness; freedom is found in leaving the house." Because he thought like this, he left the house. So many bridges to independence are shown in the ascetic idea], that the philosopher cannot refrain from exultation and clapping of hands when he hears the history of all those resolute ones, who on one day uttered a nay to all servitude and went into some desert; even granting that they were only strong asses, and the absolute opposite of strong minds. What, then, does the ascetic ideal mean in a philosopher? This is my answer—it will have been guessed long ago: when he sees this ideal the philosopher smiles because he sees therein an optimum of the conditions of the highest and boldest intellectuality; he does not thereby deny "existence," he rather affirms thereby his existence and only his existence, and this perhaps to the point of not being far off the blasphemous wish, pereat mundus, fiat philosophia, fiat philosophus, fiam!

Let us not pull long faces at the word "torture." There is certainly plenty to subtract here, plenty to discount, and even something to laugh at. We must not underestimate how much Schopenhauer needed enemies to keep him in good spirits. In practice, he treated sexuality as a personal enemy, including its tool, woman, that "instrumentum diaboli." He loved grim, bitter, blackish-green words. He raged for the sake of raging, out of sheer passion. Without his enemies, he would have grown ill and become a pessimist. For he was not a pessimist, however much he wanted to be. He needed Hegel, woman, sensuality, and the whole "will to existence" to keep "going." Without them, Schopenhauer would not have "kept going." That is a safe bet. He would have run away. But his enemies held him fast and always lured him back to existence. His anger served him just as anger had served the ancient Cynics. It was his balm, his recreation, his reward, his remedy against disgust, his happiness. So much for what is most personal in Schopenhauer's case. Yet much about him is also typical, and only now do we return to our problem. Philosophers have a genuine irritation and bitterness toward sensuality. This is an accepted, indisputable fact, wherever philosophers have existed and as long as there have been philosophers. It holds from India to England, to take the opposite poles of philosophical ability. Schopenhauer is merely the most eloquent outburst of this hostility. If you have an ear for it, his outburst is also the most fascinating and enchanting. Philosophers also have a genuine partiality and affection for the whole ascetic ideal. We should have no illusions about that. As I have said, both feelings belong to the philosophical type. If a philosopher lacks both, you can be certain he is never anything but a "fake." What does this mean? These facts must first be interpreted. By themselves, they sit there, stupid for all eternity, like any "Thing-in-itself." Every animal, including la bête philosophe, the philosophical beast, instinctively seeks an optimum of favorable conditions. Under those conditions, the animal can use its full strength and feel its power most intensely. Just as instinctively, every animal recoils in mortal dread from anything that blocks or might block that optimum. Animals sense such obstacles with a subtle instinct superior to any reasoning. I am not talking about the path to happiness. I mean the path to power, to action, to the most powerful action. In fact, this is often the path to unhappiness. Likewise, the philosopher recoils in mortal dread from marriage and everything that might persuade him to marry. Marriage is a fatal obstacle on the path to his optimum. What great philosophers have been married so far? Heracleitus, Plato, Descartes, Spinoza, Leibnitz, Kant, Schopenhauer: none was married. Nor can we even imagine them married. A married philosopher belongs in comedy. That is my rule. As for the exception, Socrates, that malicious Socrates apparently married ironically, just to prove this very rule. Every philosopher would say what Buddha said when he heard that a son had been born to him: "Râhoula has been born to me, a shackle has been forged for me." (Râhoula here means "a little demon.") Every "free spirit" must have an hour of reflection, assuming he has already had an hour of thoughtlessness. Just such an hour once came to Buddha: "Life at home," he reflected, "is cramped and narrow. It is a place of uncleanness. Freedom is found in leaving home." Because he thought this way, he left home. The ascetic ideal offers so many bridges to independence that the philosopher cannot help rejoicing and clapping his hands. He does so when he hears the stories of all those resolute people who one day rejected all servitude. They went off into some desert, even if they were only strong asses, the absolute opposite of strong minds. What, then, does the ascetic ideal mean for a philosopher? Here is my answer, which will have been guessed long ago. The philosopher smiles at this ideal because he sees an optimum of conditions for the highest, boldest intellectual activity. He is not thereby denying "existence." Rather, he is affirming his existence, and only his existence. Perhaps this brings him close to the blasphemous wish: Let the world perish, let philosophy exist, let the philosopher exist, let me exist!

These philosophers, you see, are by no means uncorrupted witnesses and judges of the value of the ascetic ideal. They think of themselves —what is the "saint" to them? They think of that which to them personally is most indispensable; of freedom from compulsion, disturbance, noise: freedom from business, duties, cares; of clear head; of the dance, spring, and flight of thoughts; of good air—rare, clear, free, dry, as is the air on the heights, in which every animal creature becomes more intellectual and gains wings; they think of peace in every cellar; all the hounds neatly chained; no baying of enmity and uncouth rancour; no remorse of wounded ambition; quiet and submissive internal organs, busy as mills, but unnoticed; the heart alien, transcendent, future, posthumous—to summarise, they mean by the ascetic ideal the joyous asceticism of a deified and newly fledged animal, sweeping over life rather than resting. We know what are the three great catch-words of the ascetic ideal: poverty, humility, chastity; and now just look closely at the life of all the great fruitful inventive spirits—you will always find again and again these three qualities up to a certain extent. Not for a minute, as is self-evident, as though, perchance, they were part of their virtues—what has this type of man to do with virtues?—but as the most essential and natural conditions of their best existence, their finest fruitfulness. In this connection it is quite possible that their predominant intellectualism had first to curb an unruly and irritable pride, or an insolent sensualism, or that it had all its work cut out to maintain its wish for the "desert" against perhaps an inclination to luxury and dilettantism, or similarly against an extravagant liberality of heart and hand. But their intellect did effect all this, simply because it was the dominant instinct, which carried through its orders in the case of all the other instincts. It effects it still; if it ceased to do so, it would simply not be dominant. But there is not one iota of "virtue" in all this. Further, the desert, of which I just spoke, in which the strong, independent, and well-equipped spirits retreat into their hermitage—oh, how different is it from the cultured classes' dream of a desert! In certain cases, in fact, the cultured classes themselves are the desert. And it is certain that all the actors of the intellect would not endure this desert for a minute. It is nothing like romantic and Syrian enough for them, nothing like enough of a stage desert! Here as well there are plenty of asses, but at this point the resemblance ceases. But a desert nowadays is something like this—perhaps a deliberate obscurity; a getting-out-of the way of one's self; a fear of noise, admiration, papers, influence; a little office, a daily task, something that hides rather than brings to light; sometimes associating with harmless, cheerful beasts and fowls, the sight of which refreshes; a mountain for company, but not a dead one, one with eyes (that is, with lakes); in certain cases even a room in a crowded hotel where one can reckon on not being recognised, and on being able to talk with impunity to every one: here is the desert—oh, it is lonely enough, believe me! I grant that when Heracleitus retreated to the courts and cloisters of the colossal temple of Artemis, that "wilderness" was worthier; why do we lack such temples? (perchance we do not lack them: I just think of my splendid study in the Piazza di San Marco, in spring, of course, and in the morning, between ten and twelve). But that which Heracleitus shunned is still just what we too avoid nowadays: the noise and democratic babble of the Ephesians, their politics, their news from the "empire" (I mean, of course, Persia), their market-trade in "the things of to-day "—for there is one thing from which we philosophers especially need a rest—from the things of "to-day." We honour the silent, the cold, the noble, the far, the past, everything, in fact, at the sight of which the soul is not bound to brace itself up and defend itself—something with which one can speak without speaking aloud. Just listen now to the tone a spirit has when it speaks; every spirit has its own tone and loves its own tone. That thing yonder, for instance, is bound to be an agitator, that is, a hollow head, a hollow mug: whatever may go into him, everything comes back from him dull and thick, heavy with the echo of the great void. That spirit yonder nearly always speaks hoarse: has he, perchance, thought himself hoarse? It may be so—ask the physiologists—but he who thinks in words, thinks as a speaker and not as a thinker (it shows that he does not think of objects or think objectively, but only of his relations with objects—that, in point of fact, he only thinks of himself and his audience). This third one speaks aggressively, he comes too near our body, his breath blows on us—we shut our mouth involuntarily, although he speaks to us through a book: the tone of his style supplies the reason—he has no time, he has small faith in himself, he finds expression now or never. But a spirit who is sure of himself speaks softly; he seeks secrecy, he lets himself be awaited, A philosopher is recognised by the fact that he shuns three brilliant and noisy things—fame, princes, and women: which is not to say that they do not come to him. He shuns every glaring light: therefore he shuns his time and its "daylight." Therein he is as a shadow; the deeper sinks the sun, the greater grows the shadow. As for his humility, he endures, as he endures darkness, a certain dependence and obscurity: further, he is afraid of the shock of lightning, he shudders at the insecurity of a tree which is too isolated and too exposed, on which every storm vents its temper, every temper its storm. His "maternal" instinct, his secret love for that which grows in him, guides him into states where he is relieved from the necessity of taking care of himself, in the same way in which the "mother" instinct in woman has thoroughly maintained up to the present woman's dependent position. After all, they demand little enough, do these philosophers, their favourite motto is, "He who possesses is possessed." All this is not, as I must say again and again, to be attributed to a virtue, to a meritorious wish for moderation and simplicity; but because their supreme lord so demands of them, demands wisely and inexorably; their lord who is eager only for one thing, for which alone he musters, and for which alone he hoards everything—time, strength, love, interest. This kind of man likes not to be disturbed by enmity, he likes not to be disturbed by friendship, it is a type which forgets or despises easily. It strikes him as bad form to play the martyr, "to suffer for truth"—he leaves all that to the ambitious and to the stage-heroes of the intellect, and to all those, in fact, who have time enough for such luxuries (they themselves, the philosophers, have something to do for truth). They make a sparing use of big words; they are said to be adverse to the word "truth" itself: it has a "high falutin'" ring. Finally, as far as the chastity of philosophers is concerned, the fruitfulness of this type of mind is manifestly in another sphere than that of children; perchance in some other sphere, too, they have the survival of their name, their little immortality (philosophers in ancient India would express themselves with still greater boldness: "Of what use is posterity to him whose soul is the world?"). In this attitude there is not a trace of chastity, by reason of any ascetic scruple or hatred of the flesh, any more than it is chastity for an athlete or a jockey to abstain from women; it is rather the will of the dominant instinct, at any rate, during the period of their advanced philosophic pregnancy. Every artist knows the harm done by sexual intercourse on occasions of great mental strain and preparation; as far as the strongest artists and those with the surest instincts are concerned, this is not necessarily a case of experience—hard experience—but it is simply their "maternal" instinct which, in order to benefit the growing work, disposes recklessly (beyond all its normal stocks and supplies) of the vigour of its animal life; the greater power then absorbs the lesser. Let us now apply this interpretation to gauge correctly the case of Schopenhauer, which we have already mentioned: in his case, the sight of the beautiful acted manifestly like a resolving irritant on the chief power of his nature (the power of contemplation and of intense penetration); so that this strength exploded and became suddenly master of his consciousness. But this by no means excludes the possibility of that particular sweetness and fulness, which is peculiar to the æsthetic state, springing directly from the ingredient of sensuality (just as that "idealism" which is peculiar to girls at puberty originates in the same source)—it may be, consequently, that sensuality is not removed by the approach of the æsthetic state, as Schopenhauer believed, but merely becomes transfigured, and ceases to enter into the consciousness as sexual excitement. (I shall return once again to this point in connection with the more delicate problems of the physiology of the æsthetic, a subject which up to the present has been singularly untouched and unelucidated.)

These philosophers, you see, are hardly impartial witnesses and judges of the value of the ascetic ideal. They think of themselves. What does the "saint" mean to them? They think of what they personally need most: freedom from pressure, disturbance, and noise. Freedom from business, duties, and worries. A clear head. Thoughts that dance, leap, and fly. Good air, thin, clear, free, and dry, like the air at high altitudes. There, every animal becomes more intellectual and grows wings. They think of peace in every cellar, with all the hounds neatly chained. No howling hostility or crude resentment. No pangs of wounded ambition. Quiet, obedient internal organs, working like mills but going unnoticed. A heart detached, transcendent, belonging to the future, living beyond death. In short, the ascetic ideal means a joyful asceticism to them. It belongs to a newly winged, godlike animal that sweeps over life rather than settling down. We know the ascetic ideal's three great slogans: poverty, humility, chastity. Now look closely at the lives of all great, productive, inventive minds. Again and again, you will find these three qualities to some degree. Not for a moment, of course, because these qualities might count among their virtues. What does this kind of person have to do with virtues? Rather, these are the most essential and natural conditions for their best life and their finest productivity. Their dominant intellectual drive may first have needed to restrain an unruly, touchy pride or an arrogant sensuality. Or their intellect may have struggled to preserve its desire for the "desert" against a taste for luxury and dabbling. Or it may have struggled against an extravagant generosity of feeling and giving. But their intellect accomplished all this simply because it was the dominant instinct. It imposed its commands on all the other instincts. It still does so. If it stopped, it would simply no longer be dominant. But there is not the slightest trace of "virtue" in any of this. Then there is the desert I just mentioned, where strong, independent, well-equipped minds retreat into solitude. Oh, how different it is from the desert that the educated classes dream of! In some cases, the educated classes themselves are the desert. And certainly none of the intellect's performers could endure this desert for a minute. It is nowhere near romantic or Syrian enough for them. It is nowhere near enough like a stage desert! Here too there are plenty of asses, but the resemblance ends there. Today, a desert looks something like this: perhaps a deliberate obscurity, a way of stepping out of one's own way. A fear of noise, admiration, newspapers, and influence. A small job, a daily task, something that conceals you rather than puts you on display. Sometimes, the company of harmless, cheerful animals and birds, whose very appearance refreshes you. A mountain for company, but not a dead mountain. One with eyes (that is, with lakes). Sometimes even a room in a crowded hotel, where you can count on not being recognized. There you can talk to everyone without consequences. That is the desert. Oh, believe me, it is lonely enough! I admit that Heracleitus found a worthier "wilderness" in the courtyards and covered walkways of the colossal temple of Artemis. Why do we lack such temples? Perhaps we do not lack them. I have just thought of my splendid study in the Piazza di San Marco. In spring, of course, and in the morning, between ten and twelve. But what Heracleitus avoided is exactly what we avoid today: the noise and democratic chatter of the Ephesians. Their politics, their news from the "empire" (I mean Persia, of course). Their marketplace traffic in "the things of today". For we philosophers especially need a rest from one thing: the things of "today." We honor the silent, the cold, the noble, the distant, and the past. In fact, we honor everything whose appearance does not force the soul to brace itself and defend itself. Something we can speak with without speaking aloud. Now listen to the tone in which a mind speaks. Every mind has its own tone and loves that tone. That one over there, for example, must be an agitator. In other words, an empty head, an empty vessel. Whatever enters him comes back out dull and thick, heavy with the echo of the great emptiness within. That other mind almost always speaks hoarsely. Has he perhaps thought himself hoarse? Perhaps so. Ask the physiologists. But someone who thinks in words thinks as a speaker, not as a thinker. This shows that he does not think about things, or think objectively. He thinks only about his relationship to things. In fact, he thinks only about himself and his audience. This third one speaks aggressively. He comes too close to us, and we feel his breath. We instinctively close our mouths, although he is speaking to us through a book. The tone of his style explains why. He has no time, little faith in himself, and must express himself now or never. But a mind sure of itself speaks softly. It seeks privacy and lets others wait for it. You recognize a philosopher by his avoidance of three dazzling, noisy things: fame, princes, and women. That does not mean they do not come to him. He avoids every glaring light. So he avoids his own age and its "daylight." In this he resembles a shadow. The lower the sun sinks, the larger the shadow grows. As for his humility, he tolerates a certain dependence and obscurity, just as he tolerates darkness. He also fears a lightning strike. He shudders at the insecurity of a tree standing too alone and too exposed. Every storm vents its temper on that tree, and every temper unleashes its storm. His "maternal" instinct, his secret love for what grows within him, guides him toward certain conditions. Under those conditions, he is freed from having to look after himself. Similarly, woman's "mother" instinct has firmly preserved her dependent position right up to the present. After all, these philosophers ask for little enough. Their favorite saying is, "He who possesses is possessed." Again and again, I must insist that all this is not a matter of virtue. Nor does it come from a commendable desire for moderation and simplicity. It happens because their supreme master demands it, wisely and relentlessly. That master wants only one thing. For that one thing alone, he gathers and saves everything: time, strength, love, and attention. This kind of person dislikes being disturbed by hostility, and equally dislikes being disturbed by friendship. He easily forgets or despises. Playing the martyr, "to suffer for truth", strikes him as bad taste. He leaves all that to the ambitious, to the intellect's theatrical heroes, and to everyone with time for such luxuries. The philosophers themselves have something to do for truth. They use grand words sparingly. They are said to dislike even the word "truth" itself. It sounds "high-flown." Finally, consider the chastity of philosophers. Clearly, this kind of mind produces its fruit in a sphere other than that of children. Perhaps philosophers also find the survival of their names, their little immortality, in some other sphere. Philosophers in ancient India would put this still more boldly: "What use is posterity to someone whose soul is the world?" This attitude contains no trace of chastity based on ascetic scruples or hatred of the flesh. An athlete or jockey who abstains from women is no more chaste for doing so. Rather, this abstinence expresses the will of the dominant instinct, at least during their advanced philosophical pregnancy. Every artist knows the harm sexual intercourse does during periods of intense mental effort and preparation. The strongest artists, those with the surest instincts, need not necessarily learn this through experience, through hard experience. Their "maternal" instinct simply acts for the benefit of the growing work. It recklessly draws on the energy of their animal life, far beyond all its normal reserves and resources. The greater power then absorbs the lesser. Now let us use this interpretation to assess Schopenhauer's case correctly, as we discussed earlier. In his case, the sight of beauty clearly acted as a stimulus that released his nature's chief power. This was his power of contemplation and deep insight. That power exploded into action and suddenly took control of his consciousness. But this by no means rules out another possibility. The peculiar sweetness and fullness of the aesthetic state may arise directly from its sensual element. Just as the "idealism" peculiar to girls at puberty comes from the same source. So perhaps sensuality does not disappear when the aesthetic state arrives, as Schopenhauer believed. Perhaps sensuality is merely transformed and no longer enters consciousness as sexual excitement. (I will return to this point when discussing the more subtle problems of the physiology of aesthetics. So far, that subject has remained remarkably unexplored and unexplained.)

A certain asceticism, a grimly gay whole-hearted renunciation, is, as we have seen, one of the most favourable conditions for the highest intellectualism, and, consequently, for the most natural corollaries of such intellectualism: we shall therefore be proof against any surprise at the philosophers in particular always treating the ascetic ideal with a certain amount of predilection. A serious historical investigation shows the bond between the ascetic ideal and philosophy to be still much tighter and still much stronger. It may be said that it was only in the leading strings of this ideal that philosophy really learnt to make its first steps and baby paces—alas how clumsily, alas how crossly, alas how ready to tumble down and lie on its stomach was this shy little darling of a brat with its bandy legs! The early history of philosophy is like that of all good things;—for a long time they had not the courage to be themselves, they kept always looking round to see if no one would come to their help; further, they were afraid of all who looked at them. Just enumerate in order the particular tendencies and virtues of the philosopher—his tendency to doubt, his tendency to deny, his tendency to wait (to be "ephectic"), his tendency to analyse, search, explore, dare, his tendency to compare and to equalise, his will to be neutral and objective, his will for everything which is "sine ira et studio":—has it yet been realised that for quite a lengthy period these tendencies went counter to the first claims of morality and conscience? (To say nothing at all of Reason, which even Luther chose to call Frau Klüglin,² the sly whore.) Has it been yet appreciated that a philosopher, in the event of his arriving at self-consciousness, must needs feel himself an incarnate "nitimur in vetitum"—and consequently guard himself against "his own sensations," against self-consciousness? It is, I repeat, just the same with all good things, on which we now pride ourselves; even judged by the standard of the ancient Greeks, our whole modern life, in so far as it is not weakness, but power and the consciousness of power, appears pure "Hybris" and godlessness: for the things which are the very reverse of those which we honour to-day, have had for a long time conscience on their side, and God as their guardian. "Hybris" is our whole attitude to nature nowadays, our violation of nature with the help of machinery, and all the unscrupulous ingenuity of our scientists and engineers. "Hybris" is our attitude to God, that is, to some alleged teleological and ethical spider behind the meshes of the great trap of the causal web. Like Charles the Bold in his war with Louis the Eleventh, we may say, "je combats l'universelle araignée"; "Hybris" is our attitude to ourselves—for we experiment with ourselves in a way that we would not allow with any animal, and with pleasure and curiosity open our soul in our living body: what matters now to us the "salvation" of the soul? We heal ourselves afterwards: being ill is instructive, we doubt it not, even more instructive than being well—inoculators of disease seem to us to-day even more necessary than any medicine-men and "saviours." There is no doubt we do violence to ourselves nowadays, we crackers of the soul's kernel, we incarnate riddles, who are ever asking riddles, as though life were naught else than the cracking of a nut; and even thereby must we necessarily become day by day more and more worthy to be asked questions and worthy to ask them, even thereby do we perchance also become worthier to—live?

A certain asceticism, a grimly cheerful and wholehearted renunciation, is among the best conditions for the highest intellectual activity. We have already seen this. It also favors the most natural consequences of such activity. So we should not be surprised that philosophers in particular have always shown some fondness for the ascetic ideal. A serious historical study reveals an even closer and stronger bond between the ascetic ideal and philosophy. We might say that philosophy learned its first baby steps only in the leading strings of this ideal. Alas, how clumsily this shy little darling of a brat walked on its bowed legs! How grumpily, how ready to tumble down and lie on its stomach! Philosophy’s early history resembles the history of all good things. For a long time, good things lacked the courage to be themselves. They kept looking around to see whether someone would come to their aid. They also feared everyone who looked at them. Just list the philosopher’s particular tendencies and virtues in order. His tendency to doubt, to deny, to wait (to be "ephectic", or to suspend judgment). His tendency to analyze, search, explore, and dare. His tendency to compare and put things on equal terms. His determination to remain neutral and objective, to pursue everything that is "without anger or partiality". Has anyone yet realized how long these tendencies opposed the fundamental demands of morality and conscience? (Not to mention Reason, which even Luther chose to call Frau Klüglin,² the sly whore.) Has anyone yet understood what must happen if a philosopher comes to understand himself? He must feel himself to be the embodiment of "we strive for what is forbidden". Consequently, he must guard against "his own feelings", against awareness of himself. I repeat, the same is true of all the good things we now take pride in. Even by ancient Greek standards, our entire modern life looks like pure "Hybris" and godlessness. That is, wherever modern life expresses not weakness, but power and awareness of power. For the very opposites of what we honor today long had conscience on their side, with God as their guardian. "Hybris" describes our entire attitude toward nature today. We violate nature through machinery and through all the unscrupulous ingenuity of our scientists and engineers. "Hybris" describes our attitude toward God. By God, I mean some supposed spider of purpose and morality behind the meshes of causation’s great trapping web. Like Charles the Bold in his war with Louis the Eleventh, we may say, "I fight the universal spider". "Hybris" describes our attitude toward ourselves. For we experiment on ourselves in ways we would not permit with any animal. With pleasure and curiosity, we cut open our souls within our living bodies. What does the soul’s "salvation" matter to us now? We heal ourselves afterward. We have no doubt that illness teaches us, even more than health does. Today, those who inoculate us with disease seem even more necessary than any medicine men and "saviors." There is no doubt that we do violence to ourselves today, we who crack open the soul’s kernel. We are living riddles, forever posing riddles, as though life were nothing but cracking a nut. And through this very activity, we must become more worthy each day of being questioned and worthy of asking questions. Through this very activity, do we perhaps also become more worthy to live?

... All good things were once bad things; from every original sin has grown an original virtue. Marriage, for example, seemed for a long time a sin against the rights of the community; a man formerly paid a fine for the insolence of claiming one woman to himself (to this phase belongs, for instance, the jus primæ noctis, to-day still in Cambodia the privilege of the priest, that guardian of the "good old customs").

... All good things were once bad things. From every original sin, an original virtue has grown. Marriage, for example, long seemed a sin against the community’s rights. A man once paid a fine for daring to claim one woman for himself. (The jus primæ noctis, for example, belongs to this stage. In Cambodia, even today, this right belongs to the priest, the guardian of the "good old customs".)

The soft, benevolent, yielding, sympathetic feelings—eventually valued so highly that they almost became "intrinsic values," were for a very long time actually despised by their possessors: gentleness was then a subject for shame, just as hardness is now (compare Beyond Good and Evil, Aph. 260). The submission to law: oh, with what qualms of conscience was it that the noble races throughout the world renounced the vendetta and gave the law power over themselves! Law was long a vetitum, a blasphemy, an innovation; it was introduced with force, like a force, to which men only submitted with a sense of personal shame. Every tiny step forward in the world was formerly made at the cost of mental and physical torture. Nowadays the whole of this point of view—"that not only stepping forward, nay, stepping at all, movement, change, all needed their countless martyrs," rings in our ears quite strangely. I have put it forward in the Dawn of Day, Aph. 18. "Nothing is purchased more dearly," says the same book a little later, "than the modicum of human reason and freedom which is now our pride. But that pride is the reason why it is now almost impossible for us to feel in sympathy with those immense periods of the 'Morality of Custom,' which lie at the beginning of the 'world's history,' constituting as they do the real decisive historical principle which has fixed the character of humanity; those periods, I repeat, when throughout the world suffering passed for virtue, cruelty for virtue, deceit for virtue, revenge for virtue, repudiation of the reason for virtue; and when, conversely, well-being passed current for danger, the desire for knowledge for danger, pity for danger, peace for danger, being pitied for shame, work for shame, madness for divinity, and change for immorality and incarnate corruption!"

Soft, kind, yielding, sympathetic feelings eventually became so highly valued that they almost became "values in themselves." Yet for a very long time, people actually despised these feelings in themselves. Gentleness was then a source of shame, just as hardness is now (compare Beyond Good and Evil, Aph. 260). Submission to law: oh, how the noble races throughout the world struggled with their consciences when they abandoned the vendetta! How guilty they felt when they gave the law power over themselves! For a long time, law was a forbidden thing, a blasphemy, an innovation. Law was imposed by force, like a force, and people submitted only with a sense of personal shame. Every tiny step forward in the world once came at the cost of mental and physical torture. Today, this whole view sounds quite strange to us: "Not only moving forward, but even taking a step, moving at all, changing, required countless martyrs." I presented this view in Dawn of Day, Aph. 18. "Nothing costs more," the same book says a little later, "than the small measure of human reason and freedom we now take pride in. But our pride makes it almost impossible to understand and share the feelings of those vast ages of the 'Morality of Custom.' Those ages stand at the beginning of 'world history.' They are the truly decisive force in history that shaped humanity's character. I repeat, those were ages when, throughout the world, suffering counted as virtue. So did cruelty, deceit, revenge, and the rejection of reason. Conversely, well-being counted as danger. So did the desire for knowledge, pity, and peace. Being pitied counted as shame, as did work. Madness counted as divinity, and change as immorality and corruption in the flesh!"

There is in the same book, Aph. 12, an explanation of the burden of unpopularity under which the earliest race of contemplative men had to live—despised almost as widely as they were first feared! Contemplation first appeared on earth in a disguised shape, in an ambiguous form, with an evil heart and often with an uneasy head: there is no doubt about it. The inactive, brooding, unwarlike element in the instincts of contemplative men long invested them with a cloud of suspicion: the only way to combat this was to excite a definite fear. And the old Brahmans, for example, knew to a nicety how to do this! The oldest philosophers were well versed in giving to their very existence and appearance, meaning, firmness, background, by reason whereof men learnt to fear them; considered more precisely, they did this from an even more fundamental need, the need of inspiring in themselves fear and self-reverence. For they found even in their own souls all the valuations turned against themselves; they had to fight down every kind of suspicion and antagonism against "the philosophic element in themselves." Being men of a terrible age, they did this with terrible means: cruelty to themselves, ingenious self-mortification—this was the chief method of these ambitious hermits and intellectual revolutionaries, who were obliged to force down the gods and the traditions of their own soul, so as to enable themselves to believe in their own revolution. I remember the famous story of the King Vicvamitra, who, as the result of a thousand years of self-martyrdom, reached such a consciousness of power and such a confidence in himself that he undertook to build a new heaven: the sinister symbol of the oldest and newest history of philosophy in the whole world. Every one who has ever built anywhere a "new heaven" first found the power thereto in his own hell.... Let us compress the facts into a short formula. The philosophic spirit had, in order to be possible to any extent at all, to masquerade and disguise itself as one of the previously fixed types of the contemplative man, to disguise itself as priest, wizard, soothsayer, as a religious man generally: the ascetic ideal has for a long time served the philosopher as a superficial form, as a condition which enabled him to exist.... To be able to be a philosopher he had to exemplify the ideal; to exemplify it, he was bound to believe in it. The peculiarly etherealised abstraction of philosophers, with their negation of the world, their enmity to life, their disbelief in the senses, which has been maintained up to the most recent time, and has almost thereby come to be accepted as the ideal philosophic attitude—this abstraction is the result of those enforced conditions under which philosophy came into existence, and continued to exist; inasmuch as for quite a very long time philosophy would have been absolutely impossible in the world without an ascetic cloak and dress, without an ascetic self-misunderstanding. Expressed plainly and palpably, the ascetic priest has taken the repulsive and sinister form of the caterpillar, beneath which and behind which alone philosophy could live and slink about....

In the same book, Aph. 12 explains the burden of unpopularity that the earliest contemplative men had to bear. They were despised almost as widely as they had first been feared! Contemplation first appeared on earth in disguise, in an ambiguous form, with an evil heart and often an uneasy mind. There is no doubt about it. The inactive, brooding, unwarlike side of contemplative men's instincts long cast suspicion on them. The only way to fight this suspicion was to inspire a definite fear. And the old Brahmans, for example, knew exactly how to do that! The earliest philosophers knew how to give their very existence and appearance meaning, firmness, and a supporting background. In this way, people learned to fear them. More precisely, these philosophers acted from an even deeper need: to inspire fear and self-reverence in themselves. For even within their own souls, they found all values turned against them. They had to overcome every kind of suspicion and hostility toward "the philosophic element in themselves." As men of a terrible age, they used terrible methods. Cruelty toward themselves and ingenious self-torment were the chief methods of these ambitious hermits and intellectual revolutionaries. They had to suppress the gods and traditions within their own souls so they could believe in their own revolution. I remember the famous story of King Vicvamitra. After a thousand years of self-torment, he gained such an awareness of his power and such confidence in himself that he undertook to build a new heaven. This is the sinister symbol of philosophy's earliest and latest history throughout the world. Everyone who has ever built a "new heaven" anywhere first found the power to do so in his own hell.... Let us sum up the facts briefly. To be possible at all, the philosophic spirit had to disguise itself as an already established type of contemplative man. It had to pose as a priest, wizard, soothsayer, or religious man of some kind. The ascetic ideal long served as the philosopher's outward form, as a condition that made his existence possible.... To be a philosopher, he had to embody the ideal. To embody the ideal, he had to believe in it. Philosophers developed a peculiar, almost disembodied detachment, rejecting the world, opposing life, and distrusting the senses. This detachment has persisted into the most recent times. Its persistence has almost made it accepted as the ideal philosophic attitude. Yet this detachment resulted from the conditions forced on philosophy when it began and throughout its continued existence. For a very long time, philosophy would have been absolutely impossible in the world without an ascetic cloak and costume. It also required philosophers to misunderstand themselves as ascetics. To put it plainly and concretely, the ascetic priest has taken the repulsive and sinister form of the caterpillar. Only beneath and behind that form could philosophy live and slink about....

Has all that really changed? Has that flamboyant and dangerous winged creature, that "spirit" which that caterpillar concealed within itself, has it, I say, thanks to a sunnier, warmer, lighter world, really and finally flung off its hood and escaped into the light? Can we to-day point to enough pride, enough daring, enough courage, enough self-confidence, enough mental will, enough will for responsibility, enough freedom of the will, to enable the philosopher to be now in the world really—possible?

Has all that really changed? That caterpillar concealed a showy and dangerous winged creature within itself, a "spirit". Has that creature, I ask, really and finally thrown off its hood and escaped into the light? Has it done so thanks to a sunnier, warmer, lighter world? Can we today point to enough pride, enough daring, enough courage, enough self-confidence, enough mental determination, enough willingness to take responsibility, enough freedom of the will, to make the philosopher truly possible in the world today?

And now, after we have caught sight of the ascetic priest, let us tackle our problem. What is the meaning of the ascetic ideal? It now first becomes serious—vitally serious. We are now confronted with the real representatives of the serious. "What is the meaning of all seriousness?" This even more radical question is perchance already on the tip of our tongue: a question, fairly, for physiologists, but which we for the time being skip. In that ideal the ascetic priest finds not only his faith, but also his will, his power, his interest. His right to existence stands and falls with that ideal. What wonder that we here run up against a terrible opponent (on the supposition, of course, that we are the opponents of that ideal), an opponent fighting for his life against those who repudiate that ideal!. .. On the other hand, it is from the outset improbable that such a biased attitude towards our problem will do him any particular good; the ascetic priest himself will scarcely prove the happiest champion of his own ideal (on the same principle on which a woman usually fails when she wishes to champion "woman")—let alone proving the most objective critic and judge of the controversy now raised. We shall therefore—so much is already obvious—rather have actually to help him to defend himself properly against ourselves, than we shall have to fear being too well beaten by him. The idea, which is the subject of this dispute, is the value of our life from the standpoint of the ascetic priests: this life, then (together with the whole of which it is a part, "Nature," "the world," the whole sphere of becoming and passing away), is placed by them in relation to an existence of quite another character, which it excludes and to which it is opposed, unless it deny its own self: in this case, the case of an ascetic life, life is taken as a bridge to another existence. The ascetic treats life as a maze, in which one must walk backwards till one comes to the place where it starts; or he treats it as an error which one may, nay must, refute by action: for he demands that he should be followed; he enforces, where he can, his valuation of existence. What does this mean? Such a monstrous valuation is not an exceptional case, or a curiosity recorded in human history: it is one of the most general and persistent facts that there are. The reading from the vantage of a distant star of the capital letters of our earthly life, would perchance lead to the conclusion that the earth was the especially ascetic planet, a den of discontented, arrogant, and repulsive creatures, who never got rid of a deep disgust of themselves, of the world, of all life, and did themselves as much hurt as possible out of pleasure in hurting—presumably their one and only pleasure. Let us consider how regularly, how universally, how practically at every single period the ascetic priest puts in his appearance: he belongs to no particular race; he thrives everywhere; he grows out of all classes. Not that he perhaps bred this valuation by heredity and propagated it—the contrary is the case. It must be a necessity of the first order which makes this species, hostile, as it is, to life, always grow again and always thrive again.—Life itself must certainly have an interest in the continuance of such a type of self-contradiction. For an ascetic life is a self-contradiction: here rules resentment without parallel, the resentment of an insatiate instinct and ambition, that would be master, not over some element in life, but over life itself, over life's deepest, strongest, innermost conditions; here is an attempt made to utilise power to dam the sources of power; here does the green eye of jealousy turn even against physiological well-being, especially against the expression of such well-being, beauty, joy; while a sense of pleasure is experienced and sought in abortion, in decay, in pain, in misfortune, in ugliness, in voluntary punishment, in the exercising, flagellation, and sacrifice of the self. All this is in the highest degree paradoxical: we are here confronted with a rift that wills itself to be a rift, which enjoys itself in this very suffering, and even becomes more and more certain of itself, more and more triumphant, in proportion as its own presupposition, physiological vitality, decreases. "The triumph just in the supreme agony:" under this extravagant emblem did the ascetic ideal fight from of old; in this mystery of seduction, in this picture of rapture and torture, it recognised its brightest light, its salvation, its final victory. Crux, nux, lux—it has all these three in one.

Now that we have caught sight of the ascetic priest, let us tackle our problem. What does the ascetic ideal mean? Only now does the question become serious, vitally serious. We now face the true representatives of seriousness. "What does all seriousness mean?" Perhaps this even more radical question is already on the tip of our tongue. That is really a question for physiologists, but we will set it aside for now. In the ascetic ideal, the priest finds not only his faith but also his will, his power, and his interests. His right to exist stands or falls with that ideal. No wonder we face a formidable opponent here, assuming, of course, that we oppose that ideal. He is fighting for his life against those who reject it! ... Yet from the start, his bias is unlikely to help him much with our question. The ascetic priest himself will hardly make the best defender of his own ideal. The same principle applies when a woman tries to defend "woman" and usually fails. Still less will the priest be the most objective critic and judge of the dispute now before us. So one thing is already clear. Rather than fear that he will defeat us too easily, we must help him defend himself properly against us. The dispute concerns the value of our life from the ascetic priests’ point of view. They set this life against an existence of an entirely different kind. By this life, they mean the whole to which life belongs: "Nature," "the world," everything that comes into being and passes away. Life excludes that other existence and opposes it, unless life denies itself. In that case, the case of an ascetic life, life becomes a bridge to another existence. The ascetic treats life as a maze that we must walk backward through until we reach its starting point. Or he treats life as an error that we may, indeed must, refute through action. For he demands followers. Wherever he can, he imposes his judgment of existence. What does this mean? Such a monstrous judgment is no exception, no historical curiosity. It is one of the most widespread and persistent facts there are. Suppose someone on a distant star could read the great capital letters of our earthly life. Perhaps they would conclude that Earth was the distinctly ascetic planet. They would see a den of discontented, arrogant, repulsive creatures. These creatures never shook off their deep disgust with themselves, the world, and all life. They hurt themselves as much as possible for the pleasure of hurting, presumably their one and only pleasure. Consider how regularly, how universally, how at practically every period the ascetic priest appears. He belongs to no particular race. He thrives everywhere and emerges from every class. This does not mean that he developed this judgment of life through heredity and passed it on. The opposite is true. Some necessity of the highest order must make this type continually reappear and thrive, hostile as it is to life. Life itself must certainly have an interest in preserving such a self-contradictory type. For an ascetic life is a self-contradiction. Here an unparalleled resentment rules, the resentment of an insatiable instinct and ambition. This ambition seeks mastery not over some part of life, but over life itself, over its deepest, strongest, innermost conditions. Here power is used in an attempt to block the very sources of power. Here jealousy turns its green eye even against bodily well-being, especially its expressions: beauty and joy. Meanwhile, pleasure is felt and sought in stunted growth, decay, pain, misfortune, ugliness, and voluntary punishment. Pleasure is also found in disciplining, whipping, and sacrificing the self. All this is profoundly paradoxical. We face an inner division that wills itself to remain divided and enjoys itself in this very suffering. This divided self grows more certain of itself, more triumphant, as its own foundation, bodily vitality, declines. "Triumph precisely in the greatest agony": the ascetic ideal has fought under this extravagant banner since ancient times. In this seductive mystery, this image of rapture and torture, it recognized its brightest light, its salvation, its final victory. Crux, nux, lux: it has all three in one.

Granted that such an incarnate will for contradiction and unnaturalness is induced to philosophise; on what will it vent its pet caprice? On that which has been felt with the greatest certainty to be true, to be real; it will look for error in those very places where the life instinct fixes truth with the greatest positiveness. It will, for instance, after the example of the ascetics of the Vedanta Philosophy, reduce matter to an illusion, and similarly treat pain, multiplicity, the whole logical contrast of "Subject" and "Object"—errors, nothing but errors! To renounce the belief in one's own ego, to deny to one's self one's own "reality"—what a triumph! and here already we have a much higher kind of triumph, which is not merely a triumph over the senses, over the palpable, but an infliction of violence and cruelty on reason; and this ecstasy culminates in the ascetic self-contempt, the ascetic scorn of one's own reason making this decree: there is a domain of truth and of life, but reason is specially excluded therefrom.. .. By the bye, even in the Kantian idea of "the intellegible character of things" there remains a trace of that schism, so dear to the heart of the ascetic, that schism which likes to turn reason against reason; in fact, "intelligible character" means in Kant a kind of quality in things of which the intellect comprehends this much, that for it, the intellect, it is absolutely incomprehensible. After all, let us, in our character of knowers, not be ungrateful towards such determined reversals of the ordinary perspectives and values, with which the mind had for too long raged against itself with an apparently futile sacrilege! In the same way the very seeing of another vista, the very wishing to see another vista, is no little training and preparation of the intellect for its eternal "Objectivity"—objectivity being understood not as "contemplation without interest" (for that is inconceivable and non-sensical), but as the ability to have the pros and cons in one's power and to switch them on and off, so as to get to know how to utilise, for the advancement of knowledge, the difference in the perspective and in the emotional interpretations. But let us, forsooth, my philosophic colleagues, henceforward guard ourselves more carefully against this mythology of dangerous ancient ideas, which has set up a "pure, will-less, painless, timeless subject of knowledge"; let us guard ourselves from the tentacles of such contradictory ideas as "pure reason," "absolute spirituality," "knowledge-in-itself":—in these theories an eye that cannot be thought of is required to think, an eye which ex hypothesi has no direction at all, an eye in which the active and interpreting functions are cramped, are absent; those functions, I say, by means of which "abstract" seeing first became seeing something; in these theories consequently the absurd and the non-sensical is always demanded of the eye. There is only a seeing from a perspective, only a "knowing" from a perspective, and the more emotions we express over a thing, the more eyes, different eyes, we train on the same thing, the more complete will be our "idea" of that thing, our "objectivity." But the elimination of the will altogether, the switching off of the emotions all and sundry, granted that we could do so, what! would not that be called intellectual castration?

Suppose this will to contradiction and unnaturalness, embodied in a person, is led to philosophise. What will become the target of its favorite obsession? Whatever people have felt most certain is true and real. It will look for error precisely where the instinct for life most firmly establishes truth. For example, following the ascetics of Vedanta Philosophy, it will reduce matter to an illusion. It will treat pain, multiplicity, and the whole logical opposition between "Subject" and "Object" in the same way. Errors, nothing but errors! To give up belief in your own ego, to deny your own "reality": what a triumph! And here we already have a much greater kind of triumph. This is not merely a victory over the senses and what we can touch. It also inflicts violence and cruelty on reason. This ecstasy reaches its peak in ascetic self-contempt, in the ascetic's scorn for their own reason, which declares: there is a realm of truth and life, but reason is specifically excluded from it. . . . Incidentally, even Kant's idea of "the intelligible character of things" retains a trace of that division so dear to ascetics. This division delights in turning reason against reason. In Kant, "intelligible character" means a kind of quality in things about which the intellect understands just this: for the intellect, that quality is absolutely incomprehensible. Still, as seekers of knowledge, let us not be ungrateful for such determined reversals of familiar perspectives and values. Through these reversals, the mind raged against itself for far too long, committing what seemed a pointless sacrilege! Simply seeing another perspective, or even wanting to see another perspective, gives the intellect considerable training and preparation. Such training prepares the intellect for its eternal "Objectivity". Here, objectivity does not mean "contemplation without interest", since that is inconceivable and nonsensical. Instead, objectivity means having the arguments for and against under our control, able to turn them on and off. We can thereby learn to use differences in perspective and emotional interpretation to advance knowledge. But really, my fellow philosophers, let us now guard ourselves more carefully against this mythology of dangerous old ideas. This mythology has invented a "pure, will-less, painless, timeless subject of knowledge". Let us guard ourselves against the tentacles of such contradictory ideas as "pure reason," "absolute spirituality," "knowledge-in-itself". These theories require us to imagine an eye that cannot be imagined. By definition, this eye looks in no direction at all. Its active, interpreting functions are restricted or absent. Yet these are precisely the functions through which "abstract" seeing first becomes seeing something. So these theories always demand something absurd and nonsensical of the eye. There is only seeing from a perspective, only "knowing" from a perspective. The more emotions we bring to bear on something, the more eyes, different eyes, we turn toward it. And the more complete our "idea" of that thing, our "objectivity", will become. But suppose we could eliminate the will altogether and switch off every emotion. What! Wouldn't that amount to intellectual castration?

But let us turn back. Such a self-contradiction, as apparently manifests itself among the ascetics, "Life turned against Life," is—this much is absolutely obvious—from the physiological and not now from the psychological standpoint, simply nonsense. It can only be an apparent contradiction; it must be a kind of provisional expression, an explanation, a formula, an adjustment, a psychological misunderstanding of something, whose real nature could not be understood for a long time, and whose real essence could not be described; a mere word jammed into an old gap of human knowledge. To put briefly the facts against its being real: the ascetic ideal springs from the prophylactic and self-preservative instincts which mark a decadent life, which seeks by every means in its power to maintain its position and fight for its existence; it points to a partial physiological depression and exhaustion, against which the most profound and intact life-instincts fight ceaselessly with new weapons and discoveries. The ascetic ideal is such a weapon: its position is consequently exactly the reverse of that which the worshippers of the ideal imagine—life struggles in it and through it with death and against death; the ascetic ideal is a dodge for the preservation of life. An important fact is brought out in the extent to which, as history teaches, this ideal could rule and exercise power over man, especially in all those places where the civilisation and taming of man was completed: that fact is, the diseased state of man up to the present, at any rate, of the man who has been tamed, the physiological struggle of man with death (more precisely, with the disgust with life, with exhaustion, with the wish for the "end"). The ascetic priest is the incarnate wish for an existence of another kind, an existence on another plane,—he is, in fact, the highest point of this wish, its official ecstasy and passion: but it is the very power of this wish which is the fetter that binds him here; it is just that which makes him into a tool that must labour to create more favourable conditions for earthly existence, for existence on the human plane—it is with this very power that he keeps the whole herd of failures, distortions, abortions, unfortunates, sufferers from themselves of every kind, fast to existence, while he as the herdsman goes instinctively on in front. You understand me already: this ascetic priest, this apparent enemy of life, this denier—he actually belongs to the really great conservative and affirmative forces of life.... What does it come from, this diseased state? For man is more diseased, more uncertain, more changeable, more unstable than any other animal, there is no doubt of it—he is the diseased animal: what does it spring from? Certainly he has also dared, innovated, braved more, challenged fate more than all the other animals put together; he, the great experimenter with himself, the unsatisfied, the insatiate, who struggles for the supreme mastery with beast, Nature, and gods, he, the as yet ever uncompelled, the ever future, who finds no more any rest from his own aggressive strength, goaded inexorably on by the spur of the future dug into the flesh of the present:—how should not so brave and rich an animal also be the most endangered, the animal with the longest and deepest sickness among all sick animals?... Man is sick of it, oft enough there are whole epidemics of this satiety (as about 1348, the time of the Dance of Death): but even this very nausea, this tiredness, this disgust with himself, all this is discharged from him with such force that it is immediately made into a new fetter. His "nay," which he utters to life, brings to light as though by magic an abundance of graceful "yeas"; even when he wounds himself, this master of destruction, of self-destruction, it is subsequently the wound itself that forces him to live.

But let us turn back. The ascetics seem to embody a contradiction: "Life turned against Life." From a physiological standpoint, rather than a psychological one, this is plainly nonsense. The contradiction can only be apparent. It must be a temporary expression, an explanation, a formula, an attempt to make sense of something, a psychological misunderstanding. The true nature of that something could not be understood for a long time. Its real essence could not be described. The contradiction was merely a word crammed into an old gap in human knowledge. Briefly, here are the facts against taking this contradiction as real. The ascetic ideal springs from the instincts of prevention and self-preservation that characterize a declining life. Such a life uses every means available to hold its ground and fight for survival. The ideal indicates a partial physical depression and exhaustion. Against this condition, the deepest, still-intact instincts of life fight constantly with new weapons and discoveries. The ascetic ideal is one such weapon. Its role is therefore exactly the opposite of what its worshippers imagine. In and through this ideal, life struggles with death and against death. The ascetic ideal is a trick for the preservation of life. History shows how widely this ideal could rule humanity and exercise power over it. Its power was especially strong wherever the civilizing and taming of humanity had been completed. That power reveals an important fact: humanity has been diseased up to the present, at least humanity in its tamed form. It reveals humanity's physiological struggle with death. More precisely, this is a struggle with disgust at life, exhaustion, and the wish for the "end". The ascetic priest embodies the wish for a different kind of existence, an existence on another plane. In fact, he is this wish at its peak, its officially recognized ecstasy and passion. But the very power of this wish is the chain that binds him here. This power makes him a tool that must work to create better conditions for earthly existence, for existence on the human plane. With this very power, he keeps a whole herd bound to existence: failures, deformed people, stunted lives, the unfortunate, and every kind of sufferer from themselves. Meanwhile, as their shepherd, he instinctively leads the way. You already understand me. This ascetic priest, this apparent enemy of life, this denier, actually belongs among life's great preserving and affirming forces.... Where does this diseased condition come from? Humanity is more diseased, more uncertain, more changeable, and more unstable than any other animal. There is no doubt about it. The human being is the diseased animal. Where does this sickness come from? Certainly, humanity has also dared, innovated, risked, and challenged fate more than all the other animals put together. The human being is the great self-experimenter, unsatisfied and insatiable, struggling for supreme mastery against beasts, Nature, and gods. Still never forced into a fixed form, always belonging to the future, humanity finds no rest from its own aggressive strength. The spur of the future digs into the flesh of the present, driving humanity relentlessly onward. How could so brave and richly endowed an animal not also be the most endangered? How could it not suffer the longest and deepest sickness of all sick animals?... Humanity grows sick of itself. Often, whole epidemics of this weariness break out, as around 1348, the time of the Dance of Death. But even this nausea, this tiredness, this self-disgust pours out with such force that it immediately becomes a new chain. Humanity's "no" to life brings forth, as if by magic, an abundance of graceful "yeses". Even when this master of destruction and self-destruction wounds himself, the wound itself later forces him to live.

The more normal is this sickliness in man—and we cannot dispute this normality—the higher honour should be paid to the rare cases of psychical and physical powerfulness, the windfalls of humanity, and the more strictly should the sound be guarded from that worst of air, the air of the sick-room. Is that done? The sick are the greatest danger for the healthy; it is not from the strongest that harm comes to the strong, but from the weakest. Is that known? Broadly considered, it is not for a minute the fear of man, whose diminution should be wished for; for this fear forces the strong to be strong, to be at times terrible—it preserves in its integrity the sound type of man. What is to be feared, what does work with a fatality found in no other fate, is not the great fear of, but the great nausea with, man; and equally so the great pity for man. Supposing that both these things were one day to espouse each other, then inevitably the maximum of monstrousness would immediately come into the world—the "last will" of man, his will for nothingness, Nihilism. And, in sooth, the way is well paved thereto. He who not only has his nose to smell with, but also has eyes and ears, he sniffs almost wherever he goes to-day an air something like that of a mad-house, the air of a hospital—I am speaking, as stands to reason, of the cultured areas of mankind, of every kind of "Europe" that there is in fact in the world. The sick are the great danger of man, not the evil, not the "beasts of prey." They who are from the outset botched, oppressed, broken, those are they, the weakest are they, who most undermine the life beneath the feet of man, who instil the most dangerous venom and scepticism into our trust in life, in man, in ourselves. Where shall we escape from it, from that covert look (from which we carry away a deep sadness), from that averted look of him who is misborn from the beginning, that look which betrays what such a man says to himself—that look which is a groan?" Would that I were something else," so groans this look, "but there is no hope. I am what I am: how could I get away from myself? And, verily—I am sick of myself!" On such a soil of self-contempt, a veritable swamp soil, grows that weed, that poisonous growth, and all so tiny, so hidden, so ignoble, so sugary. Here teem the worms of revenge and vindictiveness; here the air reeks of things secret and unmentionable; here is ever spun the net of the most malignant conspiracy—the conspiracy of the sufferers against the sound and the victorious; here is the sight of the victorious hated. And what lying so as not to acknowledge this hate as hate! What a show of big words and attitudes, what an art of "righteous" calumniation! These abortions! what a noble eloquence gushes from their lips! What an amount of sugary, slimy, humble submission oozes in their eyes! What do they really want? At any rate to represent righteousness ness, love, wisdom, superiority, that is the ambition of these "lowest ones," these sick ones! And how clever does such an ambition make them! You cannot, in fact, but admire the counterfeiter dexterity with which the stamp of virtue, even the ring, the golden ring of virtue, is here imitated. They have taken a lease of virtue absolutely for themselves, have these weaklings and wretched invalids, there is no doubt of it; "We alone are the good, the righteous," so do they speak, "we alone are the homines bonæ voluntatis." They stalk about in our midst as living reproaches, as warnings to us—as though health, fitness, strength, pride, the sensation of power, were really vicious things in themselves, for which one would have some day to do penance, bitter penance. Oh, how they themselves are ready in their hearts to exact penance, how they thirst after being hangmen!

The more normal this sickness is in human beings, the more we should honor rare cases of mental and physical strength. And we cannot deny that this sickness is normal. These rare cases are humanity’s windfalls. The more normal sickness becomes, the more strictly we should protect the healthy from the worst air: the sickroom’s air. Is this done? The sick are the greatest danger to the healthy. Harm comes to the strong not from the strongest, but from the weakest. Is this understood? Broadly speaking, we should not wish for even a moment to reduce the fear of human beings. This fear forces the strong to be strong, and sometimes terrible. It keeps the healthy human type intact. What we should fear is not great fear of humanity, but great disgust with humanity. This disgust works with a fatal force unlike any other. Equally dangerous is great pity for humanity. Suppose these two feelings were one day to marry. Then the greatest possible monstrosity would inevitably enter the world at once: humanity’s "last will," its will to nothingness, Nihilism. And indeed, the road to this outcome is well paved. Anyone with eyes and ears, not just a nose, can sense it almost everywhere today. The air smells something like a madhouse, like a hospital. I am speaking, of course, of humanity’s cultured regions, of every kind of "Europe" that actually exists throughout the world. The sick are humanity’s great danger, not the evil, not the "beasts of prey." Those who are defective from the start, oppressed, broken, the weakest, do the most to undermine humanity’s footing in life. They inject the most dangerous poison and doubt into our trust in life, in humanity, in ourselves. Where can we escape that furtive glance, the glance that leaves us deeply saddened? Where can we escape the averted gaze of someone born damaged? That gaze reveals what such a person says inwardly. The gaze itself is a groan: "If only I were something else," it groans, "but there is no hope. I am what I am: how could I escape myself? And truly, I am sick of myself!" In this swamp of self-contempt grows that poisonous weed, so tiny, so hidden, so vile, so sugary. Here the worms of revenge and vindictiveness swarm. Here the air reeks of secrets and things that cannot be mentioned. Here the web of the most vicious conspiracy is always being spun. It is the conspiracy of the suffering against the healthy and victorious. Here the sight of the victorious is hated. And what lies they tell to avoid admitting that this hatred is hatred! What grand words and poses, what skill in "righteous" slander! These malformed creatures! What noble eloquence pours from their lips! How much sugary, slimy, humble submission oozes from their eyes! What do they really want? At the very least, they want to represent righteousness, love, wisdom, superiority. That is the ambition of these "lowest ones," these sick people! And how clever this ambition makes them! You cannot help admiring their skill as counterfeiters. They imitate virtue’s stamp, even its ring, its golden ring. These weaklings and wretched invalids have secured virtue exclusively for themselves, without a doubt. "We alone are good and righteous," they say, "we alone are the people of good will." They stalk among us as living reproaches, as warnings to us. They act as though health, fitness, strength, pride, and the feeling of power were vicious in themselves. As though we would someday have to do penance for them, bitter penance. Oh, how ready they are, in their hearts, to demand that penance! How they thirst to be executioners!

Among them is an abundance of revengeful ones disguised as judges, who ever mouth the word righteousness like a venomous spittle—with mouth, I say, always pursed, always ready to spit at everything, which does not wear a discontented look, but is of good cheer as it goes on its way. Among them, again, is that most loathsome species of the vain, the lying abortions, who make a point of representing "beautiful souls," and perchance of bringing to the market as "purity of heart" their distorted sensualism swathed in verses and other bandages; the species of "self-comforters" and masturbators of their own souls. The sick man's will to represent some form or other of superiority, his instinct for crooked paths, which lead to a tyranny over the healthy—where can it not be found, this will to power of the very weakest? The sick woman especially: no one surpasses her in refinements for ruling, oppressing, tyrannising. The sick woman, moreover, spares nothing living, nothing dead; she grubs up again the most buried things (the Bogos say, "Woman is a hyena"). Look into the background of every family, of every body, of every community: everywhere the fight of the sick against the healthy—a silent fight for the most part with minute poisoned powders, with pin-pricks, with spiteful grimaces of patience, but also at times with that diseased pharisaism of pure pantomime, which plays for choice the rôle of "righteous indignation." Right into the hallowed chambers of knowledge can it make itself heard, can this hoarse yelping of sick hounds, this rabid lying and frenzy of such "noble" Pharisees (I remind readers, who have ears, once more of that Berlin apostle of revenge, Eugen Dühring, who makes the most disreputable and revolting use in all present-day Germany of moral refuse; Dühring, the paramount moral blusterer that there is to-day, even among his own kidney, the Anti-Semites). They are all men of resentment, are these physiological distortions and worm-riddled objects, a whole quivering kingdom of burrowing revenge, indefatigable and insatiable in its outbursts against the happy, and equally so in disguises for revenge, in pretexts for revenge: when will they really reach their final, fondest, most sublime triumph of revenge? At that time, doubtless, when they succeed in pushing their own misery, in fact, all misery, into the consciousness of the happy; so that the latter begin one day to be ashamed of their happiness, and perchance say to themselves when they meet, "It is a shame to be happy! there is too much misery!" ... But there could not possibly be a greater and more fatal misunderstanding than that of the happy, the fit, the strong in body and soul, beginning in this way to doubt their right to happiness. Away with this "perverse world"! Away with this shameful soddenness of sentiment! Preventing the sick making the healthy sick—for that is what such a soddenness comes to—this ought to be our supreme object in the world—but for this it is above all essential that the healthy should remain separated from the sick, that they should even guard themselves from the look of the sick, that they should not even associate with the sick. Or may it, perchance, be their mission to be nurses or doctors? But they could not mistake and disown their mission more grossly—the higher must not degrade itself to be the tool of the lower, the pathos of distance must to all eternity keep their missions also separate. The right of the happy to existence, the right of bells with a full tone over the discordant cracked bells, is verily a thousand times greater: they alone are the sureties of the future, they alone are bound to man's future. What they can, what they must do, that can the sick never do, should never do! but if they are to be enabled to do what only they must do, how can they possibly be free to play the doctor, the comforter, the "Saviour" of the sick?... And therefore good air! good air! and away, at any rate, from the neighbourhood of all the madhouses and hospitals of civilisation! And therefore good company, our own company, or solitude, if it must be so! but away, at any rate, from the evil fumes of internal corruption and the secret worm-eaten state of the sick! that, forsooth, my friends, we may defend ourselves, at any rate for still a time, against the two worst plagues that could have been reserved for us—against the great nausea with man! against the great pity for man!

Among them are many vengeful people disguised as judges. They constantly spit out the word righteousness like venom. Their lips, I say, are always pursed, always ready to spit at anyone who goes cheerfully along without looking dissatisfied. Among them, too, is the most disgusting kind of vain person: lying monstrosities who deliberately present themselves as "beautiful souls." Perhaps they also market their twisted sensuality as "purity of heart," wrapped in poetry and other bandages. These are the "self-comforters" and masturbators of their own souls. The sick person wants to display some kind of superiority. His instinct seeks crooked paths toward tyranny over the healthy. Where can this will to power of the very weakest not be found? The sick woman especially: no one surpasses her subtle methods of ruling, oppressing, and tyrannizing. Moreover, the sick woman spares nothing living and nothing dead. She digs up even the most deeply buried things (the Bogos say, "Woman is a hyena"). Look behind the scenes of every family, every organization, every community. Everywhere, the sick fight against the healthy. For the most part, the struggle is silent, using tiny doses of poison, pinpricks, and spiteful grimaces of patience. But sometimes it uses the sick hypocrisy of pure playacting, preferably in the role of "righteous indignation." Even the sacred halls of knowledge hear this hoarse yelping of sick dogs. They hear the rabid lying and frenzy of such "noble" Pharisees. (I remind readers with ears once again of that Berlin apostle of revenge, Eugen Dühring. No one in Germany today uses moral garbage more disgracefully and disgustingly. Dühring is today's supreme moral loudmouth, even among his own kind, the Anti-Semites.) These twisted bodies, these worm-eaten creatures, are all people of resentment. They form a whole trembling kingdom of revenge that burrows underground. Their attacks on the happy are tireless and insatiable. So are their efforts to disguise revenge and find excuses for it. When will they finally achieve their last, most cherished, most glorious triumph of revenge? Surely when they succeed in forcing their own misery, indeed all misery, into the consciousness of the happy. Then the happy may one day begin to feel ashamed of their happiness. Perhaps, when they meet, they will say to themselves, "It is a shame to be happy! there is too much misery!" ... But no misunderstanding could be greater or more disastrous than this: the happy, healthy, strong in body and soul begin to doubt their right to happiness. Away with this "upside-down world"! Away with this shameful wallowing in sentiment! Our highest goal in the world should be to stop the sick from making the healthy sick. For that is what such wallowing leads to. But above all, this requires the healthy to remain separated from the sick. They should even protect themselves from the gaze of the sick and avoid their company altogether. Or could their mission perhaps be to act as nurses or doctors? But they could not more seriously misunderstand and disown their mission. The higher must not lower itself to become the tool of the lower. The felt distance between them must keep their missions separate for all eternity. The happy have a right to exist, like full-toned bells compared with cracked, discordant bells. Their right is truly a thousand times greater. They alone are the guarantors of the future. They alone are bound to humanity's future. What they can and must do, the sick can never do and should never do! But if they are to be able to do what only they must do, how can they have time for anything else? How can they act as doctors, comforters, or the "Saviour" of the sick? ... So give us fresh air! Fresh air! Above all, away from the neighborhood of all civilization's madhouses and hospitals! So give us good company, our own company, or solitude, if necessary! Above all, away from the foul fumes of inner decay and the hidden, worm-eaten condition of the sick! Then, my friends, we may at least defend ourselves a little longer against the two worst plagues awaiting us. Against the great disgust with humanity! Against the great pity for humanity!

If you have understood in all their depths—and I demand that you should grasp them profoundly and understand them profoundly—the reasons for the impossibility of its being the business of the healthy to nurse the sick, to make the sick healthy, it follows that you have grasped this further necessity—the necessity of doctors and nurses who themselves are sick. And now we have and hold with both our hands the essence of the ascetic priest. The ascetic priest must be accepted by us as the predestined saviour, herdsman, and champion of the sick herd: thereby do we first understand his awful historic mission. The lordship over sufferers is his kingdom, to that points his instinct, in that he finds his own special art, his master-skill, his kind of happiness. He must himself be sick, he must be kith and kin to the sick and the abortions so as to understand them, so as to arrive at an understanding with them; but he must also be strong, even more master of himself than of others, impregnable, forsooth, in his will for power, so as to acquire the trust and the awe of the weak, so that he can be their hold, bulwark, prop, compulsion, overseer, tyrant, god. He has to protect them, protect his herds—against whom? Against the healthy, doubtless also against the envy towards the healthy. He must be the natural adversary and scorner of every rough, stormy, reinless, hard, violently-predatory health and power. The priest is the first form of the more delicate animal that scorns more easily than it hates. He will not be spared the waging of war with the beasts of prey, a war of guile (of "spirit") rather than of force, as is self-evident—he will in certain cases find it necessary to conjure up out of himself, or at any rate to represent practically a new type of the beast of prey—a new animal monstrosity in which the polar bear, the supple, cold, crouching panther, and, not least important, the fox, are joined together in a trinity as fascinating as it is fearsome. If necessity exacts it, then will he come on the scene with bearish seriousness, venerable, wise, cold, full of treacherous superiority, as the herald and mouthpiece of mysterious powers, sometimes going among even the other kind of beasts of prey, determined as he is to sow on their soil, wherever he can, suffering, discord, self-contradiction, and only too sure of his art, always to be lord of sufferers at all times. He brings with him, doubtless, salve and balsam; but before he can play the physician he must first wound; so, while he soothes the pain which the wound makes, he at the same time poisons the wound. Well versed is he in this above all things, is this wizard and wild beast tamer, in whose vicinity everything healthy must needs become ill, and everything ill must needs become tame. He protects, in sooth, his sick herd well enough, does this strange herdsman; he protects them also against themselves, against the sparks (even in the centre of the herd) of wickedness, knavery, malice, and all the other ills that the plaguey and the sick are heir to; he fights with cunning, hardness, and stealth against anarchy and against the ever imminent break-up inside the herd, where resentment, that most dangerous blasting-stuff and explosive, ever accumulates and accumulates. Getting rid of this blasting-stuff in such a way that it does not blow up the herd and the herdsman, that is his real feat, his supreme utility; if you wish to comprise in the shortest formula the value of the priestly life, it would be correct to say the priest is the diverter of the course of resentment. Every sufferer, in fact, searches instinctively for a cause of his suffering; to put it more exactly, a doer,—to put it still more precisely, a sentient responsible doer,—in brief, something living, on which, either actually or in effigie, he can on any pretext vent his emotions. For the venting of emotions is the sufferer's greatest attempt at alleviation, that is to say, stupefaction, his mechanically desired narcotic against pain of any kind. It is in this phenomenon alone that is found, according to my judgment, the real physiological cause of resentment, revenge, and their family is to be found—that is, in a demand for the deadening of pain through emotion: this cause is generally, but in my view very erroneously, looked for in the defensive parry of a bare protective principle of reaction, of a "reflex movement" in the case of any sudden hurt and danger, after the manner that a decapitated frog still moves in order to get away from a corrosive acid. But the difference is fundamental. In one case the object is to prevent being hurt any more; in the other case the object is to deaden a racking, insidious, nearly unbearable pain by a more violent emotion of any kind whatsoever, and at any rate for the time being to drive it out of the consciousness—for this purpose an emotion is needed, as wild an emotion as possible, and to excite that emotion some excuse or other is needed. "It must be somebody's fault that I feel bad"—this kind of reasoning is peculiar to all invalids, and is but the more pronounced, the more ignorant they remain of the real cause of their feeling bad, the physiological cause (the cause may lie in a disease of the nervus sympathicus, or in an excessive secretion of bile, or in a want of sulphate and phosphate of potash in the blood, or in pressure in the bowels which stops the circulation of the blood, or in degeneration of the ovaries, and so forth). Ail sufferers have an awful resourcefulness and ingenuity in finding excuses for painful emotions; they even enjoy their jealousy, their broodings over base actions and apparent injuries, they burrow through the intestines of their past and present in their search for obscure mysteries, wherein they will be at liberty to wallow in a torturing suspicion and get drunk on the venom of their own malice—they tear open the oldest wounds, they make themselves bleed from the scars which have long been healed, they make evil-doers out of friends, wife, child, and everything which is nearest to them. "I suffer: it must be somebody's fault"—so thinks every sick sheep. But his herdsman, the ascetic priest, says to him, "Quite so, my sheep, it must be the fault of some one; but thou thyself art that some one, it is all the fault of thyself alone—it is the fault of thyself alone against thyself": that is bold enough, false enough, but one thing is at least attained; thereby, as I have said, the course of resentment is—diverted.

Suppose you have fully understood why the healthy cannot be responsible for nursing the sick or making them healthy. I demand that you grasp these reasons deeply and understand them deeply. Then you have also grasped another necessity: doctors and nurses who are themselves sick. Now we have a firm grip on the essence of the ascetic priest. We must recognize the ascetic priest as the destined savior, shepherd, and champion of the sick herd. Only then do we understand his terrible historical mission. Rule over sufferers is his kingdom. His instinct draws him toward that rule. There he finds his particular art, his greatest skill, his kind of happiness. He must be sick himself. He must be kin to the sick and the malformed, so he can understand them and reach an understanding with them. But he must also be strong, with even greater mastery over himself than over others. His will to power must indeed be unshakable, so he can win the trust and awe of the weak. Then he can be their anchor, fortress, support, constraint, overseer, tyrant, and god. He must protect them, protect his herds. Against whom? Against the healthy, certainly, and also against envy of the healthy. He must naturally oppose and scorn every rough, stormy, unrestrained, hard, violently predatory form of health and power. The priest is the earliest form of the more delicate animal that scorns more readily than it hates. He cannot escape war with the beasts of prey. Obviously, this will be a war of cunning (of "spirit") rather than force. Sometimes he will find it necessary to produce a new kind of beast of prey within himself. Or at least he must embody that new beast in practice. This new animal monstrosity combines the polar bear, the supple, cold, crouching panther, and, not least, the fox. The three form a trinity as fascinating as it is frightening. If necessity demands, he will appear with a bear's seriousness: venerable, wise, cold, and full of treacherous superiority. He will act as the herald and mouthpiece of mysterious powers. Sometimes he will even move among the other kind of beasts of prey. He is determined to sow suffering, discord, and inner conflict on their ground wherever he can. All too confident in his skill, he means always to remain the master of sufferers. He certainly brings soothing ointments and balms. But before he can play the doctor, he must first wound. So, while he soothes the pain of the wound, he also poisons the wound. Above all, this sorcerer and tamer of wild beasts is skilled at that. Near him, everything healthy must become sick, and everything sick must become tame. This strange shepherd does indeed protect his sick herd well enough. He also protects the sick against themselves. Even within the herd, sparks flare up: wickedness, deceit, malice, and all the other evils afflicting the diseased and sick. He fights with cunning, harshness, and stealth against anarchy and the herd's constantly threatened collapse. Within the herd, resentment, that most dangerous explosive, keeps building up. His real achievement, his greatest usefulness, is to remove this explosive without blowing up the herd and its shepherd. If you want the shortest formula for the value of priestly life, this would be accurate: the priest redirects resentment. Every sufferer instinctively looks for a cause of suffering. More precisely, the sufferer looks for someone who caused it. More precisely still, the sufferer looks for a feeling, responsible agent. In short, the sufferer wants something living on which to vent emotions, on any pretext, either directly or symbolically. Venting emotions is the sufferer's greatest attempt at relief, which means numbing. It is the narcotic the sufferer automatically craves against every kind of pain. In my judgment, this phenomenon alone explains the real physiological cause of resentment, revenge, and related feelings. That cause is the need to deaden pain through emotion. People generally seek the cause elsewhere, but I think they are deeply mistaken. They see resentment as a defensive response, a purely protective reaction, a "reflex movement" following sudden injury or danger. They compare it to a beheaded frog still moving to escape a corrosive acid. But the difference is fundamental. In one case, the aim is to prevent further injury. In the other, the aim is to deaden a tormenting, insidious, almost unbearable pain through any more violent emotion. At least for a time, the aim is to drive that pain out of awareness. This requires an emotion, one as wild as possible. And to stir up that emotion, some excuse is needed. "It must be somebody's fault that I feel bad." This reasoning is characteristic of all sick people. It becomes more pronounced the less they know about the real, physiological cause of their distress. The cause may be a disease of the sympathetic nervous system or excessive bile production. It may be a lack of potassium sulfate and phosphate in the blood. Or it may be pressure in the bowels that blocks blood circulation, degeneration of the ovaries, and so on. All sufferers show terrible resourcefulness and ingenuity in finding excuses for painful emotions. They even enjoy their jealousy and their brooding over vile acts and apparent injuries. They dig through the guts of their past and present, searching for obscure mysteries. Those mysteries give them room to wallow in tormenting suspicion and become drunk on the poison of their own malice. They tear open the oldest wounds and make themselves bleed from scars that healed long ago. They turn friends, wife, child, and everyone closest to them into wrongdoers. "I suffer: it must be somebody's fault." That is what every sick sheep thinks. But the sheep's shepherd, the ascetic priest, says, "Quite right, my sheep, it must be someone's fault. But you yourself are that someone. It is entirely your own fault, yours alone: you alone are to blame for what you do to yourself." That is bold enough, false enough. But at least one thing has been achieved. As I have said, resentment has been redirected.

You can see now what the remedial instinct of life has at least tried to effect, according to my conception, through the ascetic priest, and the purpose for which he had to employ a temporary tyranny of such paradoxical and anomalous ideas as "guilt," "sin," "sinfulness," "corruption," "damnation." What was done was to make the sick harmless up to a certain point, to destroy the incurable by means of themselves, to turn the milder cases severely on to themselves, to give their resentment a backward direction ("man needs but one thing"), and to exploit similarly the bad instincts of all sufferers with a view to self-discipline, self-surveillance, self-mastery. It is obvious that there can be no question at all in the case of a "medication" of this kind, a mere emotional medication, of any real healing of the sick in the physiological sense; it cannot even for a moment be asserted that in this connection the instinct of life has taken healing as its goal and purpose. On the one hand, a kind of congestion and organisation of the sick (the word "Church" is the most popular name for it): on the other, a kind of provisional safeguarding of the comparatively healthy, the more perfect specimens, the cleavage of a rift between healthy and sick—for a long time that was all! and it was much! it was very much!

You can now see what, in my view, life’s healing instinct has at least tried to achieve through the ascetic priest. You can also see why he needed the temporary tyranny of such paradoxical and abnormal ideas. These include "guilt," "sin," "sinfulness," "corruption," "damnation." The aim was to make the sick harmless up to a point, and make the incurable destroy themselves. Milder cases were made to turn harshly against themselves, directing their resentment inward ("man needs but one thing"). Similarly, the bad instincts of all sufferers were to be exploited for self-discipline, self-monitoring, and self-mastery. Clearly, such a "medication," working only on emotions, cannot involve any real healing of the sick in a physiological sense. We cannot claim, even for a moment, that life’s instinct aimed at healing here. On one side, the sick were gathered together and organized (the most common name for this is "Church"). On the other, the comparatively healthy, the more perfect specimens, were given some temporary protection. A rift was opened between the healthy and the sick. For a long time, that was all! And it was much! It was very much!

I am proceeding, as you see, in this essay, from an hypothesis which, as far as such readers as I want are concerned, does not require to be proved; the hypothesis that "sinfulness" in man is not an actual fact, but rather merely the interpretation of a fact, of a physiological discomfort,—a discomfort seen through a moral religious perspective which is no longer binding upon us. The fact, therefore, that any one feels "guilty," "sinful," is certainly not yet any proof that he is right in feeling so, any more than any one is healthy simply because he feels healthy. Remember the celebrated witch-ordeals: in those days the most acute and humane judges had no doubt but that in these cases they were confronted with guilt,—the "witches" themselves had no doubt on the point,—and yet the guilt was lacking. Let me elaborate this hypothesis: I do not for a minute accept the very "pain in the soul" as a real fact, but only as an explanation (a casual explanation) of facts that could not hitherto be precisely formulated; I regard it therefore as something as yet absolutely in the air and devoid of scientific cogency—just a nice fat word in the place of a lean note of interrogation. When any one fails to get rid of his "pain in the soul," the cause is, speaking crudely, to be found not in his "soul" but more probably in his stomach (speaking crudely, I repeat, but by no means wishing thereby that you should listen to me or understand me in a crude spirit). A strong and well-constituted man digests his experiences (deeds and misdeeds all included) just as he digests his meats, even when he has some tough morsels to swallow. If he fails to "relieve himself" of an experience, this kind of indigestion is quite as much physiological as the other indigestion—and indeed, in more ways than one, simply one of the results of the other. You can adopt such a theory, and yet entre nous be nevertheless the strongest opponent of all materialism.

As you can see, this essay starts from a hypothesis that needs no proof for the readers I want. The hypothesis is that human "sinfulness" is not a fact, but merely an interpretation of a fact: physical discomfort. This discomfort is viewed through a moral and religious perspective that no longer binds us. So feeling "guilty" or "sinful" certainly does not prove that someone is right to feel that way. Nor is anyone healthy simply because they feel healthy. Remember the famous witch trials. Even the most perceptive and humane judges of that time had no doubt that the accused were guilty. The "witches" themselves had no doubt about it, yet there was no guilt. Let me develop this hypothesis further. I do not for a moment accept even "pain in the soul" as a real fact. I accept it only as an explanation (a casual explanation) of facts that, until now, could not be precisely described. So I regard this explanation as still entirely unsupported and without scientific force. It is just a nice fat word standing in for a lean question mark. When someone cannot get rid of their "pain in the soul," the cause is probably not in their "soul." To put it crudely, the cause is more likely in their stomach. I repeat, I am speaking crudely, but I certainly do not want you to hear or understand me crudely. A strong, well-constituted man digests his experiences, including his deeds and misdeeds, just as he digests his food. He does so even when he has some tough pieces to swallow. If he cannot "relieve himself" of an experience, this indigestion is just as physiological as digestive indigestion. Indeed, in more ways than one, the first kind is simply a result of the second. You can accept such a theory and still, between ourselves, be the strongest opponent of all materialism.

But is he really a physician, this ascetic priest? We already understand why we are scarcely allowed to call him a physician, however much he likes to feel a "saviour" and let himself be worshipped as a saviour.³ It is only the actual suffering, the discomfort of the sufferer, which he combats, not its cause, not the actual state of sickness—this needs must constitute our most radical objection to priestly medication. But just once put yourself into that point of view, of which the priests have a monopoly, you will find it hard to exhaust your amazement, at what from that standpoint he has completely seen, sought, and found. The mitigation of suffering, every kind of "consoling"—all this manifests itself as his very genius: with what ingenuity has he interpreted his mission of consoler, with what aplomb and audacity has he chosen weapons necessary for the part. Christianity in particular should be dubbed a great treasure-chamber of ingenious consolations,—such a store of refreshing, soothing, deadening drugs has it accumulated within itself; so many of the most dangerous and daring expedients has it hazarded; with such subtlety, refinement, Oriental refinement, has it divined what emotional stimulants can conquer, at any rate for a time, the deep depression, the leaden fatigue, the black melancholy of physiological cripples—for, speaking generally, all religions are mainly concerned with fighting a certain fatigue and heaviness that has infected everything. You can regard it as prima facie probable that in certain places in the world there was almost bound to prevail from time to time among large masses of the population a sense of physiological depression, which, however, owing to their lack of physiological knowledge, did not appear to their consciousness as such, so that consequently its "cause" and its cure can only be sought and essayed in the science of moral psychology (this, in fact, is my most general formula for what is generally called a "religion"). Such a feeling of depression can have the most diverse origins; it may be the result of the crossing of too heterogeneous races (or of classes—genealogical and racial differences are also brought out in the classes: the European "Weltschmerz," the "Pessimism" of the nineteenth century, is really the result of an absurd and sudden class-mixture); it may be brought about by a mistaken emigration—a race falling into a climate for which its power of adaptation is insufficient (the case of the Indians in India); it may be the effect of old age and fatigue (the Parisian pessimism from 1850 onwards); it may be a wrong diet (the alcoholism of the Middle Ages, the nonsense of vegetarianism—which, however, have in their favour the authority of Sir Christopher in Shakespeare); it may be blood-deterioration, malaria, syphilis, and the like (German depression after the Thirty Years' War, which infected half Germany with evil diseases, and thereby paved the way for German servility, for German pusillanimity). In such a case there is invariably recourse to a war on a grand scale with the feeling of depression; let us inform ourselves briefly on its most important practices and phases (I leave on one side, as stands to reason, the actual philosophic war against the feeling of depression which is usually simultaneous—it is interesting enough, but too absurd, too practically negligible, too full of cobwebs, too much of a hole-and-corner affair, especially when pain is proved to be a mistake, on the naïf hypothesis that pain must needs vanish when the mistake underlying it is recognised—but behold! it does anything but vanish ...). That dominant depression is primarily fought by weapons which reduce the consciousness of life itself to the lowest degree. Wherever possible, no more wishes, no more wants; shun everything which produces emotion, which produces "blood" (eating no salt, the fakir hygiene); no love; no hate; equanimity; no revenge; no getting rich; no work; begging; as far as possible, no woman, or as little woman as possible; as far as the intellect is concerned, Pascal's principle, "il faut s'abêtir." To put the result in ethical and psychological language, "self-annihilation," "sanctification"; to put it in physiological language, "hypnotism"—the attempt to find some approximate human equivalent for what hibernation is for certain animals, for what æstivation is for many tropical plants, a minimum of assimilation and metabolism in which life just manages to subsist without really coming into the consciousness. An amazing amount of human energy has been devoted to this object—perhaps uselessly? There cannot be the slightest doubt but that such sportsmen of "saintliness," in whom at times nearly every nation has abounded, have really found a genuine relief from that which they have combated with such a rigorous training—in countless cases they really escaped by the help of their system of hypnotism away from deep physiological depression; their method is consequently counted among the most universal ethnological facts. Similarly it is improper to consider such a plan for starving the physical element and the desires, as in itself a symptom of insanity (as a clumsy species of roast-beef-eating "freethinkers" and Sir Christophers are fain to do); all the more certain is it that their method can and does pave the way to all kinds of mental disturbances, for instance, "inner lights" (as far as the case of the Hesychasts of Mount Athos), auditory and visual hallucinations, voluptuous ecstasies and effervescences of sensualism (the history of St. Theresa). The explanation of such events given by the victims is always the acme of fanatical falsehood; this is self-evident. Note well, however, the tone of implicit gratitude that rings in the very will for an explanation of such a character. The supreme state, salvation itself, that final goal of universal hypnosis and peace, is always regarded by them as the mystery of mysteries, which even the most supreme symbols are inadequate to express; it is regarded as an entry and homecoming to the essence of things, as a liberation from all illusions, as "knowledge," as "truth," as "being" as an escape from every end, every wish, every action, as something even beyond Good and Evil.

But is this ascetic priest really a physician? We already understand why we can hardly call him a physician. He may like to feel like a "saviour" and let himself be worshipped as a saviour.³ But he fights only the suffering itself, the sufferer's discomfort, not its cause, not the actual illness. This must be our most fundamental objection to priestly treatment. But place yourself, just once, in the viewpoint that priests alone possess. You will find no end to your amazement at everything the priest has understood, sought, and found from that viewpoint. The relief of suffering, every kind of "consoling", reveals his particular genius. How cleverly he has interpreted his mission as consoler! With what confidence and daring he has chosen the weapons his role requires! Christianity, in particular, deserves to be called a great treasure house of ingenious consolations. It has amassed such a store of refreshing, soothing, numbing drugs. It has ventured so many of the most dangerous and daring remedies. With such subtlety and refinement, Oriental refinement, it has discovered which emotional stimulants can overcome profound depression. At least for a time, these stimulants conquer the leaden fatigue and black melancholy of the physiologically damaged. For, generally speaking, all religions mainly fight a certain fatigue and heaviness that has infected everything. At first glance, you can consider the following likely. In certain places, at certain times, large sections of the population were almost bound to experience a sense of physiological depression. But because people lacked physiological knowledge, they did not recognize the feeling as physiological. Consequently, they could seek its "cause" and attempt its cure only through moral psychology. This, in fact, is my broadest formula for what is generally called a "religion". Such a feeling of depression can have very different origins. It may result from mixing races that differ too greatly (or classes, since classes also reveal differences of ancestry and race). The European "Weltschmerz", the nineteenth century's "Pessimism", really results from an absurd and sudden mixing of classes. Depression may arise from misguided migration, when a race enters a climate beyond its ability to adapt. This is the case of the Indians in India. It may result from old age and exhaustion, as with Parisian pessimism from 1850 onward. It may result from a bad diet, such as medieval alcoholism or the nonsense of vegetarianism. Both, however, have the authority of Shakespeare's Sir Christopher on their side. It may result from deterioration of the blood, malaria, syphilis, and similar conditions. Consider German depression after the Thirty Years' War. The war infected half Germany with terrible diseases, preparing the way for German servility and cowardice. In such cases, people invariably turn to a large-scale war against the feeling of depression. Let us briefly examine this war's most important methods and stages. Naturally, I leave aside the actual philosophical war against depression, which usually takes place at the same time. It is interesting enough, but too absurd, too insignificant in practice, too cobwebbed, too confined to obscure corners. This is especially true when philosophers prove that pain is a mistake. They make the naive assumption that pain must vanish once the underlying mistake is recognized. But look! The pain does anything but vanish ... The prevailing depression is first fought with weapons that reduce awareness of life itself to the lowest possible level. Wherever possible, no more wishes, no more wants. Avoid everything that stirs emotion or excites the "blood" (no salt, the fakir's health regimen). No love, no hate, an even temper, no revenge, no getting rich, no work, begging. As far as possible, no woman, or as little woman as possible. In intellectual matters, follow Pascal's principle, "il faut s'abêtir." One must make oneself stupid. In ethical and psychological terms, the result is "self-annihilation", "sanctification". In physiological terms, it is "hypnotism". The aim is to find a rough human equivalent of hibernation in certain animals or summer dormancy in many tropical plants. Nutrient absorption and metabolism fall to a minimum. Life barely sustains itself, without really entering awareness. An astonishing amount of human energy has gone toward this goal. Perhaps uselessly? There cannot be the slightest doubt that such athletes of "saintliness" have found genuine relief. At times, nearly every nation has been full of them. Their rigorous training really relieved the condition they were fighting. In countless cases, their system of hypnotism really helped them escape from profound physiological depression. Their method therefore ranks among the most universal facts found across human cultures. Nor is it right to regard this starvation of the body and its desires as inherently a symptom of insanity. A clumsy breed of roast-beef-eating "freethinkers" and Sir Christophers likes to do so. Yet their method can and does prepare the way for all kinds of mental disturbances. That is all the more certain. These include "inner lights", even in the case of the Hesychasts of Mount Athos, and auditory and visual hallucinations. They also include sensual ecstasies and surges of sexual feeling (the history of St. Theresa). The explanation the sufferers give for these experiences is always the height of fanatical falsehood. That is self-evident. Yet notice the underlying gratitude expressed in their very desire for such an explanation. They always regard the supreme state, salvation itself, as the mystery of mysteries. This is the final goal of universal hypnosis and peace, beyond the power of even the highest symbols to express. They regard it as entering and returning home to the essence of things, as liberation from all illusions. They see it as "knowledge", as "truth", as "being", as escape from every goal, every wish, every action. They see it as something even beyond Good and Evil.

"Good and Evil," quoth the Buddhists, "both are fetters. The perfect man is master of them both."

"Good and Evil," the Buddhists say, "both are chains. The perfect man has mastery over both."

"The done and the undone," quoth the disciple of the Vedânta, "do him no hurt; the good and the evil he shakes from off him, sage that he is; his kingdom suffers no more from any act; good and evil, he goes beyond them both."—An absolutely Indian conception, as much Brahmanist as Buddhist. Neither in the Indian nor in the Christian doctrine is this "Redemption" regarded as attainable by means of virtue and moral improvement, however high they may place the value of the hypnotic efficiency of virtue: keep clear on this point—indeed it simply corresponds with the facts. The fact that they remained true on this point is perhaps to be regarded as the best specimen of realism in the three great religions, absolutely soaked as they are with morality, with this one exception. "For those who know, there is no duty." "Redemption is not attained by the acquisition of virtues; for redemption consists in being one with Brahman, who is incapable of acquiring any perfection; and equally little does it consist in the giving up of faults, for the Brahman, unity with whom is what constitutes redemption, is eternally pure" (these passages are from the Commentaries of the Cankara, quoted from the first real European expert of the Indian philosophy, my friend Paul Deussen). We wish, therefore, to pay honour to the idea of "redemption" in the great religions, but it is somewhat hard to remain serious in view of the appreciation meted out to the deep sleep by these exhausted pessimists who are too tired even to dream—to the deep sleep considered, that is, as already a fusing into Brahman, as the attainment of the unio mystica with God. "When he has completely gone to sleep," says on this point the oldest and most venerable "script," "and come to perfect rest, so that he sees no more any vision, then, oh dear one, is he united with Being, he has entered into his own self—encircled by the Self with its absolute knowledge, he has no more any consciousness of that which is without or of that which is within. Day and night cross not these bridges, nor age, nor death, nor suffering, nor good deeds, nor evil deeds." "In deep sleep," say similarly the believers in this deepest of the three great religions, "does the soul lift itself from out this body of ours, enters the supreme light and stands out therein in its true shape: therein is it the supreme spirit itself, which travels about, while it jests and plays and enjoys itself, whether with women, or chariots, or friends; there do its thoughts turn no more back to this appanage of a body, to which the 'prana' (the vital breath) is harnessed like a beast of burden to the cart." None the less we will take care to realise (as we did when discussing "redemption") that in spite of all its pomps of Oriental extravagance this simply expresses the same criticism on life as did the clear, cold, Greekly cold, but yet suffering Epicurus. The hypnotic sensation of nothingness, the peace of deepest sleep, anæsthesia in short––that is what passes with the sufferers and the absolutely depressed for, forsooth, their supreme good, their value of values; that is what must be treasured by them as something positive, be felt by them as the essence of the Positive (according to the same logic of the feelings, nothingness is in all pessimistic religions called God).

"What he has done and left undone," says the disciple of the Vedânta, "does him no harm. Being wise, he shakes off good and evil. No act disturbs his kingdom anymore. He goes beyond both good and evil." This is a wholly Indian idea, as much Brahmanist as Buddhist. Neither Indian nor Christian teaching considers this "Redemption" attainable through virtue and moral improvement. This remains true however highly they value virtue’s power to induce a hypnotic state. Be clear on this point. It simply agrees with the facts. Perhaps their remaining true on this point is the finest example of realism in the three great religions. Apart from this one exception, all three are utterly soaked in morality. "For those who know, there is no duty." "Redemption is not attained by acquiring virtues. For redemption means being one with Brahman, who cannot acquire any further perfection. Nor does redemption consist in giving up faults. For Brahman, union with whom constitutes redemption, is eternally pure." (These passages come from the Commentaries of the Cankara. I quote them from my friend Paul Deussen, the first genuine European expert on Indian philosophy.) We therefore wish to honor the idea of "redemption" in the great religions. But remaining serious is rather difficult when we consider how these exhausted pessimists value deep sleep. They are too tired even to dream. They see deep sleep as already a merging with Brahman, as achieving unio mystica, mystical union with God. "When he has fallen completely asleep," says the oldest and most revered "scripture" on this subject, "he reaches perfect rest. He no longer sees any vision. Then, dear one, he is united with Being and has entered his own self. Enclosed by the Self with its absolute knowledge, he is no longer conscious of anything outside or within. Neither day nor night crosses these bridges, nor age, nor death, nor suffering, nor good deeds, nor evil deeds." Similarly, believers in this deepest of the three great religions say: "In deep sleep, the soul rises from this body of ours. It enters the supreme light and appears there in its true form. There it is the supreme spirit itself. It wanders about, joking, playing, and enjoying itself, whether with women, chariots, or friends. There its thoughts no longer return to this bodily appendage. To this body, the 'prana' (the vital breath) is harnessed like a beast of burden to a cart." Nevertheless, we must recognize something here, just as we did when discussing "redemption". Despite all its grand displays of Oriental extravagance, this teaching simply expresses the same criticism of life as Epicurus did. Epicurus was clear and cold, cold in the Greek manner, yet he too suffered. The hypnotic feeling of nothingness, the peace of the deepest sleep, anesthesia, in short: these are what sufferers value. To sufferers and the utterly depressed, these pass, indeed, for their highest good, their supreme value. They must prize this state as something positive and feel it to be the essence of the Positive. (By the same logic of feeling, all pessimistic religions call nothingness God.)

Such a hypnotic deadening of sensibility and susceptibility to pain, which presupposes somewhat rare powers, especially courage, contempt of opinion, intellectual stoicism, is less frequent than another and certainly easier training which is tried against states of depression. I mean mechanical activity. It is indisputable that a suffering existence can be thereby considerably alleviated. This fact is called to-day by the somewhat ignoble title of the "Blessing of work." The alleviation consists in the attention of the sufferer being absolutely diverted from suffering, in the incessant monopoly of the consciousness by action, so that consequently there is little room left for suffering––for narrow is it, this chamber of human consciousness! Mechanical activity and its corollaries, such as absolute regularity, punctilious unreasoning obedience, the chronic routine of life, the complete occupation of time, a certain liberty to be impersonal, nay, a training in "impersonality," self-forgetfulness, "incuria sui"––with what thoroughness and expert subtlety have all these methods been exploited by the ascetic priest in his war with pain!

Such hypnotic numbing of sensitivity and susceptibility to pain requires somewhat rare strengths, especially courage, disregard for others’ opinions, and intellectual stoicism. It is less common than another, certainly easier training used against depression. I mean mechanical activity. There is no doubt that mechanical activity can considerably ease a life of suffering. Today, this relief goes by the somewhat undignified name of the "Blessing of work." The relief comes from turning the sufferer’s attention entirely away from suffering. Action constantly takes up all of consciousness, so that little room remains for suffering. For narrow indeed is this chamber of human consciousness! Mechanical activity brings with it absolute regularity, meticulous and unquestioning obedience, an unchanging daily routine, and the complete filling of time. It also allows a certain freedom to be impersonal, indeed, a training in "impersonality," self-forgetfulness, "incuria sui" (neglect of oneself). How thoroughly and with what expert subtlety the ascetic priest has exploited all these methods in his war against pain!

When he has to tackle sufferers of the lower orders, slaves, or prisoners (or women, who for the most part are a compound of labour-slave and prisoner), all he has to do is to juggle a little with the names, and to rechristen, so as to make them see henceforth a benefit, a comparative happiness, in objects which they hated—the slave's discontent with his lot was at any rate not invented by the priests. An even more popular means of fighting depression is the ordaining of a little joy, which is easily accessible and can be made into a rule; this medication is frequently used in conjunction with the former ones. The most frequent form in which joy is prescribed as a cure is the joy in producing joy (such as doing good, giving presents, alleviating, helping, exhorting, comforting, praising, treating with distinction); together with the prescription of "love your neighbour." The ascetic priest prescribes, though in the most cautious doses, what is practically a stimulation of the strongest and most life-assertive impulse—the Will for Power. The happiness involved in the "smallest superiority" which is the concomitant of all benefiting, helping, extolling, making one's self useful, is the most ample consolation, of which, if they are well-advised, physiological distortions avail themselves: in other cases they hurt each other, and naturally in obedience to the same radical instinct. An investigation of the origin of Christianity in the Roman world shows that co-operative unions for poverty, sickness, and burial sprang up in the lowest stratum of contemporary society, amid which the chief antidote against depression, the little joy experienced in mutual benefits, was deliberately fostered. Perchance this was then a novelty, a real discovery? This conjuring up of the will for co-operation, for family organisation, for communal life, for "Cœnacula" necessarily brought the Will for Power, which had been already infinitesimally stimulated, to a new and much fuller manifestation. The herd organisation is a genuine advance and triumph in the fight with depression. With the growth of the community there matures even to individuals a new interest, which often enough takes him out of the more personal element in his discontent, his aversion to himself, the "despectus sui" of Geulincx. All sick and diseased people strive instinctively after a herd-organisation, out of a desire to shake off their sense of oppressive discomfort and weakness; the ascetic priest divines this instinct and promotes it; wherever a herd exists it is the instinct of weakness which has wished for the herd, and the cleverness of the priests which has organised it, for, mark this: by an equally natural necessity the strong strive as much for isolation as the weak for union: when the former bind themselves it is only with a view to an aggressive joint action and joint satisfaction of their Will for Power, much against the wishes of their individual consciences; the latter, on the contrary, range themselves together with positive delight in such a muster—their instincts are as much gratified thereby as the instincts of the "born master" (that is, the solitary beast-of-prey species of man) are disturbed and wounded to the quick by organisation. There is always lurking beneath every oligarchy—such is the universal lesson of history—the desire for tyranny. Every oligarchy is continually quivering with the tension of the effort required by each individual to keep mastering this desire. (Such, e.g., was the Greek; Plato shows it in a hundred places, Plato, who knew his contemporaries—and himself.)

When he deals with sufferers from the lower classes, slaves, or prisoners, he only needs to play with names. The same applies to women, who are mostly a combination of labor-slave and prisoner. He gives new names to things they hated, so they now see those things as benefits, as relative happiness. At any rate, the priests did not invent the slave’s discontent with his lot. An even more popular way to fight depression is to prescribe a little joy. This joy must be easy to obtain and possible to make into a regular practice. This treatment is often combined with the earlier ones. The most common joy prescribed as a cure is the joy of giving joy. Examples include doing good, giving presents, easing suffering, helping, encouraging, comforting, praising, and treating someone with special respect. Alongside these comes the command to "love your neighbour." The ascetic priest thus prescribes a stimulant for the strongest, most life-affirming drive: the Will for Power. But he administers it in the most cautious doses. Doing good, helping, praising, and making oneself useful all bring the happiness of the "smallest superiority." For people with physiological disorders, this happiness offers the greatest consolation, if they are wise enough to use it. Otherwise, they hurt one another, naturally obeying the same fundamental instinct. An investigation into Christianity’s origins in the Roman world reveals mutual aid associations among society’s lowest ranks. These associations provided support in poverty and sickness, and arranged burials. They deliberately cultivated the chief antidote to depression: the little joy people experience in helping one another. Perhaps this was something new then, a real discovery? This awakening of the will to cooperate, to organize families, to live communally, to form "Cœnacula" (communal meeting places), had consequences. The Will for Power, already stimulated to a tiny degree, necessarily found a new and much fuller expression. Organizing into a herd is a genuine advance and triumph in the fight against depression. As the community grows, a new interest develops even in the individual. Often, this interest draws him away from his more personal discontent and self-loathing, the "despectus sui" of Geulincx. All sick and diseased people instinctively seek to organize into herds. They want to shake off their oppressive sense of distress and weakness. The ascetic priest senses this instinct and encourages it. Wherever a herd exists, the instinct of weakness has wanted it, and the cleverness of priests has organized it. For note this: by an equally natural necessity, the strong seek isolation as much as the weak seek union. When the strong join together, they do so only for joint aggression and the shared satisfaction of their Will for Power. This goes sharply against their individual consciences. The weak, by contrast, come together with positive delight in such a gathering. Gathering satisfies their instincts just as organization disturbs and deeply wounds the instincts of the "born master." This master is the solitary, beast-of-prey type of human being. The desire for tyranny always lurks beneath every oligarchy. This is history’s universal lesson. Every oligarchy constantly trembles with the strain of each individual’s effort to keep that desire under control. (The Greek oligarchy, for example, was like this. Plato shows it in a hundred places. Plato knew his contemporaries, and himself.)

The methods employed by the ascetic priest, which we have already learnt to know—stifling of all vitality, mechanical energy, the little joy, and especially the method of "love your neighbour" herd-organisation, the awaking of the communal consciousness of power, to such a pitch that the individual's disgust with himself becomes eclipsed by his delight in the thriving of the community—these are, according to modern standards, the "innocent" methods employed in the fight with depression; let us turn now to the more interesting topic of the "guilty" methods. The guilty methods spell one thing: to produce emotional excess—which is used as the most efficacious anæsthetic against their depressing state of protracted pain; this is why priestly ingenuity has proved quite inexhaustible in thinking out this one question: "By what means can you produce an emotional excess?" This sounds harsh: it is manifest that it would sound nicer and would grate on one's ears less, if I were to say, forsooth: "The ascetic priest made use at all times of the enthusiasm contained in all strong emotions." But what is the good of still soothing the delicate ears of our modern effeminates? What is the good on our side of budging one single inch before their verbal Pecksniffianism. For us psychologists to do that would be at once practical Pecksniffianism, apart from the fact of its nauseating us. The good taste (others might say, the righteousness) of a psychologist nowadays consists, if at all, in combating the shamefully moralised language with which all modern judgments on men and things are smeared. For, do not deceive yourself: what constitutes the chief characteristic of modern souls and of modern books is not the lying, but the innocence which is part and parcel of their intellectual dishonesty. The inevitable running up against this "innocence" everywhere constitutes the most distasteful feature of the somewhat dangerous business which a modern psychologist has to undertake: it is a part of our great danger—it is a road which perhaps leads us straight to the great nausea—I know quite well the purpose which all modern books will and can serve (granted that they last, which I am not afraid of, and granted equally that there is to be at some future day a generation with a more rigid, more severe, and healthier taste)—the function which all modernity generally will serve with posterity: that of an emetic,—and this by reason of its moral sugariness and falsity, its ingrained feminism, which it is pleased to call "Idealism," and at any rate believes to be idealism. Our cultured men of to-day, our "good" men, do not lie—that is true; but it does not redound to their honour! The real lie, the genuine, determined, "honest" lie (on whose value you can listen to Plato) would prove too tough and strong an article for them by a long way; it would be asking them to do what people have been forbidden to ask them to do, to open their eyes to their own selves, and to learn to distinguish between "true" and "false" in their own selves. The dishonest lie alone suits them: everything which feels a good man is perfectly incapable of any other attitude to anything than that of a dishonourable liar, an absolute liar, but none the less an innocent liar, a blue-eyed liar, a virtuous liar. These "good men," they are all now tainted with morality through and through, and as far as honour is concerned they are disgraced and corrupted for all eternity. Which of them could stand a further truth "about man"? or, put more tangibly, which of them could put up with a true biography? One or two instances: Lord Byron composed a most personal autobiography, but Thomas Moore was "too good" for it; he burnt his friend's papers. Dr. Gwinner, Schopenhauer's executor, is said to have done the same; for Schopenhauer as well wrote much about himself, and perhaps also against himself: (εἰς ἑαντόν). The virtuous American Thayer, Beethoven's biographer, suddenly stopped his work: he had come to a certain point in that honourable and simple life, and could stand it no longer. Moral: What sensible man nowadays writes one honest word about himself? He must already belong to the Order of Holy Foolhardiness. We are promised an autobiography of Richard Wagner; who doubts but that it would be a clever autobiography? Think, forsooth, of the grotesque horror which the Catholic priest Janssen aroused in Germany with his inconceivably square and harmless pictures of the German Reformation; what wouldn't people do if some real psychologist were to tell us about a genuine Luther, tell us, not with the moralist simplicity of a country priest or the sweet and cautious modesty of a Protestant historian, but say with the fearlessness of a Taine, that springs from force of character and not from a prudent toleration of force. (The Germans, by the bye, have already produced the classic specimen of this toleration—they may well be allowed to reckon him as one of their own, in Leopold Ranke, that born classical advocate of every causa fortior, that cleverest of all the clever opportunists.)

We have already seen the methods used by the ascetic priest: suppressing all vitality, mechanical activity, and small pleasures. Above all, we have seen his method of "love your neighbour" herd-organisation. This awakens the community's sense of power until delight in its flourishing overshadows the individual's disgust with himself. By modern standards, these are the "innocent" methods of fighting depression. Let us now turn to the more interesting subject of the "guilty" methods. The guilty methods mean one thing: producing emotional excess. This excess serves as the most effective anaesthetic against the sufferers' depressing state of prolonged pain. That is why priestly ingenuity has been so inexhaustible in answering this single question: "By what means can you produce emotional excess?" That sounds harsh. Clearly, the following would sound nicer and offend the ear less: "The ascetic priest has always drawn on the enthusiasm within all strong emotions." But why should we keep soothing the delicate ears of our modern weaklings? Why should we yield a single inch to their sanctimonious hypocrisy about words? For us psychologists, yielding would immediately become sanctimonious hypocrisy in practice, quite apart from making us sick. A psychologist's good taste today, if it exists at all, consists in fighting shamelessly moralistic language. Others might call this righteousness. Such language is smeared over every modern judgment about people and things. For make no mistake: the defining feature of modern souls and modern books is not lying. It is the innocence inseparable from their intellectual dishonesty. Encountering this "innocence" everywhere is the most distasteful part of the somewhat dangerous work a modern psychologist must undertake. It forms part of our great danger. It is a path that perhaps leads us straight to the great nausea. I know very well what purpose all modern books will and can serve, provided they survive. I am not afraid that they will. This also assumes that a future generation will have stricter, more demanding, and healthier taste. I know the function that modernity as a whole will serve for future generations: something to make them vomit. The reasons are its sugary morality and falseness, and its ingrained femininity. It likes to call this femininity "Idealism", and at any rate believes it to be idealism. Our educated men today, our "good" men, do not lie. That is true, but it does not reflect well on them! A real lie, a genuine, deliberate, "honest" lie, would be far too tough and strong for them. You can consult Plato on the value of such a lie. Such lying would demand something we have been forbidden to ask of these men: that they open their eyes to themselves. They would have to learn to distinguish between "true" and "false" within themselves. Only the dishonest lie suits them. Anyone who feels himself a good man is utterly incapable of approaching anything except as a dishonourable liar. He is a complete liar, yet an innocent liar, a wide-eyed liar, a virtuous liar. These "good men" are now all tainted with morality through and through. As far as honour goes, they are disgraced and corrupted for all eternity. Which of them could bear another truth "about man"? Or, more concretely, which of them could tolerate a truthful biography? Take one or two examples. Lord Byron wrote a deeply personal autobiography, but Thomas Moore was "too good" for it. He burned his friend's papers. Dr. Gwinner, Schopenhauer's executor, is said to have done the same. For Schopenhauer also wrote much about himself, and perhaps against himself too (εἰς ἑαντόν). The virtuous American Thayer, Beethoven's biographer, suddenly stopped working. He had reached a certain point in that honourable, simple life and could bear no more. The moral: what sensible man today writes one honest word about himself? He must already belong to the Order of Holy Foolhardiness. We are promised an autobiography of Richard Wagner. Who doubts that it would be a clever autobiography? Just think of the absurd horror the Catholic priest Janssen stirred up in Germany. His accounts of the German Reformation were unimaginably conventional and harmless. What wouldn't people do if a real psychologist told us about a genuine Luther? Imagine an account without a country priest's moralistic simplicity or a Protestant historian's sweet, cautious modesty. Imagine instead the fearlessness of a Taine, born of strength of character rather than cautious accommodation to power. (Incidentally, the Germans have already produced the classic example of this accommodation in Leopold Ranke. They may certainly be allowed to count him as one of their own. He was the born, classic defender of every stronger cause, the cleverest of all clever opportunists.)

But you will soon understand me.—Putting it shortly, there is reason enough, is there not, for us psychologists nowadays never getting from a certain mistrust of out own selves? Probably even we ourselves are still "too good" for our work, probably, whatever contempt we feel for this popular craze for morality, we ourselves are perhaps none the less its victims, prey, and slaves; probably it infects even us. Of what was that diplomat warning us, when he said to his colleagues: "Let us especially mistrust our first impulses, gentlemen! they are almost always good"? So should nowadays every psychologist talk to his colleagues. And thus we get back to our problem, which in point of fact does require from us a certain severity, a certain mistrust especially against "first impulses." The ascetic ideal in the service of projected emotional excess:—he who remembers the previous essay will already partially anticipate the essential meaning compressed into these above ten words. The thorough unswitching of the human soul, the plunging of it into terror, frost, ardour, rapture, so as to free it, as through some lightning shock, from all the smallness and pettiness of unhappiness, depression, and discomfort: what ways lead to this goal? And which of these ways does so most safely?... At bottom all great emotions have this power, provided that they find a sudden outlet—emotions such as rage, fear, lust, revenge, hope, triumph, despair, cruelty; and, in sooth, the ascetic priest has had no scruples in taking into his service the whole pack of hounds that rage in the human kennel, unleashing now these and now those, with the same constant object of waking man out of his protracted melancholy, of chasing away, at any rate for a time, his dull pain, his shrinking misery, but always under the sanction of a religious interpretation and justification. This emotional excess has subsequently to be paid for, this is self-evident—it makes the ill more ill—and therefore this kind of remedy for pain is according to modern standards a "guilty" kind.

But you will soon understand me. In short, we psychologists today have good reason to keep mistrusting our own selves, don’t we? Probably even we are still "too good" for our work. Whatever contempt we feel for this popular obsession with morality, perhaps we remain its victims, prey, and slaves. Probably it infects even us. What was that diplomat warning against when he told his colleagues: "Above all, gentlemen, let us mistrust our first impulses! they are almost always good"? Every psychologist today should speak to his colleagues this way. And so we return to our problem. This problem really does demand a certain severity from us, a certain mistrust, especially of "first impulses." The ascetic ideal in the service of deliberately induced emotional excess: anyone who remembers the previous essay will already partly anticipate the meaning packed into these words. The aim is to throw the human soul completely off balance, plunging it into terror, icy cold, burning passion, and rapture. This is meant to free the soul, as if through a lightning strike, from all its petty unhappiness, depression, and discomfort. What paths lead to this goal? And which path reaches it most safely?... At bottom, all powerful emotions can do this, provided they find a sudden outlet. These include rage, fear, lust, revenge, hope, triumph, despair, and cruelty. Indeed, the ascetic priest has had no scruples about putting this whole pack of hounds raging in the human kennel to work. He unleashes some hounds at one moment, others at another, always with the same purpose: to wake people from prolonged melancholy. He aims to drive away, at least temporarily, their dull pain and cowering misery. But he always does so with the approval of a religious interpretation and justification. This emotional excess must later be paid for. That is obvious: it makes the sick even sicker. By modern standards, therefore, this kind of remedy for pain is a "guilty" one.

The dictates of fairness, however, require that we should all the more emphasise the fact that this remedy is applied with a good conscience, that the ascetic priest has prescribed it in the most implicit belief in its utility and indispensability;—often enough almost collapsing in the presence of the pain which he created;—that we should similarly emphasise the fact that the violent physiological revenges of such excesses, even perhaps the mental disturbances, are not absolutely inconsistent with the general tenor of this kind of remedy; this remedy, which, as we have shown previously, is not for the purpose of healing diseases, but of fighting the unhappiness of that depression, the alleviation and deadening of which was its object. The object was consequently achieved. The keynote by which the ascetic priest was enabled to get every kind of agonising and ecstatic music to play on the fibres of the human soul—was, as every one knows, the exploitation of the feeling of "guilt." I have already indicated in the previous essay the origin of this feeling—as a piece of animal psychology and nothing else: we were thus confronted with the feeling of "guilt," in its crude state, as it were. It was first in the hands of the priest, real artist that he was in the feeling of guilt, that it took shape—oh, what a shape! "Sin"—for that is the name of the new priestly version of the animal "bad-conscience" (the inverted cruelty)—has up to the present been the greatest event in the history of the diseased soul: in "sin" we find the most perilous and fatal masterpiece of religious interpretation. Imagine man, suffering from himself, some way or other but at any rate physiologically, perhaps like an animal shut up in a cage, not clear as to the why and the wherefore! imagine him in his desire for reasons—reasons bring relief—in his desire again for remedies, narcotics at last, consulting one, who knows even the occult—and see, lo and behold, he gets a hint from his wizard, the ascetic priest, his first hint on the "cause" of his trouble: he must search for it in himself, in his guiltiness, in a piece of the past, he must understand his very suffering as a state of punishment. He has heard, he has understood, has the unfortunate: he is now in the plight of a hen round which a line has been drawn. He never gets out of the circle of lines. The sick man has been turned into "the sinner"—and now for a few thousand years we never get away from the sight of this new invalid, of "a sinner"—shall we ever get away from it?—wherever we just look, everywhere the hypnotic gaze of the sinner always moving in one direction (in the direction of guilt, the only cause of suffering); everywhere the evil conscience, this "greuliche thier,"⁴ to use Luther's language; everywhere rumination over the past, a distorted view of action, the gaze of the "green-eyed monster" turned on all action; everywhere the wilful misunderstanding of suffering, its transvaluation into feelings of guilt, fear of retribution; everywhere the scourge, the hairy shirt, the starving body, contrition; everywhere the sinner breaking himself on the ghastly wheel of a restless and morbidly eager conscience; everywhere mute pain, extreme fear, the agony of a tortured heart, the spasms of an unknown happiness, the shriek for "redemption." In point of fact, thanks to this system of procedure, the old depression, dullness, and fatigue were absolutely conquered, life itself became very interesting again, awake, eternally awake, sleepless, glowing, burnt away, exhausted and yet not tired—such was the figure cut by man, "the sinner," who was initiated into these mysteries. This grand old wizard of an ascetic priest fighting with depression—he had clearly triumphed, his kingdom had come: men no longer grumbled at pain, men panted after pain: "More pain! More pain!" So for centuries on end shrieked the demand of his acolytes and initiates. Every emotional excess which hurt; everything which broke, overthrew, crushed, transported, ravished; the mystery of torture-chambers, the ingenuity of hell itself—all this was now discovered, divined, exploited, all this was at the service of the wizard, all this served to promote the triumph of his ideal, the ascetic ideal. "My kingdom is not of this world," quoth he, both at the beginning and at the end: had he still the right to talk like that?—Goethe has maintained that there are only thirty-six tragic situations: we would infer from that, did we not know otherwise, that Goethe was no ascetic priest. He—knows more.

Fairness, however, requires us to stress all the more that this remedy is applied with a good conscience. The ascetic priest prescribed it with complete faith in its usefulness and necessity. Often enough, he almost collapsed before the pain he had created. We must also stress another point. The violent physical backlash from such excesses, perhaps even the mental disturbances, does not entirely contradict the remedy’s general approach. As we have already shown, this remedy is not meant to heal diseases. It is meant to fight the misery of depression by easing and numbing that misery. So its purpose was achieved. The ascetic priest could make the human soul’s strings play every kind of agonizing and ecstatic music. Everyone knows his keynote: exploiting the feeling of "guilt." In the previous essay, I explained where this feeling came from: animal psychology and nothing more. There we encountered the feeling of "guilt" in its raw state, so to speak. Only in the priest’s hands did it take shape. He was a true artist in guilt. And oh, what a shape! "Sin" is the name of this new priestly version of the animal "bad-conscience" (cruelty turned inward). Until now, "sin" has been the greatest event in the history of the diseased soul. In "sin" we find religious interpretation’s most dangerous and deadly masterpiece. Imagine a person suffering from himself, somehow or other, but in any case physically. Perhaps he is like an animal locked in a cage, with no clear idea why he suffers. Imagine him longing for explanations, because explanations bring relief. He also longs for remedies, and finally for narcotics. He consults someone who knows even the secrets of the occult. And look, his magician, the ascetic priest, gives him his first hint about the "cause" of his trouble. He must look within himself, in his guilt, in some part of his past. He must understand his suffering itself as a state of punishment. The unfortunate man has heard and understood. Now he is like a hen with a line drawn around it. He never escapes that circle. The sick man has been turned into "the sinner." And for a few thousand years now, we have never escaped the sight of this new invalid, "a sinner." Will we ever escape it? Wherever we look, we find the sinner’s hypnotic gaze fixed in one direction. It points toward guilt, the only cause of suffering. Everywhere we find the bad conscience, this "greuliche thier,"⁴ to use Luther’s words. Everywhere people brood over the past and see actions through a distorted lens. The gaze of the "green-eyed monster" turns on every action. Everywhere suffering is deliberately misunderstood, reinterpreted as feelings of guilt and fear of punishment. Everywhere there are whips, hair shirts, starving bodies, and remorse. Everywhere the sinner breaks himself on the ghastly wheel of a restless, morbidly zealous conscience. Everywhere there is silent pain, extreme fear, the agony of a tortured heart, and spasms of an unknown happiness. Everywhere there is the scream for "redemption." In fact, this procedure completely conquered the old depression, dullness, and fatigue. Life itself became very interesting again. Awake, forever awake, sleepless, glowing, burned out, exhausted yet not tired: such was man, "the sinner," initiated into these mysteries. This great old magician, the ascetic priest, had clearly triumphed in his fight against depression. His kingdom had come. People no longer complained about pain. They craved pain: "More pain! More pain!" For centuries on end, his followers and initiates screamed this demand. Every emotional excess that hurt was now discovered, sensed, and exploited. So was everything that broke, overthrew, crushed, carried people away, or swept them into ecstasy. So were the secrets of torture chambers and the ingenuity of hell itself. All of it served the magician. All of it helped his ideal triumph, the ascetic ideal. "My kingdom is not of this world," he said, both at the beginning and at the end. Did he still have the right to speak that way? Goethe claimed that there are only thirty-six tragic situations. If we did not know otherwise, we would conclude from this that Goethe was no ascetic priest. The priest knows more.

So far as all this kind of priestly medicine-mongering, the "guilty" kind, is concerned, every word of criticism is superfluous. As for the suggestion that emotional excess of the type, which in these cases the ascetic priest is fain to order to his sick patients (under the most sacred euphemism, as is obvious, and equally impregnated with the sanctity of his purpose), has ever really been of use to any sick man, who, forsooth, would feel inclined to maintain a proposition of that character? At any rate, some understanding should be come to as to the expression "be of use." If you only wish to express that such a system of treatment has reformed man, I do not gainsay it: I merely add that "reformed" conveys to my mind as much as "tamed," "weakened," "discouraged," "refined," "daintified," "emasculated" (and thus it means almost as much as injured). But when you have to deal principally with sick, depressed, and oppressed creatures, such a system, even granted that it makes the ill "better," under any circumstances also makes them more ill: ask the mad-doctors the invariable result of a methodical application of penance-torture, contrition, and salvation ecstasies. Similarly ask history. In every body politic where the ascetic priest has established this treatment of the sick, disease has on every occasion spread with sinister speed throughout its length and breadth. What was always the "result"? A shattered nervous system, in addition to the existing malady, and this in the greatest as in the smallest, in the individuals as in masses. We find, in consequence of the penance and redemption-training, awful epileptic epidemics, the greatest known to history, such as the St. Vitus and St. John dances of the Middle Ages; we find, as another phase of its after-effect, frightful mutilations and chronic depressions, by means of which the temperament of a nation or a city (Geneva, Bale) is turned once for all into its opposite;—this training, again, is responsible for the witch-hysteria, a phenomenon analogous to somnambulism (eight great epidemic outbursts of this only between 1564 and 1605);—we find similarly in its train those delirious death-cravings of large masses, whose awful "shriek," "evviva la morte!" was heard over the whole of Europe, now interrupted by voluptuous variations and anon by a rage for destruction, just as the same emotional sequence with the same intermittencies and sudden changes is now universally observed in every case where the ascetic doctrine of sin scores once more a great success (religious neurosis appears as a manifestation of the devil, there is no doubt of it. What is it? Quæritur). Speaking generally, the ascetic ideal and its sublime-moral cult, this most ingenious, reckless, and perilous systematisation of all methods of emotional excess, is writ large in a dreadful and unforgettable fashion on the whole history of man, and unfortunately not only on history. I was scarcely able to put forward any other element which attacked the health and race efficiency of Europeans with more destructive power than did this ideal; it can be dubbed,without exaggeration, the real fatality in the history of the health of the European man. At the most you can merely draw a comparison with the specifically German influence: I mean the alcohol poisoning of Europe, which up to the present has kept pace exactly with the political and racial pre–dominance of the Germans (where they inoculated their blood, there too did they inoculate their vice). Third in the series comes syphilis—magno sed proximo intervallo.

As for all this priestly medical quackery, the "guilty" kind, any criticism is unnecessary. Could anyone seriously claim that such emotional excess has ever really helped a sick person? Yet the ascetic priest readily prescribes it to his sick patients. He does so, of course, under the most sacred euphemisms, with his treatment equally steeped in his purpose's holiness. At any rate, we should agree on what "be of use" means. If you mean only that such treatment has reformed people, I do not deny it. I merely add that, to me, "reformed" means "tamed," "weakened," "discouraged," "refined," "made delicate," "emasculated." In other words, it means almost the same as injured. But the people being treated are mainly sick, depressed, and oppressed. Even if such treatment makes the sick "better," it also, under all circumstances, makes them more ill. Ask psychiatrists about the invariable results of systematically applying penitential torture, remorse, and the ecstasies of salvation. Ask history, too. Wherever the ascetic priest has established this treatment, disease has spread throughout the society with sinister speed. What was always the "result"? A shattered nervous system added to the existing illness, among the greatest and the humblest, in individuals and masses alike. Training in penance and redemption has produced terrible epileptic epidemics, the greatest known to history. These include the St. Vitus and St. John dances of the Middle Ages. Another aftereffect has been horrifying mutilations and chronic depression. These have permanently turned the temperament of a nation or city (Geneva, Bale) into its opposite. This training is also responsible for witch-hysteria, a phenomenon resembling sleepwalking. There were eight great epidemic outbreaks between 1564 and 1605 alone. In its wake, we also find delirious longings for death among vast crowds. Their terrible "shriek," "long live death!" was heard throughout Europe. Sometimes sensual variations interrupted that cry, sometimes a frenzy of destruction. The same emotional sequence, with the same pauses and sudden shifts, is now observed everywhere under the same circumstances. It appears whenever the ascetic doctrine of sin achieves another great success. (Religious neurosis certainly appears to be a manifestation of the devil. What is it? That is the question.) Broadly speaking, the ascetic ideal and its exalted moral worship systematically organize every method of emotional excess. This is a supremely ingenious, reckless, and dangerous system. It has left a terrible, unforgettable mark on all human history, and unfortunately not only on history. I could hardly name another force that more destructively attacked Europeans' health and capacity to thrive as a race. Without exaggeration, this ideal can be called the real fatality in the history of European human health. At most, one can compare it with the specifically German influence. I mean Europe's poisoning by alcohol. Until now, this poisoning has kept exact pace with the Germans' political and racial dominance. (Wherever they introduced their blood, they also introduced their vice.) Third in the series comes syphilis, but a long way behind the second.

The ascetic priest has, wherever he has obtained the mastery, corrupted the health of the soul, he has consequently also corrupted taste in artibus et litteris—he corrupts it still. "Consequently?" I hope I shall be granted this "consequently "; at any rate, I am not going to prove it first. One solitary indication, it concerns the arch-book of Christian literature, their real model, their "book-in-itself." In the very midst of the Græco-Roman splendour, which was also a splendour of books, face to face with an ancient world of writings which had not yet fallen into decay and ruin, at a time when certain books were still to be read, to possess which we would give nowadays half our literature in exchange, at that time the simplicity and vanity of Christian agitators (they are generally called Fathers of the Church) dared to declare: "We too have our classical literature, we do not need that of the Greeks"—and meanwhile they proudly pointed to their books of legends, their letters of apostles, and their apologetic tractlets, just in the same way that to-day the English "Salvation Army" wages its fight against Shakespeare and other "heathens" with an analogous literature. You already guess it, I do not like the "New Testament"; it almost upsets me that I stand so isolated in my taste so far as concerns this valued, this over-valued Scripture; the taste of two thousand years is against me; but what boots it! "Here I stand! I cannot help myself"⁵—I have the courage of my bad taste. The Old Testament—yes, that is something quite different, all honour to the Old Testament! I find therein great men, an heroic landscape, and one of the rarest phenomena in the world, the incomparable naïveté of the strong heart; further still, I find a people. In the New, on the contrary, just a hostel of petty sects, pure rococo of the soul, twisting angles and fancy touches, nothing but conventicle air, not to forget an occasional whiff of bucolic sweetness which appertains to the epoch (and the Roman province) and is less Jewish than Hellenistic. Meekness and braggadocio cheek by jowl; an emotional garrulousness that almost deafens; passionate hysteria, but no passion; painful pantomime; here manifestly every one lacked good breeding. How dare any one make so much fuss about their little failings as do these pious little fellows! No one cares a straw about it—let alone God. Finally they actually wish to have "the crown of eternal life," do all these little provincials! In return for what, in sooth? For what end? It is impossible to carry insolence any further. An immortal Peter! who could stand him! They have an ambition which makes one laugh: the thing dishes up cut and dried his most personal life, his melancholies, and common-or-garden troubles, as though the Universe itself were under an obligation to bother itself about them, for it never gets tired of wrapping up God Himself in the petty misery in which its troubles are involved. And how about the atrocious form of this chronic hobnobbing with God? This Jewish, and not merely Jewish, slobbering and clawing importunacy towards God!—There exist little despised "heathen nations" in East Asia, from whom these first Christians could have learnt something worth learning, a little tact in worshiping; these nations do not allow themselves to say aloud the name of their God. This seems to me delicate enough, it is certain that it is too delicate, and not only for primitive Christians; to take a contrast, just recollect Luther, the most "eloquent" and insolent peasant whom Germany has had, think of the Lutherian tone, in which he felt quite the most in his element during his tête-à-têtes with God. Luther's opposition to the mediæval saints of the Church (in particular, against "that devil's hog, the Pope"), was, there is no doubt, at bottom the opposition of a boor, who was offended at the good etiquette of the Church, that worship-etiquette of the sacerdotal code, which only admits to the holy of holies the initiated and the silent, and shuts the door against the boors. These definitely were not to be allowed a hearing in this planet—but Luther the peasant simply wished it otherwise; as it was, it was not German enough for him. He personally wished himself to talk direct, to talk personally, to talk "straight from the shoulder" with his God. Well, he's done it. The ascetic ideal, you will guess, was at no time and in no place, a school of good taste, still less of good manners—at the best it was a school for sacerdotal manners: that is, it contains in itself something which was a deadly enemy to all good manners. Lack of measure, opposition to measure, it is itself a "non plus ultra."

Wherever the ascetic priest has gained control, he has damaged the health of the soul. Consequently, he has also corrupted taste in art and literature. He still corrupts it. "Consequently?" I hope you will grant me this "consequently". In any case, I am not going to prove it first. Just one clue: consider the supreme book of Christian literature, its true model, its "book-in-itself." Christianity arose amid the splendor of the Greco-Roman world, a splendor that included its books. That ancient world of writing had not yet fallen into decay and ruin. Certain books could still be read then. Today, we would give half our literature to possess them. Yet Christian agitators, in their simplicity and vanity, dared to declare: "We too have our classical literature. We do not need that of the Greeks." These agitators are generally called Fathers of the Church. They proudly pointed to their books of legends, their apostles' letters, and their little pamphlets defending Christianity. Today, the English "Salvation Army" fights Shakespeare and other "heathens" with similar literature, in just the same way. You have already guessed: I do not like the "New Testament". It almost distresses me that my taste leaves me so isolated concerning this valued, this overvalued Scripture. The taste of two thousand years is against me. But what does that matter! "Here I stand! I cannot help myself"⁵. I have the courage of my bad taste. The Old Testament, yes, that is something quite different. All honor to the Old Testament! There I find great men, a heroic landscape, and one of the world's rarest things: the incomparable innocence of the strong heart. Beyond that, I find a people. In the New Testament, by contrast, I find only a lodging house for petty sects. The soul is pure rococo, all twisting corners and decorative flourishes. Everything has the atmosphere of a sectarian prayer meeting. There is also an occasional hint of pastoral sweetness, characteristic of the period (and the Roman province). That sweetness is less Jewish than Hellenistic. Meekness sits beside boastful swagger. Emotional chatter almost deafens you. There is passionate hysteria, but no passion. Painful playacting. Clearly, everyone here lacked good manners. How dare anyone make such a fuss about their little failings as these pious little fellows do! Nobody cares in the slightest, let alone God. Finally, all these little provincials actually want "the crown of eternal life"! In return for what, exactly? For what purpose? Insolence cannot go any further. An immortal Peter! Who could stand him! Their ambition is laughable. The creature serves up its most private life, its gloomy moods, and its everyday troubles, all neatly packaged. It acts as though the Universe itself had an obligation to concern itself with them. For the creature never tires of dragging God himself into the petty misery surrounding its troubles. And what about the appalling way these people are constantly getting familiar with God? This Jewish, and not merely Jewish, slobbering, clawing insistence on God's attention! There are small, despised "heathen nations" in East Asia from whom these first Christians could have learned something worthwhile. They could have learned a little tact in worship. These nations do not permit themselves to speak their God's name aloud. That seems refined enough to me. Certainly, it is too refined, and not only for the earliest Christians. For a contrast, just remember Luther, the most "eloquent" and insolent peasant Germany has ever had. Think of Luther's tone, in which he felt most at home during his private conversations with God. Luther opposed the Church's medieval saints, particularly "that devil's hog, the Pope". At bottom, his opposition was undoubtedly that of a boor offended by the Church's good etiquette. This priestly etiquette of worship admits only the initiated and the silent to the holy of holies. It shuts the door on boors. These boors were certainly not to be given a hearing on this planet. But Luther the peasant simply wanted things otherwise. As things stood, the arrangement was not German enough for him. He personally wanted to speak directly, to speak personally, to speak "straight from the shoulder" with his God. Well, he has done it. As you will have guessed, the ascetic ideal has never, anywhere, taught good taste, much less good manners. At best, it has taught priestly manners. That means the ascetic ideal contains something that is a deadly enemy of all good manners. It lacks all restraint and opposes restraint. It is itself the "absolute limit."

The ascetic ideal has corrupted not only health and taste, there are also third, fourth, fifth, and sixth things which it has corrupted—I shall take care not to go through the catalogue (when should I get to the end?). I have here to expose not what this ideal effected; but rather only what it means, on what it is based, what lies lurking behind it and under it, that of which it is the provisional expression, an obscure expression bristling with queries and misunderstandings. And with this object only in view I presumed "not to spare" my readers a glance at the awfulness of its results, a glance at its fatal results; I did this to prepare them for the final and most awful aspect presented to me by the question of the significance of that ideal. What is the significance of the power of that ideal, the monstrousness of its power? Why is it given such an amount of scope? Why is not a better resistance offered against it? The ascetic ideal expresses one will: where is the opposition will, in which an opposition ideal expresses itself? The ascetic ideal has an aim— this goal is, putting it generally, that all the other interests of human life should, measured by its standard, appear petty and narrow; it explains epochs, nations, men, in reference to this one end; it forbids any other interpretation, any other end; it repudiates, denies, affirms, confirms, only in the sense of its own interpretation (and was there ever a more thoroughly elaborated system of interpretation?); it subjects itself to no power, rather does it believe in its own precedence over every power—it believes that nothing powerful exists in the world that has not first got to receive from "it" a meaning, a right to exist, a value, as being an instrument in its work, a way and means to its end, to one end. Where is the counterpart of this complete system of will, end, and interpretation? Why is the counterpart lacking? Where is the other "one aim"? But I am told it is not lacking, that not only has it fought a long and fortunate fight with that ideal, but that further it has already won the mastery over that ideal in all essentials: let our whole modern science attest this—that modern science, which, like the genuine reality-philosophy which it is, manifestly believes in itself alone, manifestly has the courage to be itself, the will to be itself, and has got on well enough without God, another world, and negative virtues.

The ascetic ideal has corrupted not only health and taste, but also a third, fourth, fifth, and sixth thing. I will take care not to list them all (when would I ever finish?). My task here is not to expose what this ideal has done, but only what it means. I want to reveal its foundations, what lurks behind and beneath it, and what it provisionally expresses. That expression is obscure, bristling with questions and misunderstandings. Only with this aim did I venture "not to spare" my readers a glimpse of its horrifying, deadly results. I wanted to prepare them for the final, most horrifying aspect of the question of this ideal's meaning. What does the power of this ideal mean, the monstrous scale of its power? Why is this ideal given so much room? Why does it meet with no stronger resistance? The ascetic ideal expresses one will. Where is the opposing will, expressing an opposing ideal? The ascetic ideal has a goal. Broadly speaking, its goal is to make all other interests in human life seem petty and narrow by its standards. It interprets eras, nations, and people in relation to this single goal. It forbids any other interpretation, any other goal. It rejects, denies, affirms, and confirms only within its own interpretation. (Has there ever been a more fully developed system of interpretation?) It submits to no power. Instead, it believes in its own supremacy over every power. It believes that nothing powerful in the world can have meaning, a right to exist, or value without first receiving these from "it". Every power must serve as an instrument in its work, a means to its goal, its one goal. Where is the counterpart to this complete system of will, goal, and interpretation? Why is that counterpart missing? Where is the other "one aim"? But I am told that this counterpart is not missing. It has not only fought a long and successful battle against the ascetic ideal. It has already gained the upper hand over that ideal in all essential respects. Let the whole of our modern science bear witness to this. Modern science, a genuine philosophy of reality, plainly believes in itself alone. It plainly has the courage to be itself and the will to be itself. And it has managed well enough without God, another world, and negative virtues.

With all their noisy agitator-babble, however, they effect nothing with me; these trumpeters of reality are bad musicians, their voices do not come from the deeps with sufficient audibility, they are not the mouthpiece for the abyss of scientific knowledge—for to-day scientific knowledge is an abyss—the word "science," in such trumpeter-mouths, is a prostitution, an abuse, an impertinence. The truth is just the opposite from what is maintained in the ascetic theory. Science has to-day absolutely no belief in itself, let alone in an ideal superior to itself, and wherever science still consists of passion, love, ardour, suffering, it is not the opposition to that ascetic ideal, but rather the incarnation of its latest and noblest form. Does that ring strange? There are enough brave and decent working people, even among the learned men of to-day, who like their little corner, and who, just because they are pleased so to do, become at times indecently loud with their demand, that people to-day should be quite content, especially in science—for in science there is so much useful work to do. I do not deny it—there is nothing I should like less than to spoil the delight of these honest workers in their handiwork; for I rejoice in their work. But the fact of science requiring hard work, the fact of its having contented workers, is absolutely no proof of science as a whole having to-day one end, one will, one ideal, one passion for a great faith; the contrary, as I have said, is the case. When science is not the latest manifestation of the ascetic ideal—but these are cases of such rarity, selectness, and exquisiteness, as to preclude the general judgment being affected thereby—science is a hiding-place for every kind of cowardice, disbelief, remorse, despectio sui, bad conscience—it is the very anxiety that springs from having no ideal, the suffering from the lack of a great love, the discontent with an enforced moderation. Oh, what does all science not cover to-day? How much, at any rate, does it not try to cover? The diligence of our best scholars, their senseless industry, their burning the candle of their brain at both ends—their very mastery in their handiwork—how often is the real meaning of all that to prevent themselves continuing to see a certain thing? Science as a self-anæsthetic: do you know that? You wound them—every one who consorts with scholars experiences this—you wound them sometimes to the quick through just a harmless word; when you think you are paying them a compliment you embitter them beyond all bounds, simply because you didn't have the finesse to infer the real kind of customers you had to tackle, the sufferer kind (who won't own up even to themselves what they really are), the dazed and unconscious kind who have only one fear—coming to consciousness.

For all their noisy political babble, they have no effect on me. These trumpeters of reality are bad musicians. Their voices do not rise clearly enough from the depths. They do not speak for the abyss of scientific knowledge, for today scientific knowledge is an abyss. In the mouths of such trumpeters, the word "science" is a prostitution, an abuse, an outrage. The truth is exactly the opposite of what the ascetic theory claims. Today science has absolutely no belief in itself, let alone in an ideal higher than itself. Wherever science still involves passion, love, fervor, and suffering, science does not oppose that ascetic ideal. Instead, science is the embodiment of its latest and noblest form. Does that sound strange? Even among today's scholars, there are plenty of brave, decent workers who enjoy their little corner. Because they enjoy it, these workers sometimes become offensively loud in demanding that people today should be perfectly content. They demand this especially in science, because science offers so much useful work to do. I do not deny that. Nothing could be further from my wishes than spoiling these honest workers' pleasure in their craft. I take joy in their work. But science's need for hard work and its contented workers prove absolutely nothing about science as a whole. They do not prove that science today has one goal, one will, one ideal, one passionate commitment to a great faith. As I have said, the opposite is true. Sometimes science is not the latest expression of the ascetic ideal. Such cases, however, are too rare, exceptional, and refined to affect the general judgment. In these cases, science is a hiding place for every kind of cowardice, disbelief, remorse, self-contempt, and guilty conscience. Science is the very anxiety born of having no ideal. It is the suffering caused by the lack of a great love, the discontent with being forced into moderation. Oh, what does science not cover up today? How much, at least, does science not try to cover up? Consider our finest scholars' diligence, their mindless industry, their burning their brains out, their very mastery of their craft. How often is the real purpose of all this to stop themselves from continuing to see a certain thing? Science as a way to numb yourself: do you know about that? You hurt these scholars. Everyone who spends time with scholars experiences this. Sometimes a harmless word cuts them to the quick. When you think you are paying them a compliment, you make them bitter beyond all bounds. You simply lacked the tact to recognize the kind of people you were dealing with. They are the suffering kind, who will not admit even to themselves what they really are. They are the dazed, unconscious kind, with only one fear: becoming conscious.

And now look at the other side, at those rare cases, of which I spoke, the most supreme idealists to be found nowadays among philosophers and scholars. Have we, perchance, found in them the sought-for opponents of the ascetic ideal, its anti-idealists? In fact, they believe themselves to be such, these "unbelievers" (for they are all of them that): it seems that this idea is their last remnant of faith, the idea of being opponents of this ideal, so earnest are they on this subject, so passionate in word and gesture;—but does it follow that what they believe must necessarily be true? We "knowers" have grown by degrees suspicious of all kinds of believers, our suspicion has step by step habituated us to draw just the opposite conclusions to what people have drawn before; that is to say, wherever the strength of a belief is particularly prominent to draw the conclusion of the difficulty of proving what is believed, the conclusion of its actual improbability. We do not again deny that "faith produces salvation": for that very reason we do deny that faith proves anything,—a strong faith, which produces happiness, causes suspicion of the object of that faith, it does not establish its "truth," it does establish a certain probability of—illusion. What is now the position in these cases? These solitaries and deniers of to-day; these fanatics in one thing, in their claim to intellectual cleanness; these hard, stern, continent, heroic spirits, who constitute the glory of our time; all these pale atheists, anti-Christians, immoralists, Nihilists; these sceptics, "ephectics," and "hectics" of the intellect (in a certain sense they are the latter, both collectively and individually); these supreme idealists of knowledge, in whom alone nowadays the intellectual conscience dwells and is alive—in point of fact they believe themselves as far away as possible from the ascetic ideal, do these "free, very free spirits": and yet, if I may reveal what they themselves cannot see—for they stand too near themselves: this ideal is simply their ideal, they represent it nowadays and perhaps no one else, they themselves are its most spiritualised product, its most advanced picket of skirmishers and scouts, its most insidious delicate and elusive form of seduction.—If I am in any way a reader of riddles, then I will be one with this sentence: for some time past there have been no free spirits; for they still believe in truth. When the Christian Crusaders in the East came into collision with that invincible order of assassins, that order of free spirits par excellence, whose lowest grade lives in a state of discipline such as no order of monks has ever attained, then in some way or other they managed to get an inkling of that symbol and tally-word, that was reserved for the highest grade alone as their secretum, "Nothing is true, everything is allowed,"—in sooth, that was freedom of thought, thereby was taking leave of the very belief in truth. Has indeed any European, any Christian freethinker, ever yet wandered into this proposition and its labyrinthine consequences? Does he know from experience the Minotauros of this den.—I doubt it—nay, I know otherwise. Nothing is more really alien to these "mono-fanatics," these so-called "free spirits," than freedom and unfettering in that sense; in no respect are they more closely tied, the absolute fanaticism of their belief in truth is unparalleled. I know all this perhaps too much from experience at close quarters—that dignified philosophic abstinence to which a belief like that binds its adherents, that stoicism of the intellect, which eventually vetoes negation as rigidly as it does affirmation, that wish for standing still in front of the actual, the factum brutum, that fatalism in "petits faits" (ce petit faitalism, as I call it), in which French Science now attempts a kind of moral superiority over German, this renunciation of interpretation generally (that is, of forcing, doctoring, abridging, omitting, suppressing, inventing, falsifying, and all the other essential attributes of interpretation)—all this, considered broadly, expresses the asceticism of virtue, quite as efficiently as does any repudiation of the senses (it is at bottom only a modus of that repudiation.) But what forces it into that unqualified will for truth is the faith in the ascetic ideal itself, even though it take the form of its unconscious imperatives,—make no mistake about it, it is the faith, I repeat, in a metaphysical value, an intrinsic value of truth, of a character which is only warranted and guaranteed in this ideal (it stands and falls with that ideal). Judged strictly, there does not exist a science without its "hypotheses," the thought of such a science is inconceivable, illogical: a philosophy, a faith, must always exist first to enable science to gain thereby a direction, a meaning, a limit and method, a right to existence. (He who holds a contrary opinion on the subject—he, for example, who takes it upon himself to establish philosophy "upon a strictly scientific basis"—has first got to "turn up-side-down" not only philosophy but also truth itself—the gravest insult which could possibly be offered to two such respectable females!) Yes, there is no doubt about it—and here I quote my Joyful Wisdom, cp. Book V. Aph. 344: "The man who is truthful in that daring and extreme fashion, which is the presupposition of the faith in science, asserts thereby a different world from that of life, nature, and history; and in so far as he asserts the existence of that different world, come, must he not similarly repudiate its counterpart, this world, our world? The belief on which our faith in science is based has remained to this day a metaphysical belief—even we knowers of to-day, we godless foes of metaphysics, we too take our fire from that conflagration which was kindled by a thousand-year-old faith, from that Christian belief, which was also Plato's belief, the belief that God is truth, that truth is divine.... But what if this belief becomes more and more incredible, what if nothing proves itself to be divine, unless it be error, blindness, lies—what if God, Himself proved Himself to be our oldest lie?"—It is necessary to stop at this point and to consider the situation carefully. Science itself now needs a justification (which is not for a minute to say that there is such a justification). Turn in this context to the most ancient and the most modern philosophers: they all fail to realise the extent of the need of a justification on the part of the Will for Truth—here is a gap in every philosophy—what is it caused by? Because up to the present the ascetic ideal dominated all philosophy, because Truth was fixed as Being, as God, as the Supreme Court of Appeal, because Truth was not allowed to be a problem. Do you understand this "allowed"? From the minute that the belief in the God of the ascetic ideal is repudiated, there exists a new problem: the problem of the value of truth. The Will for Truth needed a critique—let us define by these words our own task—-the value of truth is tentatively to be called in question.... (If this seems too laconically expressed, I recommend the reader to peruse again that passage from the Joyful Wisdom which bears the title, "How far we also are still pious," Aph. 344, and best of all the whole fifth book of that work, as well as the Preface to The Dawn of Day.)

Now look at the other side, at those rare cases I mentioned: today’s most extreme idealists among philosophers and scholars. Have we perhaps found the opponents of the ascetic ideal we were looking for, its anti-idealists? These "unbelievers" actually believe they are its opponents (for they are all unbelievers). This idea seems to be their last remaining article of faith. They are so earnest about it, so passionate in their words and gestures. But must what they believe necessarily be true? We "knowers" have gradually grown suspicious of believers of every kind. Step by step, our suspicion has taught us to draw conclusions opposite to those people drew before. Wherever a belief is especially strong, we conclude that proving it must be difficult. We conclude that the belief is actually improbable. We do not deny that "faith produces salvation". For that very reason, we deny that faith proves anything. A strong faith that produces happiness makes the object of that faith suspicious. Such faith does not establish its "truth". It does establish a certain likelihood of illusion. So where do these cases stand? Consider today’s solitary thinkers and deniers, fanatics about one thing: their claim to intellectual purity. Consider these tough, stern, self-restrained, heroic spirits who are the glory of our time. All these pale atheists, anti-Christians, immoralists, Nihilists. These sceptics, "ephectics," and "hectics" of the intellect (in a certain sense, they are the last, collectively and individually). These supreme idealists of knowledge are the only people today in whom intellectual conscience lives and thrives. These "free, very free spirits" believe themselves as far as possible from the ascetic ideal. Yet let me reveal what they themselves cannot see, because they are too close to themselves. This ideal is simply their ideal. Today they represent it, and perhaps no one else does. They themselves are its most spiritualized product, its most advanced outpost of skirmishers and scouts. They are its most insidious, subtle, and elusive form of seduction. If I have any skill at solving riddles, let this statement prove it: for some time, no free spirits have existed. For they still believe in truth. When Christian Crusaders in the East encountered that invincible order of assassins, they encountered the supreme order of free spirits. Its lowest rank lives under a discipline no monastic order has ever achieved. Somehow, the Crusaders learned something of the symbolic password reserved for the highest rank alone as their secretum: "Nothing is true, everything is allowed". Truly, that was freedom of thought. That meant taking leave of belief in truth itself. Has any European, any Christian freethinker, ever ventured into this proposition and its labyrinth of consequences? Does he know from experience the Minotauros in this lair? I doubt it. No, I know otherwise. Nothing is more foreign to these "mono-fanatics", these so-called "free spirits", than freedom and release in that sense. Nowhere are they more tightly bound. The absolute fanaticism of their belief in truth is unmatched. Perhaps I know all this too well from close experience. I know the dignified philosophical abstinence that such a belief imposes on its followers. I know that intellectual stoicism that eventually forbids denial as strictly as affirmation. I know the wish to stop before what actually exists, the factum brutum, the brute fact. I know that fatalism about "petits faits", little facts (ce petit faitalism, as I call it). Through this fatalism, French Science now tries to claim a kind of moral superiority over German Science. All this amounts to giving up interpretation altogether. That means giving up forcing, doctoring, shortening, omitting, suppressing, inventing, falsifying, and all the other essential features of interpretation. Broadly speaking, all this expresses the asceticism of virtue just as effectively as any rejection of the senses. At bottom, it is only a mode of that rejection. But what drives this attitude into an unconditional will to truth is faith in the ascetic ideal itself. That faith may take the form of the ideal’s unconscious commands. Make no mistake about it. This is faith, I repeat, in a metaphysical value of truth, an intrinsic value. Only the ascetic ideal can warrant and guarantee such a value. That value stands and falls with the ideal. Strictly speaking, no science exists without its "hypotheses". The very idea of such a science is inconceivable and illogical. A philosophy, a faith, must always come first. Only through that foundation can science gain direction, meaning, limits, method, and a right to exist. (Someone who disagrees must first "turn upside down" not only philosophy but truth itself. Consider, for example, someone who undertakes to establish philosophy "on a strictly scientific basis". What greater insult could anyone offer two such respectable ladies!) Yes, there is no doubt about it. Here I quote my Joyful Wisdom, Book V, Aphorism 344: "Someone truthful in that daring, extreme way presupposed by faith in science thereby affirms another world. That world differs from the world of life, nature, and history. But by affirming that other world’s existence, must he not also reject its opposite, this world, our world? The belief underlying our faith in science remains a metaphysical belief to this day. Even we knowers of today, we godless enemies of metaphysics, still draw our fire from an ancient blaze. A thousand-year-old faith kindled that blaze. It was the Christian belief, also Plato’s belief, that God is truth, that truth is divine.... But what if this belief becomes increasingly incredible? What if nothing proves divine except error, blindness, and lies? What if God himself proves to be our oldest lie?" We must stop here and consider the situation carefully. Science itself now needs justification. That does not mean, even for a moment, that such justification exists. Look in this connection at the most ancient and the most modern philosophers. They all fail to recognize how much the Will for Truth needs justification. Here is a gap in every philosophy. What causes this gap? Until now, the ascetic ideal has ruled all philosophy. Truth was established as Being, as God, as the Supreme Court of Appeal. Truth was not allowed to become a problem. Do you understand this word "allowed"? The moment belief in the God of the ascetic ideal is rejected, a new problem arises: the value of truth. The Will for Truth needed critical examination. Let those words define our own task: the value of truth is tentatively to be called into question.... (If this seems too briefly expressed, I recommend rereading the passage in Joyful Wisdom titled "How far we also are still pious", Aphorism 344. Better still, read that work’s entire fifth book, along with the Preface to The Dawn of Day.)

No! You can't get round me with science, when I search for the natural antagonists of the ascetic ideal, when I put the question: "Where is the opposed will in which the opponent ideal expresses itself?" Science is not, by a long way, independent enough to fulfil this function; in every department science needs an ideal value, a power which creates values, and in whose service it can believe in itself —science itself never creates values. Its relation to the ascetic ideal is not in itself antagonistic; speaking roughly, it rather represents the progressive force in the inner evolution of that ideal. Tested more exactly, its opposition and antagonism are concerned not with the ideal itself, but only with that ideal's outworks, its outer garb, its masquerade, with its temporary hardening, stiffening, and dogmatising—it makes the life in the ideal free once more, while it repudiates its superficial elements. These two phenomena, science and the ascetic ideal, both rest on the same basis––I have already made this clear––the basis, I say, oft the same over-appreciation of truth (more accurately the same belief in the impossibility of valuing and of criticising truth), and consequently they are necessarily allies, so that, in the event of their being attacked, they must always be attacked and called into question together. A valuation of the ascetic ideal inevitably entails a valuation of science as well; lose no time in seeing this clearly, and be sharp to catch it! (Art, I am speaking provisionally, for I will treat it on some other occasion in greater detail,––art, I repeat, in which lying is sanctified and the will for deception has good conscience on its side, is much more fundamentally opposed to the ascetic ideal than is science: Plato's instinct felt this––Plato, the greatest enemy of art which Europe has produced up to the present. Plato versus Homer, that is the complete, the true antagonism––on the one side, the whole–hearted "transcendental," the great defamer of life; on the other, its involuntary panegyrist, the golden nature. An artistic subservience to the service of the ascetic ideal is consequently the most absolute artistic corruption that there can be, though unfortunately it is one of the most frequent phases, for nothing is more corruptible than an artist.) Considered physiologically, moreover, science rests on the same, basis as does the ascetic ideal: a certain impoverishment of life is the presupposition of the latter as of the former––add, frigidity of the emotions, slackening of the tempo, the substitution of dialectic for instinct, seriousness impressed on mien and gesture (seriousness, that most unmistakable sign of strenuous metabolism, of struggling, toiling life). Consider the periods in a nation in which the learned man comes into prominence; they are the periods of exhaustion, often of sunset, of decay—the effervescing strength, the confidence in life, the confidence in the future are no more. The preponderance of the mandarins never signifies any good, any more than does the advent of democracy, or arbitration instead of war, equal rights for women, the religion of pity, and all the other symptoms of declining life. (Science handled as a problem! what is the meaning of science?—upon this point the Preface to the Birth of Tragedy.) No! this "modern science"—mark you this well—is at times the best ally for the ascetic ideal, and for the very reason that it is the ally which is most unconscious, most automatic, most secret, and most subterranean! They have been playing into each other's hands up to the present, have these "poor in spirit" and the scientific opponents of that ideal (take care, by the bye, not to think that these opponents are the antithesis of this ideal, that they are the rich in spirit—that they are not; I have called them the hectic in spirit). As for these celebrated victories of science; there is no doubt that they are victories—but victories over what? There was not for a single minute any victory among their list over the ascetic ideal, rather was it made stronger, that is to say, more elusive, more abstract, more insidious, from the fact that a wall, an outwork, that had got built on to the main fortress and disfigured its appearance, should from time to time be ruthlessly destroyed and broken down by science. Does any one seriously suggest that the downfall of the theological astronomy signified the downfall of that ideal?—Has, perchance, man grown less in need of a transcendental solution of his riddle of existence, because since that time this existence has become more random, casual, and superfluous in the visible order of the universe? Has there not been since the time of Copernicus an unbroken progress in the self-belittling of man and his will for belittling himself? Alas, his belief in his dignity, his uniquenesses irreplaceableness in the scheme of existence, is gone—he has become animal, literal, unqualified, and unmitigated animal, he who in his earlier belief was almost God ("child of God," "demi-God"). Since Copernicus man seems to have fallen on to a steep plane—he rolls faster and faster away from the centre—whither? into nothingness? into the "thrilling sensation of his own nothingness"—Well! this would be the straight way—to the old ideal?—All science (and by no means only astronomy, with regard to the humiliating and deteriorating effect of which Kant has made a remarkable confession, "it annihilates my own importance"), all science, natural as much as unnatural—by unnatural I mean the self-critique of reason—nowadays sets out to talk man out of his present opinion of himself, as though that opinion had been nothing but a bizarre piece of conceit; you might go so far as to say that science finds its peculiar pride, its peculiar bitter form of stoical ataraxia, in preserving man's contempt of himself, that state which it took so much trouble to bring about, as man's final and most serious claim to self-appreciation (rightly so, in point of fact, for he who despises is always "one who has not forgotten how to appreciate"). But does all this involve any real effort to counteract the ascetic ideal? Is it really seriously suggested that Kant's victory over the theological dogmatism about "God," "Soul," "Freedom," "Immortality," has damaged that ideal in any way (as the theologians have imagined to be the case for a long time past)?–– And in this connection it does not concern us for a single minute, if Kant himself intended any such consummation. It is certain that from the time of Kant every type of transcendentalist is playing a winning game––they are emancipated from the theologians; what luck!––he has revealed to them that secret art, by which they can now pursue their "heart's desire" on their own responsibility, and with all the respectability of science. Similarly, who can grumble at the agnostics, reverers, as they are, of the unknown and the absolute mystery, if they now worship their very query as God? (Xaver Doudan talks somewhere of the ravages which l'habitude d'admirer l'inintelligible au lieu de rester tout simplement dans l'inconnu has produced––the ancients, he thinks, must have been exempt from those ravages.) Supposing that everything, "known" to man, fails to satisfy his desires, and on the contrary contradicts and horrifies them, what a divine way out of all this to be able to look for the responsibility, not in the "desiring" but in "knowing"!––"There is no knowledge. Consequently––there is a God"; what a novel _elegantia syllogism_i! what a triumph for the ascetic ideal!

No! You cannot answer me with science when I look for the natural enemies of the ascetic ideal. My question is: "Where is the opposing will that expresses the opposing ideal?" Science is nowhere near independent enough to serve this role. In every field, science needs an ideal value, a power that creates values. Only in the service of that power can it believe in itself. Science itself never creates values. Its relationship with the ascetic ideal is not inherently hostile. Broadly speaking, science instead drives that ideal’s internal development forward. More precisely, science does not oppose the ideal itself. Science attacks only the ideal’s outer defenses, its clothing, its disguises, its temporary rigidity and dogmatism. Science frees the life within the ideal once more while rejecting its superficial features. Science and the ascetic ideal both rest on the same foundation, as I have already made clear. Both place the same excessive value on truth. More precisely, both share a belief in the impossibility of evaluating and criticizing truth. Consequently, they are necessarily allies. Any attack on either must always attack and question both together. Evaluating the ascetic ideal inevitably means evaluating science as well. Waste no time grasping this, and pay close attention! (Art is another matter. I speak provisionally here, since I will discuss art in greater detail elsewhere. Art, I repeat, sanctifies lying, and the will to deceive acts with a clear conscience. Art therefore opposes the ascetic ideal far more fundamentally than science does. Plato sensed this instinctively. Plato was the greatest enemy of art Europe has yet produced. Plato versus Homer: that is the complete, the true opposition. On one side stands the wholehearted believer in the "transcendent," the great slanderer of life. On the other stands life’s unwitting singer of praise, the golden nature. Art’s submission to the ascetic ideal is therefore the most complete artistic corruption possible. Unfortunately, such submission is among art’s most frequent conditions, since nothing is more corruptible than an artist.) Physiologically, too, science rests on the same foundation as the ascetic ideal. Both presuppose a certain impoverishment of life. Add emotional coldness, a slowing of the tempo, and the replacement of instinct with logical argument. Add seriousness stamped on faces and gestures. Seriousness is the clearest sign of a strained metabolism, of life struggling and toiling. Consider the periods in a nation’s history when scholars rise to prominence. These are periods of exhaustion, often of decline and decay. Surging strength, confidence in life, and confidence in the future are gone. The dominance of mandarins, the scholarly elite, never signals anything good. Neither does the arrival of democracy, arbitration instead of war, equal rights for women, or the religion of pity. All these are symptoms of declining life. (Science treated as a problem! What does science mean? On this point, see the Preface to the Birth of Tragedy.) No! This "modern science," remember this well, is sometimes the ascetic ideal’s best ally. Precisely because science is its most unconscious, most automatic, most secret ally, working furthest beneath the surface! These "poor in spirit" and the ideal’s scientific opponents have been playing into each other’s hands all along. Incidentally, do not imagine that these opponents represent the ideal’s opposite, that they are rich in spirit. They are not. I have called them feverish in spirit. As for science’s celebrated victories, there is no doubt that they are victories. But victories over what? Not one of those victories has ever defeated the ascetic ideal. Instead, science has strengthened the ideal, making it more elusive, more abstract, more insidious. From time to time, science ruthlessly demolishes some wall or outer defense added to the main fortress, disfiguring its appearance. But destroying those additions only strengthens the ideal itself. Does anyone seriously suggest that overthrowing theological astronomy meant overthrowing the ascetic ideal? Has humanity perhaps grown less in need of an otherworldly answer to the riddle of existence? Since then, human existence has become more accidental, incidental, and unnecessary within the universe’s visible order. Has humanity not steadily belittled itself since Copernicus, with an ever-growing will to belittle itself? Alas, humanity’s belief in its dignity, its uniqueness, its irreplaceable place in existence is gone. Humanity has become animal, literally, without qualification or exception. Earlier, human beings believed themselves almost God ("child of God," "demi-God"). Since Copernicus, humanity seems to have landed on a steep slope. It rolls faster and faster away from the center. Toward what? Into nothingness? Into the "thrilling sensation of its own nothingness"? Well! Would that not lead straight back to the old ideal? All science now sets out to talk humanity out of its current opinion of itself. Science treats that opinion as though it were nothing but a bizarre piece of arrogance. This applies by no means only to astronomy. Kant made a remarkable admission about astronomy’s humiliating and degrading effect: "it annihilates my own importance". It applies to all science, natural and unnatural alike. By unnatural, I mean reason’s criticism of itself. One might even say that science takes a peculiar pride in preserving humanity’s contempt for itself. Science worked so hard to produce this condition. Now science preserves it as humanity’s final and most serious claim to self-respect. In doing so, science finds its own bitter form of stoic calm. (Rightly so, in fact, since anyone who despises is always "someone who has not forgotten how to value".) But does any of this involve a real effort to oppose the ascetic ideal? Does anyone seriously suggest that Kant’s victory over theological dogmatism about "God," "Soul," "Freedom," and "Immortality" damaged that ideal? Theologians have long imagined that it did. Whether Kant himself intended any such outcome does not concern us here for a moment. Certainly, since Kant, believers in every kind of transcendent reality have held a winning hand. They are free of the theologians. What luck! Kant revealed the secret art that lets them pursue their "heart’s desire" on their own authority, with science’s full respectability. Similarly, who can complain about the agnostics if they now worship their very question as God? After all, they revere the unknown and the absolute mystery. (Somewhere, Xaver Doudan discusses the damage caused by the habit of admiring the incomprehensible instead of simply accepting the unknown. He thinks the ancients must have escaped that damage.) Suppose everything humanity "knows" fails to satisfy its desires and instead contradicts and horrifies those desires. What a divine escape to blame "knowing" rather than "desiring"! "There is no knowledge. Therefore, there is a God". What a novel elegance of reasoning! What a triumph for the ascetic ideal!

Or, perchance, does the whole of modern history show in its demeanour greater confidence in life, greater confidence in its ideals? Its loftiest pretension is now to be a mirror; it repudiates all teleology; it will have no more "proving"; it disdains to play the judge, and thereby shows its good taste––it asserts as little as it denies, it fixes, it "describes." All this is to a high degree ascetic, but at the same time it is to a much greater degree nihilistic; make no mistake about this! You see in the historian a gloomy, hard, but determined gaze,––an eye that looks out as an isolated North Pole explorer looks out (perhaps so as not to look within, so as not to look back?)––there is snow––here is life silenced, the last crows which caw here are called "whither?" "Vanity," "Nada"––here nothing more flourishes and grows, at the most the metapolitics of St. Petersburg and the "pity" of Tolstoi. But as for that other school of historians, a perhaps still more "modern" school, a voluptuous and lascivious school which ogles life and the ascetic ideal with equal fervour, which uses the word "artist" as a glove, and has nowadays established a "corner" for itself, in all the praise given to contemplation; oh, what a thirst do these sweet intellectuals excite even for ascetics and winter landscapes! Nay! The devil take these "contemplative" folk! How much liefer would I wander with those historical Nihilists through the gloomiest, grey, cold mist!––nay, I shall not mind listening (supposing I have to choose) to one who is completely unhistorical and anti-historical (a man, like Dühring for instance, over whose periods a hitherto shy and unavowed species of "beautiful souls" has grown intoxicated in contemporary Germany, the species anarchistica within the educated proletariate). The "contemplative" are a hundred times worse––I never knew anything which produced such intense nausea as one of those "objective" chairs,⁶ one of those scented mannikins-about-town of history, a thing half-priest, half-satyr (Renan parfum), which betrays by the high, shrill falsetto of his applause what he lacks and where he lacks it, who betrays where in this case the Fates have plied their ghastly shears, alas! in too surgeon-like a fashion! This is distasteful to me, and irritates my patience; let him keep patient at such sights who has nothing to lose thereby,––such a sight enrages me, such spectators embitter me against the "play," even more than does the play itself (history itself, you understand); Anacreontic moods imperceptibly come over me. This Nature, who gave to the steer its horn, to the lion its χάσμ' ὀδοντων, for what purpose did Nature give me my foot?––To kick, by St. Anacreon, and not merely to run away! To trample on all the worm-eaten "chairs," the cowardly contemplators, the lascivious eunuchs of history, the flirters with ascetic ideals, the righteous hypocrites of impotence! All reverence on my part to the ascetic ideal, in so far as it is honourable! So long as it believes in itself and plays no pranks on us! But I like not all these coquettish bugs who have an insatiate ambition to smell of the infinite, until eventually the infinite smells of bugs; I like not the whited sepulchres with their stagey reproduction of life; I like not the tired and the used up who wrap themselves in wisdom and look "objective"; I like not the agitators dressed up as heroes, who hide their dummy-heads behind the stalking-horse of an ideal; I like not the ambitious artists who would fain play the ascetic and the priest, and are at bottom nothing but tragic clowns; I like not, again, these newest speculators in idealism, the Anti-Semites, who nowadays roll their eyes in the patent Christian-Aryan-man-of-honour fashion, and by an abuse of moralist attitudes and agitation dodges, so cheap as to exhaust any patience, strive to excite all the blockhead elements in the populace (the invariable success of every kind of intellectual charlatanism in present-day Germany hangs together with the almost indisputable and already quite palpable desolation of the German mind, whose cause I look for in a too exclusive diet, of papers, politics, beer, and Wagnerian music, not forgetting the condition precedent of this diet, the national exclusiveness and vanity, the strong but narrow principle, "Germany, Germany above everything,"⁷ and finally the paralysis agitans of "modern ideas"). Europe nowadays is, above all, wealthy and ingenious in means of excitement; it apparently has no more crying necessity than stimulantia and alcohol. Hence the enormous counterfeiting of ideals, those most fiery spirits of the mind; hence too the repulsive, evil-smelling, perjured, pseudo–alcoholic air everywhere. I should like to know how many cargoes of imitation idealism, of hero-costumes and high falutin' clap-trap, how many casks of sweetened pity liqueur (Firm: la religion de la souffrance), how many crutches of righteous indignation for the help of these flat-footed intellects, how many comedians of the Christian moral ideal would need to-day to be exported from Europe, to enable its air to smell pure again. It is obvious that, in regard to this over-production, a new trade possibility lies open; it is obvious that there is a new business to be done in little ideal idols and obedient "idealists"—don't pass over this tip! Who has sufficient courage? We have in our hands the possibility of idealising the whole earth. But what am I talking about courage? we only need one thing here—a hand, a free, a very free hand.

Or perhaps modern historical scholarship as a whole shows greater confidence in life, greater confidence in its ideals? Its highest ambition now is to be a mirror. It rejects all explanations based on ultimate purposes. It wants no more "proving". It refuses to judge, and in doing so shows good taste. It affirms as little as it denies. It records, it "describes." All this is highly ascetic, but to a much greater degree it is nihilistic. Make no mistake about that! You see a gloomy, hard, but determined gaze in the historian. The historian's eye looks out like that of a solitary North Pole explorer. Perhaps the historian looks outward to avoid looking inward, to avoid looking back? There is snow. Here life has fallen silent. The last crows cawing here are called "where to?" "Vanity," "Nada". Nothing flourishes or grows here anymore. At most, there is the metapolitics of St. Petersburg and the "pity" of Tolstoi. But consider that other school of historians, perhaps an even more "modern" school. Sensual and lustful, these historians eye life and the ascetic ideal with equal passion. They wear the word "artist" like a glove. Today they have cornered the market in praise of contemplation. Oh, how these sweet intellectuals make one thirst even for ascetics and winter landscapes! No! The devil take these "contemplative" people! How much rather I would wander with those historical Nihilists through the gloomiest, gray, cold fog! Indeed, if I must choose, I would even listen to someone completely unhistorical and anti-historical. Dühring, for instance. His elaborate sentences have intoxicated a previously timid and unacknowledged species of "beautiful souls" in contemporary Germany. I mean the species anarchistica among the educated proletariat. The "contemplative" are a hundred times worse. Nothing I have known has disgusted me as intensely as one of those "objective" professorial chairs,⁶ those perfumed historical dandies. Here is a creature half priest, half satyr (Renan parfum). His applause rises in a shrill falsetto, betraying what he lacks and where he lacks it. He betrays where the Fates have used their ghastly scissors, alas, with all too surgical a precision! This disgusts me and strains my patience. Let anyone remain patient at such sights who has nothing to lose by them. Such a sight enrages me. Such spectators turn me against the "play" even more than the play itself does. By the play, you understand, I mean history itself. Moods worthy of Anacreon steal over me. Nature gave the bull its horns and the lion its gaping jaws. What did Nature give me my foot for? To kick, by St. Anacreon, and not merely to run away! To trample all those worm-eaten "professorial chairs", those cowardly spectators, those lustful eunuchs of history! Those flirts with ascetic ideals, those self-righteous hypocrites of impotence! I give the ascetic ideal every respect, insofar as it is honorable! As long as it believes in itself and plays no tricks on us! But I dislike all these flirtatious bugs, with their insatiable ambition to smell of the infinite. Eventually, the infinite itself smells of bugs. I dislike those whitewashed tombs with their theatrical imitation of life. I dislike the tired and worn-out people who wrap themselves in wisdom and look "objective". I dislike agitators dressed as heroes, hiding their empty heads behind an ideal used as cover. I dislike ambitious artists who want to play the ascetic and the priest, but are really only tragic clowns. I also dislike these newest profiteers in idealism, the Anti-Semites. Nowadays they roll their eyes in that trademark Christian-Aryan-man-of-honor fashion. They exploit moral posturing and agitators' tricks so cheap that they exhaust anyone's patience. In this way, they try to stir up all the blockheaded elements of the population. The invariable success of every kind of intellectual fraud in present-day Germany is connected with the German mind's desolation. That desolation is almost undeniable and already quite tangible. I trace its cause to an overly exclusive diet of newspapers, politics, beer, and Wagnerian music. Nor should we forget what makes this diet possible: national isolation and vanity. There is that forceful but narrow principle, "Germany, Germany above everything,"⁷ and finally the shaking palsy of "modern ideas". Europe today is, above all, rich and inventive in ways to excite itself. Apparently, Europe has no more urgent need than stimulants and alcohol. Hence the enormous production of counterfeit ideals, those most fiery spirits of the mind. Hence, too, the disgusting, foul-smelling, deceitful, pseudo-alcoholic atmosphere everywhere. How much would have to be exported from Europe today before its air could smell clean again? I would like to know. How many cargoes of imitation idealism, heroic costumes, and pompous nonsense? How many casks of sweetened pity liqueur (Company: the religion of suffering)? How many crutches of righteous indignation to support these flat-footed intellects? How many actors playing the Christian moral ideal? Clearly, this overproduction opens up a new trading opportunity. Clearly, there is new business to be done in little ideal idols and obedient "idealists". Do not overlook this tip! Who has enough courage? We have in our hands the chance to idealize the whole earth. But why am I talking about courage? We need only one thing here: a hand, a free hand, a very free hand.

Enough! enough! let us leave these curiosities and complexities of the modern spirit, which excite as much laughter as disgust. Our problem can certainly do without them, the problem of meaning of the ascetic ideal—what has it got to do with yesterday or to-day? those things shall be handled by me more thoroughly and severely in another connection (under the title "A Contribution to the History of European Nihilism," I refer for this to a work which I am preparing: The Will to Power, an Attempt at a Transvaluation of All Values). The only reason why I come to allude to it here is this: the ascetic ideal has at times, even in the most intellectual sphere, only one real kind of enemies and damagers: these are the comedians of this ideal—for they awake mistrust. Everywhere otherwise, where the mind is at work seriously, powerfully, and without counterfeiting, it dispenses altogether now with an ideal (the popular expression for this abstinence is "Atheism")—with the exception of the will for truth. But this will, this remnant of an ideal, is, if you will believe me, that ideal itself in its severest and cleverest formulation, esoteric through and through, stripped of all outworks, and consequently not so much its remnant as its kernel. Unqualified honest atheism (and its air only do we breathe, we, the most intellectual men of this age) is not opposed to that ideal, to the extent that it appears to be; it is rather one of the final phases of its evolution, one of its syllogisms and pieces of inherent logic—it is the awe-inspiring catastrophe of a two-thousand-year training in truth, which finally forbids itself the lie of the belief in God. (The same course of development in India—quite independently, and consequently of some demonstrative value—the same ideal driving to the same conclusion the decisive point reached five hundred years before the European era, or more precisely at the time of Buddha—it started in the Sankhyam philosophy, and then this was popularised through Buddha, and made into a religion.)

Enough! Enough! Let us leave these oddities and complexities of the modern spirit, which provoke as much laughter as disgust. Our problem can certainly do without them: the problem of the meaning of the ascetic ideal. What does that problem have to do with yesterday or today? I will deal with those matters more thoroughly and harshly elsewhere, under the title "A Contribution to the History of European Nihilism." For this, I refer to a work I am preparing: The Will to Power, an Attempt at a Transvaluation of All Values. I mention these matters here for only one reason. At times, even in the most intellectual realm, the ascetic ideal has only one kind of real enemies and underminers. These are the ideal's comedians, for they arouse distrust. Everywhere else, where the mind works seriously, powerfully, and without pretense, it now does entirely without an ideal. The popular name for this abstinence is "Atheism." There is one exception: the will to truth. But this will, this remnant of an ideal, is, if you will believe me, that very ideal itself. It is the ideal in its strictest and cleverest form, inward and hidden throughout, stripped of all outer defenses. Consequently, the will to truth is not so much the ideal's remnant as its core. Completely honest atheism is not as opposed to that ideal as it appears to be. We, the most intellectual people of this age, breathe only the air of such atheism. Rather, atheism is one of the final stages of the ideal's development, one of its logical deductions and inevitable conclusions. It is the awe-inspiring catastrophe produced by two thousand years of training in truthfulness. That training finally forbids itself the lie of belief in God. (The same development occurred in India, quite independently, which therefore gives it some value as evidence. The same ideal led to the same conclusion. The decisive point came five hundred years before the European era, or, more precisely, at the time of Buddha. This development began in Sankhyam philosophy. Buddha then popularized that philosophy and turned it into a religion.)

What, I put the question with all strictness, has really triumphed over the Christian God? The answer stands in my Joyful Wisdom, Aph. 357: "the Christian morality itself, the idea of truth, taken as it was with increasing seriousness, the confessor-subtlety of the Christian conscience translated and sublimated into the scientific conscience into intellectual cleanness at any price. Regarding Nature as though it were a proof of the goodness and guardianship of God; interpreting history in honour of a divine reason, as a constant proof of a moral order of the world and a moral teleology; explaining our own personal experiences, as pious men have for long enough explained them, as though every arrangement, every nod, every single thing were invented and sent out of love for the salvation of the soul; all this is now done away with, all this has the conscience against it, and is regarded by every subtler conscience as disreputable, dishonourable, as lying, feminism, weakness, cowardice—by means of this severity, if by means of anything at all, are we, in sooth, good Europeans and heirs of Europe's longest and bravest self-mastery."... All great things go to ruin by reason of themselves, by reason of an act of self-dissolution: so wills the law of life, the law of necessary "self-mastery" even in the essence of life—ever is the law-giver finally exposed to the cry, "patere legem quam ipse tulisti"; in thus wise did Christianity go to ruin as a dogma, through its own morality; in thus wise must Christianity go again to ruin to-day as a morality—we are standing on the threshold of this event. After Christian truthfulness has drawn one conclusion after the other, it finally draws its strongest conclusion, its conclusion against itself; this, however, happens, when it puts the question, "what is the meaning of every will for truth?" And here again do I touch on my problem, on our problem, my unknown friends (for as yet I know of no friends): what sense has our whole being, if it does not mean that in our own selves that will for truth has come to its own consciousness as a problem?—--By reason of this attainment of self-consciousness on the part of the will for truth, morality from henceforward—there is no doubt about it—goes to pieces: this is that great hundred-act play that is reserved for the next two centuries of Europe, the most terrible, the most mysterious, and perhaps also the most hopeful of all plays.

What, I ask with complete seriousness, has really triumphed over the Christian God? The answer appears in my Joyful Wisdom, Aph. 357: "Christian morality itself, the idea of truth taken more and more seriously. The Christian conscience, with its confessor's finely honed scrutiny, was transformed and refined into the scientific conscience. It became a demand for intellectual integrity at any cost. People once viewed Nature as proof of God's goodness and protection. They interpreted history to glorify divine reason, as constant proof of a moral world order and a moral purpose. They explained their personal experiences as devout people have done for long enough. Every circumstance, every hint, every single thing supposedly came from God's love, devised and sent to save the soul. All this is now rejected. All this has the conscience against it. Every more discerning conscience regards such interpretations as disreputable, dishonorable, as lies, effeminacy, weakness, cowardice. Through this severity, if through anything at all, we truly are good Europeans and heirs to Europe's longest, bravest self-mastery."... All great things destroy themselves through an act of self-dissolution. This is what the law of life demands, the law of necessary "self-mastery" even within life's very essence. The lawgiver always faces this demand in the end: "submit to the law you yourself laid down". In this way, Christianity collapsed as a dogma through its own morality. In this way, Christianity must now collapse again as a morality. We stand on the threshold of this event. After Christian truthfulness has drawn one conclusion after another, it finally draws its strongest conclusion, a conclusion against itself. This happens when Christian truthfulness asks, "what is the meaning of every will to truth?" Here I return to my problem, to our problem, my unknown friends. (For so far, I know of no friends.) What meaning does our whole existence have, unless the will to truth has become conscious of itself as a problem within us? Because the will to truth has reached this self-awareness, morality will now, without a doubt, fall to pieces. This is the great hundred-act play awaiting Europe over the next two centuries. It is the most terrible, the most mysterious, and perhaps also the most hopeful of all plays.

If you except the ascetic ideal, man, the animal man had no meaning. His existence on earth contained no end; "What is the purpose of man at all?" was a question without an answer; the will for man and the world was lacking; behind every great human destiny rang as a refrain a still greater "Vanity!" The ascetic ideal simply means this: that something was lacking, that a tremendous void encircled man—he did not know how to justify himself, to explain himself, to affirm himself, he suffered from the problem of his own meaning. He suffered also in other ways, he was in the main a diseased animal; but his problem was not suffering itself, but the lack of an answer to that crying question, "To what purpose do we suffer?" Man, the bravest animal and the one most inured to suffering, does not repudiate suffering in itself: he wills it, he even seeks it out, provided that he is shown a meaning for it, a purpose of suffering. Not suffering, but the senselessness of suffering was the curse which till then lay spread over humanity—and the ascetic ideal gave it a meaning! It was up till then the only meaning; but any meaning is better than no meaning; the ascetic ideal was in that connection the "faute de mieux" par excellence that existed at that time. In that ideal suffering found an explanation; the tremendous gap seemed filled; the door to all suicidal Nihilism was closed. The explanation—there is no doubt about it—brought in its train new suffering, deeper, more penetrating, more venomous, gnawing more brutally into life: it brought all suffering under the perspective of guilt; but in spite of all that—man was saved thereby, he had a meaning, and from henceforth was no more like a leaf in the wind, a shuttle-cock of chance, of nonsense, he could now "will" something—absolutely immaterial to what end, to what purpose, with what means he wished: the will itself was saved. It is absolutely impossible to disguise what in point of fact is made clear by every complete will that has taken its direction from the ascetic ideal: this hate of the human, and even more of the animal, and more still of the material, this horror of the senses, of reason itself, this fear of happiness and beauty, this desire to get right away from all illusion, change, growth, death, wishing and even desiring—all this means—let us have the courage to grasp it—a will for Nothingness, a will opposed to life, a repudiation of the most fundamental conditions of life, but it is and remains a will!—and to say at the end that which I said at the beginning—man will wish Nothingness rather than not wish at all.

Without the ascetic ideal, man, the human animal, had no meaning. His existence on earth had no purpose. "What is the purpose of man at all?" was a question without an answer. The will for man and the world was missing. Behind every great human destiny echoed an even greater "Vanity!" The ascetic ideal simply means that something was missing, that an enormous void surrounded man. He did not know how to justify himself, explain himself, or affirm himself. He suffered from the problem of his own meaning. He suffered in other ways too. He was, for the most part, a sick animal. But his problem was not suffering itself. His problem was having no answer to the urgent question, "Why do we suffer?" Man, the bravest animal and the most accustomed to suffering, does not reject suffering itself. He wills it, even seeks it out, provided he is shown a meaning for it, a purpose for suffering. Not suffering, but the meaninglessness of suffering was the curse that had hung over humanity until then. And the ascetic ideal gave suffering a meaning! Until then, it was the only meaning. But any meaning is better than no meaning. In this respect, the ascetic ideal was the ultimate "for lack of anything better" available at the time. Within that ideal, suffering found an explanation. The enormous gap seemed filled. The door to all suicidal Nihilism was closed. The explanation undoubtedly brought new suffering with it. This suffering was deeper, more piercing, more poisonous, and gnawed more brutally into life. The explanation cast all suffering in terms of guilt. But despite all this, man was saved by it. He had a meaning. He was no longer like a leaf in the wind, a plaything of chance and nonsense. He could now "will" something. The goal, the purpose, and the means he wanted to use did not matter at all. The will itself was saved. What every fully developed will guided by the ascetic ideal actually reveals is impossible to hide. It reveals hatred of the human, still more of the animal, and more still of the material. It reveals horror of the senses and of reason itself, fear of happiness and beauty. It reveals a desire to escape all illusion, change, growth, death, wishing, and even desiring. Let us have the courage to grasp what all this means. It means a will for Nothingness, a will opposed to life, a rejection of life's most basic conditions. But it is and remains a will! And to end by saying what I said at the beginning: man would rather will Nothingness than not will at all.