Morality as Nature's Enemy

There is a time when all passions are simply fatal in their action, when they wreck their victims with the weight of their folly,—and there is a later period, a very much later period, when they marry with the spirit, when they “spiritualise” themselves. Formerly, owing to the stupidity inherent in passion, men waged war against passion itself: men pledged themselves to annihilate it,—all ancient moral-mongers were unanimous on this point, “il faut tuer les passions.” The most famous formula for this stands in the New Testament, in that Sermon on the Mount, where, let it be said incidentally, things are by no means regarded from a height. It is said there, for instance, with an application to sexuality: “if thy eye offend thee, pluck it out”: fortunately no Christian acts in obedience to this precept. To annihilate the passions and desires, simply on account of their stupidity, and to obviate the unpleasant consequences of their stupidity, seems to us to-day merely an aggravated form of stupidity. We no longer admire those dentists who extract teeth simply in order that they may not ache again. On the other hand, it will be admitted with some reason, that on the soil from which Christianity grew, the idea of the “spiritualisation of passion” could not possibly have been conceived. The early Church, as everyone knows, certainly did wage war against the “intelligent,” in favour of the “poor in spirit” In these circumstances how could the passions be combated intelligently? The Church combats passion by means of excision of all kinds: its practice, its “remedy,” is castration. It never inquires “how can a desire be spiritualised, beautified, deified?”—In all ages it has laid the weight of discipline in the process of extirpation (the extirpation of sensuality, pride, lust of dominion, lust of property, and revenge).—But to attack the passions at their roots, means attacking life itself at its source: the method of the Church is hostile to life.

There is a time when all passions are simply destructive. They wreck their victims under the weight of their folly. Much later, they unite with the spirit and “spiritualise” themselves. In the past, people fought passion itself because passion was inherently stupid. They pledged to destroy it. All the ancient moralizers agreed on this point: “il faut tuer les passions.” The most famous expression of this idea appears in the New Testament, in the Sermon on the Mount. Incidentally, things there are by no means viewed from a height. For example, it says of sexuality: “if thy eye offend thee, pluck it out”. Fortunately, no Christian obeys this command. Today, destroying passions and desires simply because they are stupid seems to us even more stupid. The same is true of destroying them to avoid the unpleasant consequences of their stupidity. We no longer admire dentists who pull teeth simply to prevent them from aching again. On the other hand, there is good reason to admit that the idea of the “spiritualisation of passion” could not have arisen from the soil where Christianity grew. As everyone knows, the early Church did wage war against the “intelligent” in favor of the “poor in spirit”. Under these circumstances, how could it fight the passions intelligently? The Church fights passion by cutting it out in every possible way. Its practice, its “remedy”, is castration. It never asks, “how can a desire be spiritualised, beautified, deified?” In every age, it has devoted its discipline to uprooting sensuality, pride, the lust for power, the lust for property, and revenge. But to attack the passions at their roots means attacking life itself at its source. The Church’s method is hostile to life.

The same means, castration and extirpation, are instinctively chosen for waging war against a passion, by those who are too weak of will, too degenerate, to impose some sort of moderation upon it; by those natures who, to speak in metaphor (—and without metaphor), need la Trappe, or some kind of ultimatum of war, a gulf set between themselves and a passion. Only degenerates find radical methods indispensable: weakness of will, or more strictly speaking, the inability not to react to a stimulus, is in itself simply another form of degeneracy. Radical and mortal hostility to sensuality, remains a suspicious symptom: it justifies one in being suspicious of the general state of one who goes to such extremes. Moreover, that hostility and hatred reach their height only when such natures no longer possess enough strength of character to adopt the radical remedy, to renounce their inner “Satan.” Look at the whole history of the priests, the philosophers, and the artists as well: the most poisonous diatribes against the senses have not been said by the impotent, nor by the ascetics; but by those impossible ascetics, by those who found it necessary to be ascetics.

People who are too weak-willed, too degenerate, to exercise some restraint over a passion instinctively choose the same means to fight it: castration and eradication. Such people need la Trappe or some kind of ultimatum of war, a gulf between themselves and their passion. I mean this both metaphorically and literally. Only degenerates find radical methods indispensable. Weakness of will, or more precisely, the inability not to react to a stimulus, is itself simply another form of degeneracy. Radical and deadly hostility to sensuality remains a suspicious symptom. It gives us reason to suspect that something is generally wrong with the person who goes to such extremes. Moreover, that hostility and hatred reach their height only when such people no longer have enough strength of character to take the radical cure and renounce their inner “Satan.” Look at the entire history of priests, philosophers, and artists too. The most poisonous attacks on the senses have come not from the impotent or the ascetics, but from those impossible ascetics who found it necessary to be ascetics.

The spiritualisation of sensuality is called love: it is a great triumph over Christianity. Another triumph is our spiritualisation of hostility. It consists in the fact that we are beginning to realise very profoundly the value of having enemies: in short that with them we are forced to do and to conclude precisely the reverse of what we previously did and concluded. In all ages the Church wished to annihilate its enemies: we, the immoralists and Antichrists, see our advantage in the survival of the Church. Even in political life, hostility has now become more spiritual,—much more cautious, much more thoughtful, and much more moderate. Almost every party sees its self-preservative interests in preventing the Opposition from going to pieces; and the same applies to politics on a grand scale. A new creation, more particularly, like the new Empire, has more need of enemies than friends: only as a contrast does it begin to feel necessary, only as a contrast does it become necessary. And we behave in precisely the same way to the “inner enemy”: in this quarter too we have spiritualised enmity, in this quarter too we have understood its value. A man is productive only in so far as he is rich in contrasted instincts; he can remain young only on condition that his soul does not begin to take things easy and to yearn for peace. Nothing has grown more alien to us than that old desire—the “peace of the soul,” which is the aim of Christianity. Nothing could make us less envious than the moral cow and the plump happiness of a clean conscience. The man who has renounced war has renounced a grand life. In many cases, of course, “peace of the soul” is merely a misunderstanding,—it is something very different which has failed to find a more honest name for itself. Without either circumlocution or prejudice I will suggest a few cases. “Peace of the soul” may for instance be the sweet effulgence of rich animality in the realm of morality (or religion). Or the first presage of weariness, the first shadow that evening, every kind of evening, is wont to cast. Or a sign that the air is moist, and that winds are blowing up from the south. Or unconscious gratitude for a good digestion (sometimes called “brotherly love”). Or the serenity of the convalescent, on whose lips all things have a new taste, and who bides his time. Or the condition which follows upon a thorough gratification of our strongest passion, the well-being of unaccustomed satiety. Or the senility of our will, of our desires, and of our vices. Or laziness, coaxed by vanity into togging itself out in a moral garb. Or the ending of a state of long suspense and of agonising uncertainty, by a state of certainty, of even terrible certainty. Or the expression of ripeness and mastery in the midst of a task, of a creative work, of a production, of a thing willed, the calm breathing that denotes that “freedom of will” has been attained. Who knows?—maybe The Twilight of the Idols is only a sort of “peace of the soul.”

The spiritualisation of sensuality is called love: it is a great triumph over Christianity. Another triumph is our spiritualisation of hostility. We are beginning to understand very deeply the value of having enemies. In short, enemies force us to act and think in exactly the opposite way from how we once did. In every age, the Church wanted to destroy its enemies. We, the immoralists and Antichrists, see an advantage in the Church’s survival. Hostility has now become more spiritual in political life too. It has become much more cautious, thoughtful, and moderate. Almost every party sees that its own survival depends on preventing the Opposition from falling apart. The same applies to politics on a grand scale. A new creation, especially one like the new Empire, needs enemies more than friends. Only in contrast to its enemies does it begin to feel necessary. Only in contrast to them does it become necessary. We behave in exactly the same way toward the “inner enemy”. Here too we have spiritualised hostility and understood its value. A person is productive only to the extent that they are rich in conflicting instincts. They can remain young only if their soul does not begin to take things easy and long for peace. Nothing has become more foreign to us than that old desire for “peace of the soul”. This is the aim of Christianity. Nothing could make us less envious than the moral cow and the plump happiness of a clean conscience. Anyone who has given up war has given up a grand life. Of course, in many cases “peace of the soul” is merely a misunderstanding. It is something very different that has failed to find a more honest name for itself. Without beating around the bush or passing judgment, I will suggest a few examples. “Peace of the soul” may be the sweet glow of rich animal vitality in the realm of morality (or religion). Or it may be the first sign of weariness, the first shadow cast by evening, any kind of evening. Or it may be a sign that the air is damp and winds are blowing in from the south. Or it may be unconscious gratitude for good digestion (sometimes called “brotherly love”). Or it may be the calm of someone recovering from illness. Everything has a new taste for this person, who waits for the right moment. Or it may be the state that follows the complete satisfaction of our strongest passion. It is the well-being of someone not used to having their fill. Or it may be the old age of our will, our desires, and our vices. Or it may be laziness, coaxed by vanity into dressing itself in moral clothes. Or it may be the end of a long state of suspense and agonising uncertainty, replaced by certainty, even terrible certainty. Or it may be the expression of ripeness and mastery in the midst of a task, a creative work, a production, or something one has willed. It is the calm breathing that shows “freedom of will” has been achieved. Who knows? Maybe The Twilight of the Idols is only a kind of “peace of the soul.”

I will formulate a principle. All naturalism in morality—that is to say, every sound morality is ruled by a life instinct,—any one of the laws of life is fulfilled by the definite canon “thou shalt,” “thou shalt not,” and any sort of obstacle or hostile element in the road of life is thus cleared away. Conversely, the morality which is antagonistic to nature—that is to say, almost every morality that has been taught, honoured and preached hitherto, is directed precisely against the life-instincts,—it is a condemnation, now secret, now blatant and impudent, of these very instincts. Inasmuch as it says “God sees into the heart of man,” it says Nay to the profoundest and most superior desires of life and takes God as the enemy of life. The saint in whom God is well pleased, is the ideal eunuch. Life terminates where the “Kingdom of God” begins.

I will state a principle. All naturalism in morality, that is, every sound morality, is governed by an instinct for life. Some law of life is fulfilled through a clear commandment: “thou shalt,” “thou shalt not.” In this way, obstacles and hostile forces are cleared from life’s path. By contrast, morality opposed to nature is directed precisely against the instincts of life. This includes almost every morality taught, honored, and preached so far. It condemns those very instincts, sometimes secretly, sometimes openly and shamelessly. When it says “God sees into the heart of man,” it says no to life’s deepest and highest desires. It makes God the enemy of life. The saint who pleases God is the ideal eunuch. Life ends where the “Kingdom of God” begins.

Admitting that you have understood the villainy of such a mutiny against life as that which has become almost sacrosanct in Christian morality, you have fortunately understood something besides; and that is the futility, the fictitiousness, the absurdity and the falseness of such a mutiny. For the condemnation of life by a living creature is after all but the symptom of a definite kind of life: the question as to whether the condemnation is justified or the reverse is not even raised. In order even to approach the problem of the value of life, a man would need to be placed outside life, and moreover know it as well as one, as many, as all in fact, who have lived it These are reasons enough to prove to us that this problem is an inaccessible one to us. When we speak of values, we speak under the inspiration, and through the optics of life: life itself urges us to determine values: life itself values through us when we determine values. From which it follows that even that morality which is antagonistic to life, and which conceives God as the opposite and the condemnation of life, is only a valuation of life—of what life? of what kind of life? But I have already answered this question: it is the valuation of declining, of enfeebled, of exhausted and of condemned life. Morality, as it has been understood hitherto—as it was finally formulated by Schopenhauer in the words “The Denial of the Will to Life,” is the instinct of degeneration itself, which converts itself into an imperative: it says: “Perish!” It is the death sentence of men who are already doomed.

Suppose you understand the villainy of this revolt against life, which has become almost sacred in Christian morality. Then, fortunately, you have understood something else too. You have understood how futile, imaginary, absurd, and false this revolt is. After all, when a living creature condemns life, that is only a symptom of a particular kind of life. The question of whether the condemnation is justified does not even arise. To approach the question of life’s value, a person would have to stand outside life. And that person would also have to know life as well as one, as many, indeed as all who have lived it. These are reasons enough to show that the question is beyond our reach. When we speak of values, we do so inspired by life and through its lens. Life itself urges us to determine values. Life itself values through us when we determine values. It follows that even a morality hostile to life is only a valuation of life. This morality conceives God as the opposite and condemnation of life. But what life does it value? What kind of life? I have already answered this question. It is the valuation of a declining, weakened, exhausted, and condemned life. Morality as it has been understood until now is the instinct of degeneration itself, turning itself into a command. Schopenhauer gave morality its final formulation in the words “The Denial of the Will to Life.” It says: “Perish!” It is the death sentence passed by people who are already doomed.

Let us at last consider how exceedingly simple it is on our part to say: “Man should be thus and thus!” Reality shows us a marvellous wealth of types, and a luxuriant variety of forms and changes: and yet the first wretch of a moral loafer that comes along cries “No! Man should be different!” He even knows what man should be like, does this sanctimonious prig: he draws his own face on the wall and declares: “ecce homo!” But even when the moralist addresses himself only to the individual and says “thus and thus shouldst thou be!” he still makes an ass of himself. The individual in his past and future is a piece of fate, one law the more, one necessity the more for all that is to come and is to be. To say to him “change thyself,” is tantamount to saying that everything should change, even backwards as well. Truly these have been consistent moralists, they wished man to be different, i.e., virtuous; they wished him to be after their own image,—that is to say sanctimonious humbugs. And to this end they denied the world! No slight form of insanity! No modest form of immodesty! Morality, in so far it condemns per se, and not out of any aim, consideration or motive of life, is a specific error, for which no one should feel any mercy, a degenerate idiosyncrasy, that has done an unutterable amount of harm. We others, we immoralists, on the contrary, have opened our hearts wide to all kinds of comprehension, understanding and approbation.¹ We do not deny readily, we glory in saying yea to things. Our eyes have opened ever wider and wider to that economy which still employs and knows how to use to its own advantage all that which the sacred craziness of priests and the morbid reason in priests, rejects; to that economy in the law of life which draws its own advantage even out of the repulsive race of bigots, the priests and the virtuous,—what advantage?—But we ourselves, we immoralists, are the reply to this question.

Let us finally consider how absurdly simple it is for us to say: “Man should be this way or that!” Reality shows us a marvelous wealth of types and a flourishing variety of forms and changes. Yet the first miserable moral loafer to come along cries, “No! Man should be different!” This sanctimonious prig even knows what man should look like. He draws his own face on the wall and declares: “ecce homo!” But even when the moralist addresses only an individual and says, “You should be this way or that!” he still makes an ass of himself. An individual, in his past and future, is a piece of fate. He is one more law, one more necessity for all that is to come and to be. To tell him “change yourself” is the same as saying that everything should change, even backward into the past. Truly, some moralists have been consistent. They wanted man to be different, i.e., virtuous. They wanted him made in their own image, which is to say, as a sanctimonious fraud. And to achieve this, they denied the world! No slight form of insanity! No modest form of immodesty! Morality condemns per se, and not for any aim, consideration, or motive of life. To that extent, it is a particular error that deserves no mercy. It is a degenerate peculiarity that has done an unspeakable amount of harm. We others, we immoralists, by contrast, have opened our hearts wide to every kind of comprehension, understanding, and approval.¹ We do not readily deny things. We glory in saying yes to them. Our eyes have opened ever wider to that economy which still uses everything rejected by the sacred madness and diseased reason of priests. It knows how to turn all of it to its own advantage. This economy in the law of life even draws advantage from the repulsive race of bigots, the priests and the virtuous. What advantage? We ourselves, we immoralists, are the answer to that question.