Preface

To maintain a cheerful attitude of mind in the midst of a gloomy and exceedingly responsible task, is no slight artistic feat. And yet, what could be more necessary than cheerfulness? Nothing ever succeeds which exuberant spirits have not helped to produce. Surplus power, alone, is the proof of power.—A transvaluation of all values,—this note of interrogation which is so black, so huge, that it casts a shadow even upon him who affixes it,—is a task of such fatal import, that he who undertakes it is compelled every now and then to rush out into the sunlight in order to shake himself free from an earnestness that becomes crushing, far too crushing. This end justifies every means, every event on the road to it is a windfall. Above all war. War has always been the great policy of all spirits who have penetrated too far into themselves or who have grown too deep; a wound stimulates the recuperative powers. For many years, a maxim, the origin of which I withhold from learned curiosity, has been my motto:

Keeping a cheerful mind while doing a grim and extremely serious task is no small artistic achievement. Yet what could be more necessary than cheerfulness? Nothing succeeds without the help of high spirits. Only an excess of strength proves that one is strong. A transvaluation of all values is a question mark so black and so enormous that it casts a shadow even on the person who raises it. The task has such fateful significance that anyone who undertakes it must now and then rush out into the sunlight. There, they can shake off a seriousness that becomes crushing, far too crushing. This end justifies every means. Everything that happens along the way is a stroke of good fortune. Above all, war. War has always been the great strategy of all spirits who have looked too far into themselves or grown too deep. A wound stimulates the power to recover. For many years, a maxim has been my motto. I will not satisfy scholarly curiosity by revealing where it came from:

At other times another means of recovery which is even more to my taste, is to cross-examine idols. There are more idols than realities in the world: this constitutes my “evil eye” for this world: it is also my “evil ear.” To put questions in this quarter with a hammer, and to hear perchance that well-known hollow sound which tells of blown-out frogs,—what a joy this is for one who has ears even behind his ears, for an old psychologist and Pied Piper like myself in whose presence precisely that which would fain be silent, must betray itself.

At other times, I find an even more appealing way to recover: questioning idols. There are more idols than realities in the world. This is my “evil eye” for the world. It is also my “evil ear.” What a joy it is to question idols with a hammer and perhaps hear that familiar hollow sound of inflated frogs! This is a joy for someone with ears even behind his ears. I am an old psychologist and Pied Piper, and in my presence, precisely what would rather stay silent must give itself away.

Even this treatise—as its title shows—is above all a recreation, a ray of sunshine, a leap sideways of a psychologist in his leisure moments. Maybe, too, a new war? And are we again cross-examining new idols? This little work is a great declaration of war; and with regard to the cross-examining of idols, this time it is not the idols of the age but eternal idols which are here struck with a hammer as with a tuning fork,—there are certainly no idols which are older, more convinced, and more inflated. Neither are there any more hollow. This does not alter the fact that they are believed in more than any others, besides they are never called idols,—at least, not the most exalted among their number.

Even this book, as its title shows, is above all a diversion, a ray of sunshine. It is a psychologist’s sideways leap in his leisure time. Perhaps it is also a new war? And are we once again cross-examining new idols? This little book is a great declaration of war. But this time, it is not the idols of the age that I strike with a hammer, as if testing them with a tuning fork. It is the eternal idols. Certainly, no idols are older, more sure of themselves, or more inflated. Nor are any more hollow. Yet they are believed in more than any others. And they are never called idols, at least not the most exalted among them.

FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE.

FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE.

TURIN, the 30th September 1888.

TURIN, September 30, 1888.