Skirmishes in a War Against the Age

My Impossible People.—Seneca, or the toreador of virtue—-Rousseau, or the return to nature, in impuris naturalibus.—Schiller, or the Moral-Trumpeter of Sackingen.—Dante, or the hyæna that writes poetry in tombs.—Kant, or cant as an intelligible character.—Victor Hugo, or the lighthouse on the sea of nonsense.—Liszt, or the school of racing—after women.—George Sand, or lactea ubertas, in plain English: the cow with plenty of beautiful milk.—Michelet, or enthusiasm in its shirt sleeves.—Carlyle, or Pessimism after undigested meals.—John Stuart Mill, or offensive lucidity.—The brothers Goncourt, or the two Ajaxes fighting with Homer. Music by Offenbach.—Zola, or the love of stinking.

My Impossible People. Seneca, the bullfighter of virtue. Rousseau, the return to nature, in an impure state of nature. Schiller, the Moral Trumpeter of Sackingen. Dante, the hyena that writes poetry in tombs. Kant, or cant as a way of thinking. Victor Hugo, the lighthouse on the sea of nonsense. Liszt, or the school of racing after women. George Sand, or milky abundance, in plain English: the cow with plenty of beautiful milk. Michelet, or enthusiasm in its shirtsleeves. Carlyle, or pessimism after an undigested meal. John Stuart Mill, or offensive clarity. The Goncourt brothers, the two Ajaxes fighting with Homer. Music by Offenbach. Zola, or the love of stinking.

Renan.—Theology, or the corruption of reason by original sin (Christianity). Proof of this,—Renan who, even in those rare cases where he ventures to say either Yes or No on a general question, invariably misses the point with painful regularity. For instance, he would fain associate science and nobility: but surely it must be obvious that science is democratic. He seems to be actuated by a strong desire to represent an aristocracy of intellect: but, at the same time he grovels on his knees, and not only on his knees, before the opposite doctrine, the gospel of the humble. What is the good of all free-spiritedness, modernity, mockery and acrobatic suppleness, if in one’s belly one is still a Christian, a Catholic, and even a priest! Renan’s forte, precisely like that of a Jesuit and Father Confessor, lies in his seductiveness. His intellectuality is not devoid of that unctuous complacency of a parson,—like all priests, he becomes dangerous only when he loves. He is second to none in the art of skilfully worshipping a dangerous thing. This intellect of Renan’s, which in its action is enervating, is one calamity the more, for poor, sick France with her will-power all going to pieces.

Renan. Theology is reason corrupted by original sin (Christianity). Renan is proof of this. Even when he dares to say Yes or No on a general question, he misses the point with painful regularity. For example, he wants to associate science with nobility. But surely it must be obvious that science is democratic. He seems eager to represent an aristocracy of intellect. Yet at the same time, he grovels, and not just on his knees, before the opposite doctrine, the gospel of the humble. What good are a free spirit, modernity, mockery, and acrobatic flexibility if, in your gut, you are still a Christian, a Catholic, and even a priest? Renan’s strength, just like a Jesuit’s or a Father Confessor’s, is his power to seduce. His intellect has some of the oily self-satisfaction of a parson. Like all priests, he becomes dangerous only when he loves. No one is better at skillfully worshipping a dangerous thing. Renan’s intellect weakens people. It is one more calamity for poor, sick France, whose willpower is falling apart.

Sainte-Beuve.—There is naught of man in him; he is full of petty spite towards all virile spirits. He wanders erratically; he is subtle, inquisitive, a little bored, for ever with his ear to key-holes,—at bottom a woman, with all woman’s revengefulness and sensuality. As a psychologist he is a genius of slander; inexhaustively rich in means to this end; no one understands better than he how to introduce a little poison into praise. In his fundamental instincts he is plebeian and next of kin to Rousseau’s resentful spirit: consequently he is a Romanticist—for beneath all romanticism Rousseau’s instinct for revenge grunts and frets. He is a revolutionary, but kept within bounds by “funk.” He is embarrassed in the face of everything that is strong (public opinion, the Academy, the court, even Port Royal). He is embittered against everything great in men and things, against everything that believes in itself. Enough of a poet and of a female to be able to feel greatness as power; he is always turning and twisting, because, like the proverbial worm, he constantly feels that he is being trodden upon. As a critic he has no standard of judgment, no guiding principle, no backbone. Although he possesses the tongue of the Cosmopolitan libertine which can chatter about a thousand things, he has not the courage even to acknowledge his libertinage. As a historian he has no philosophy, and lacks the power of philosophical vision,—hence his refusal to act the part of a judge, and his adoption of the mask of “objectivity” in all important matters. His attitude is better in regard to all those things in which subtle and effete taste is the highest tribunal: in these things he really does have the courage of his own personality—he really does enjoy his own nature—he actually is a master,—In some respects he is a prototype of Baudelaire.

Sainte-Beuve. There is nothing manly in him. He is full of petty spite toward all manly spirits. He wanders aimlessly. He is subtle, curious, a little bored, and always listening at keyholes. At heart he is a woman, with all a woman’s vindictiveness and sensuality. As a psychologist, he is a genius at slander, with endlessly varied means of practicing it. No one knows better how to slip a little poison into praise. His basic instincts are those of a commoner, closely related to Rousseau’s resentful spirit. As a result, he is a Romantic. For beneath all Romanticism, Rousseau’s instinct for revenge grunts and frets. He is a revolutionary, but his fear keeps him in check. He is uneasy before anything powerful, whether public opinion, the Academy, the court, or even Port Royal. He resents everything great in people and things, everything that believes in itself. He is enough of a poet and a woman to feel greatness as power. Like the proverbial worm, he is always twisting and turning because he constantly feels trodden on. As a critic, he has no standard of judgment, no guiding principle, no backbone. He has the cosmopolitan libertine’s gift for chattering about a thousand things. Yet he lacks the courage even to acknowledge his libertinage. As a historian, he has no philosophy and no power of philosophical vision. So he refuses to act as a judge and wears the mask of “objectivity” in all important matters. He is better when subtle and refined taste is the highest judge. In such matters, he really does have the courage to be himself. He really does enjoy his own nature. He actually is a master. In some respects, he is a prototype of Baudelaire.

“The Imitation of Christ” is one of those books which I cannot even take hold of without physical loathing: it exhales a perfume of the eternally feminine, which to appreciate fully one must be a Frenchman or a Wagnerite. This saint has a way of speaking about love which makes even Parisiennes feel a little curious.—I am told that that most intelligent of Jesuits, Auguste Comte, who wished to lead his compatriots back to Rome by the circuitous route of science, drew his inspiration from this book. And I believe it: “The religion of the heart.”

“The Imitation of Christ” is one of those books I cannot even touch without feeling physically disgusted. It gives off a perfume of the eternally feminine. To fully appreciate it, you must be a Frenchman or a Wagnerite. This saint speaks about love in a way that makes even Parisiennes a little curious. I am told that Auguste Comte, that most intelligent of Jesuits, drew his inspiration from this book. He wanted to lead his compatriots back to Rome by the roundabout route of science. And I believe it: “The religion of the heart.”

G. Eliot.—They are rid of the Christian God and therefore think it all the more incumbent upon them to hold tight to Christian morality: this is an English way of reasoning; but let us not take it ill in moral females à la Eliot. In England, every man who indulges in any trifling emancipation from theology, must retrieve his honour in the most terrifying manner by becoming a moral fanatic. That is how they do penance in that country.—As for us, we act differently. When we renounce the Christian faith, we abandon all right to Christian morality. This is not by any means self-evident and in defiance of English shallow-pates the point must be made ever more and more plain. Christianity is a system, a complete outlook upon the world, conceived as a whole. If its leading concept, the belief in God, is wrenched from it, the whole is destroyed; nothing vital remains in our grasp. Christianity presupposes that man does not and cannot know what is good or bad for him: the Christian believes in God who, alone, can know these things. Christian morality is a command, its origin is transcendental. It is beyond all criticism, all right to criticism; it is true only on condition that God is truth,—it stands or falls with the belief in God. If the English really believe that they know intuitively, and of their own accord, what is good and evil; if, therefore, they assert that they no longer need Christianity as a guarantee of morality, this in itself is simply the outcome of the dominion of Christian valuations, and a proof of the strength and profundity of this dominion. It only shows that the origin of English morality has been forgotten, and that its exceedingly relative right to exist is no longer felt. For Englishmen morality is not yet a problem.

G. Eliot. They have got rid of the Christian God. So they think they must cling all the more tightly to Christian morality. This is an English way of reasoning. But let us not hold it against moralizing women à la Eliot. In England, any man who frees himself even slightly from theology must restore his honor in the most terrifying way. He must become a moral fanatic. That is how they do penance in that country. As for us, we act differently. When we renounce the Christian faith, we give up all right to Christian morality. This is by no means obvious. And, in defiance of English shallow minds, the point must be made ever clearer. Christianity is a system, a complete view of the world, conceived as a whole. If its central idea, belief in God, is torn out, the whole system is destroyed. Nothing vital remains in our grasp. Christianity assumes that man does not and cannot know what is good or bad for him. The Christian believes in God, who alone can know these things. Christian morality is a command whose origin is transcendental. It is beyond all criticism and beyond any right to criticize it. It is true only if God is truth. It stands or falls with belief in God. If the English really believe they know good and evil intuitively, on their own, they claim to need no Christian guarantee for morality. But this belief is simply a product of the rule of Christian values. It proves how strong and deep that rule is. It only shows that the origin of English morality has been forgotten. People no longer feel how limited its right to exist is. For Englishmen, morality is not yet a problem.

George Sand.—I have been reading the first “Lettres d’un Voyageur:” like everything that springs from Rousseau’s influence it is false, made-up, blown out, and exaggerated! I cannot endure this bright wall-paper style, any more than I can bear the vulgar striving after generous feelings. The worst feature about it is certainly the coquettish adoption of male attributes by this female, after the manner of ill-bred schoolboys. And how cold she must have been inwardly all the while, this insufferable artist! She wound herself up like a clock—and wrote. As cold as Hugo and Balzac, as cold as all Romanticists are as soon as they begin to write! And how self-complacently she must have lain there, this prolific ink-yielding cow. For she had something German in her (German in the bad sense), just as Rousseau, her master, had;—something which could only have been possible when French taste was declining!—and Renan adores her!...

George Sand. I have been reading the first “Lettres d’un Voyageur:” Like everything influenced by Rousseau, it is false, contrived, inflated, and exaggerated! I cannot stand this bright wallpaper style, any more than I can stand the vulgar effort to display generous feelings. Worst of all, this woman coyly takes on male traits, like a badly brought-up schoolboy. And how cold she must have been inside all the while, this unbearable artist! She wound herself up like a clock and wrote. She was as cold as Hugo and Balzac, as cold as all Romanticists are as soon as they start writing! And how smugly she must have lain there, this prolific ink-producing cow. For there was something German about her, German in the bad sense, just as there was about Rousseau, her master. This could only have been possible when French taste was declining! And Renan adores her!...

A Moral for Psychologists. Do not go in for any note-book psychology! Never observe for the sake of observing! Such things lead to a false point of view, to a squint, to something forced and exaggerated. To experience things on purpose—this is not a bit of good. In the midst of an experience a man should not turn his eyes upon himself; in such cases any eye becomes the “evil eye.” A born psychologist instinctively avoids seeing for the sake of seeing. And the same holds good of the born painter. Such a man never works “from nature,”—he leaves it to his instinct, to his camera obscura to sift and to define the “fact,” “nature,” the “experience.” The general idea, the conclusion, the result, is the only thing that reaches his consciousness. He knows nothing of that wilful process of deducing from particular cases. What is the result when a man sets about this matter differently?—when, for instance, after the manner of Parisian novelists, he goes in for note-book psychology on a large and small scale? Such a man is constantly spying on reality, and every evening he bears home a handful of fresh curios.... But look at the result!—a mass of daubs, at best a piece of mosaic, in any case something heaped together, restless and garish. The Goncourts are the greatest sinners in this respect: they cannot put three sentences together which are not absolutely painful to the eye—the eye of the psychologist. From an artistic standpoint, nature is no model. It exaggerates, distorts, and leaves gaps. Nature is the accident. To study “from nature” seems to me a bad sign: it betrays submission, weakness, fatalism—this lying in the dust before trivial facts is unworthy of a thorough artist. To see what is—is the function of another order of intellects, the anti-artistic, the matter-of-fact. One must know who one is.

A Moral for Psychologists. Do not practice notebook psychology! Never observe just for the sake of observing! That leads to a false perspective, a kind of squint, something forced and exaggerated. Deliberately seeking out experiences does no good at all. In the middle of an experience, a person should not turn his eyes on himself. In such cases, every eye becomes the “evil eye.” A born psychologist instinctively avoids looking just for the sake of looking. The same is true of a born painter. He never works “from nature.” He leaves it to his instinct, to his camera obscura, to sift and define the “fact,” “nature,” the “experience.” Only the general idea, the conclusion, the result, reaches his consciousness. He knows nothing of the deliberate process of drawing conclusions from particular cases. What happens when someone works differently? What if, like the Parisian novelists, he practices notebook psychology on both a large and small scale? He is constantly spying on reality. Every evening he brings home a handful of fresh curiosities.... But look at the result! It is a mass of daubs, at best a mosaic. In any case, it is something heaped together, restless and garish. The Goncourts are the greatest sinners in this respect. They cannot put three sentences together without making them absolutely painful to the eye, the eye of the psychologist. From an artistic standpoint, nature is no model. It exaggerates, distorts, and leaves gaps. Nature is accident. To study “from nature” seems to me a bad sign. It reveals submission, weakness, fatalism. This groveling before trivial facts is unworthy of a true artist. To see what is is the task of another kind of mind, the anti-artistic, the matter-of-fact. One must know who one is.

Concerning the psychology of the artist For art to be possible at all—that is to say, in order that an æsthetic mode of action and of observation may exist, a certain preliminary physiological state is indispensable ecstasy.¹ This state of ecstasy must first have intensified the susceptibility of the whole machine: otherwise, no art is possible. All kinds of ecstasy, however differently produced, have this power to create art, and above all the state dependent upon sexual excitement—this most venerable and primitive form of ecstasy. The same applies to that ecstasy which is the outcome of all great desires, all strong passions; the ecstasy of the feast, of the arena, of the act of bravery, of victory, of all extreme action; the ecstasy of cruelty; the ecstasy of destruction; the ecstasy following upon certain meteorological influences, as for instance that of spring-time, or upon the use of narcotics; and finally the ecstasy of will, that ecstasy which results from accumulated and surging will-power.—The essential feature of ecstasy is the feeling of increased strength and abundance. Actuated by this feeling a man gives of himself to things, he forces them to partake of his riches, he does violence to them—this proceeding is called idealising. Let us rid ourselves of a prejudice here: idealising does not consist, as is generally believed, in a suppression or an elimination of detail or of unessential features. A stupendous accentuation of the principal characteristics is by far the most decisive factor at work, and in consequence the minor characteristics vanish.

The psychology of the artist For art to be possible, a certain physical state must first exist: ecstasy.¹ Without it, there can be no aesthetic activity or observation. Ecstasy must first heighten the sensitivity of the whole body. Otherwise, no art is possible. All kinds of ecstasy have this power to create art, however differently they arise. Above all, there is the ecstasy of sexual excitement, the oldest and most primitive form. The same is true of the ecstasy produced by all great desires and strong passions. There is the ecstasy of a feast, an arena, an act of bravery, a victory, or any extreme action. There is the ecstasy of cruelty and the ecstasy of destruction. There is the ecstasy produced by certain weather conditions, such as those of spring, or by narcotics. Finally, there is the ecstasy of the will, which comes from a build-up and surge of willpower. The essential feature of ecstasy is a feeling of increased strength and abundance. Driven by this feeling, a person gives something of himself to things. He forces them to share in his riches. He does violence to them. This is called idealising. Let us get rid of a prejudice here. Idealising does not mean suppressing or removing details or minor features, as people generally believe. The decisive factor is overwhelmingly the enormous emphasis placed on the main features. As a result, the minor features disappear.

In this state a man enriches everything from out his own abundance: what he sees, what he wills, he sees distended, compressed, strong, overladen with power. He transfigures things until they reflect his power,—until they are stamped with his perfection. This compulsion to transfigure into the beautiful is—Art. Everything—even that which he is not,—is nevertheless to such a man a means of rejoicing over himself; in Art man rejoices over himself as perfection.—It is possible to imagine a contrary state, a specifically anti-artistic state of the instincts,—a state in which a man impoverishes, attenuates, and draws the blood from everything. And, truth to tell, history is full of such anti-artists, of such creatures of low vitality who have no choice but to appropriate everything they see and to suck its blood and make it thinner. This is the case with the genuine Christian, Pascal for instance. There is no such thing as a Christian who is also an artist ... Let no one be so childish as to suggest Raphael or any homeopathic Christian of the nineteenth century as an objection to this statement: Raphael said Yea, Raphael did Yea,—consequently Raphael was no Christian.

In this state, a man enriches everything from his own abundance. Whatever he sees or wills, he sees as expanded, concentrated, strong, overflowing with power. He transforms things until they reflect his power, until they bear the stamp of his perfection. This urge to transform things into beauty is Art. Everything, even what he himself is not, becomes a way for him to rejoice in himself. In Art, man rejoices in himself as perfection. One can imagine the opposite state, a state of the instincts that is distinctly hostile to art. In this state, a man impoverishes everything, makes it thinner, and drains its blood. In fact, history is full of such enemies of art. These creatures have so little vitality that they have no choice but to take possession of everything they see, suck its blood, and make it thinner. This is true of the genuine Christian, Pascal for instance. There is no such thing as a Christian who is also an artist ... Let no one be childish enough to offer Raphael or any homeopathic Christian of the nineteenth century as an objection. Raphael said yes, Raphael did yes, so Raphael was no Christian.

What is the meaning of the antithetical concepts Apollonian and Dionysian which I have introduced into the vocabulary of Æsthetic, as representing two distinct modes of ecstasy?—Apollonian ecstasy acts above all as a force stimulating the eye, so that it acquires the power of vision. The painter, the sculptor, the epic poet are essentially visionaries. In the Dionysian state, on the other hand, the whole system of passions is stimulated and intensified, so that it discharges itself by all the means of expression at once, and vents all its power of representation, of imitation, of transfiguration, of transformation, together with every kind of mimicry and histrionic display at the same time. The essential feature remains the facility in transforming, the inability to refrain from reaction (—a similar state to that of certain hysterical patients, who at the slightest hint assume any rôle). It is impossible for the Dionysian artist not to understand any suggestion; no outward sign of emotion escapes him, he possesses the instinct of comprehension and of divination in the highest degree, just as he is capable of the most perfect art of communication. He enters into every skin, into every passion: he is continually changing himself. Music as we understand it to-day is likewise a general excitation and discharge of the emotions; but, notwithstanding this, it is only the remnant of a much richer world of emotional expression, a mere residuum of Dionysian histrionism. For music to be made possible as a special art, quite a number of senses, and particularly the muscular sense, had to be paralysed (at least relatively: for all rhythm still appeals to our muscles to a certain extent): and thus man no longer imitates and represents physically everything he feels, as soon as he feels it. Nevertheless that is the normal Dionysian state, and in any case its primitive state. Music is the slowly attained specialisation of this state at the cost of kindred capacities.

What do the opposing concepts Apollonian and Dionysian mean? I introduced them into the language of aesthetics to describe two distinct forms of ecstasy. Apollonian ecstasy stimulates the eye above all, giving it the power of vision. Painters, sculptors, and epic poets are essentially visionaries. In the Dionysian state, by contrast, the whole range of passions is stimulated and intensified. They pour out through every means of expression at once. They unleash their full power to represent, imitate, transfigure, and transform, along with every kind of mimicry and theatrical display. The essential feature is the ease of transformation and the inability to keep from reacting. This resembles the state of certain hysterical patients who assume any role at the slightest hint. The Dionysian artist cannot help understanding every suggestion. No outward sign of emotion escapes him. He has instincts for understanding and guessing that are developed to the highest degree. He is just as capable of the most perfect art of communication. He enters every skin and every passion. He is continually changing himself. Music as we understand it today also excites and releases emotions in general. But it is only a remnant of a much richer world of emotional expression, a mere residue of Dionysian theatrical expression. For music to become a separate art, quite a number of senses had to be paralyzed, especially the muscular sense. They had to be paralyzed only relatively, at least, because all rhythm still appeals to our muscles to some extent. As a result, people no longer physically imitate and represent everything they feel as soon as they feel it. Yet that is the normal Dionysian state, and in any case its original state. Music is a specialized form of this state, achieved slowly at the expense of related capacities.

The actor, the mime, the dancer, the musician, and the lyricist, are in their instincts fundamentally related; but they have gradually specialised in their particular branch, and become separated—even to the point of contradiction. The lyricist remained united with the musician for the longest period of time; and the actor with the dancer. The architect manifests neither a Dionysian nor an Apollonian state: In his case it is the great act of will, the will that moveth mountains, the ecstasy of the great will which aspires to art. The most powerful men have always inspired architects; the architect has always been under the suggestion of power. In the architectural structure, man’s pride, man’s triumph over gravitation, man’s will to power, assume a visible form. Architecture is a sort of oratory of power by means of forms. Now it is persuasive, even flattering, and at other times merely commanding. The highest sensation of power and security finds expression in grandeur of style. That power which no longer requires to be proved, which scorns to please; which responds only with difficulty; which feels no witnesses around it; which is oblivious of the fact that it is being opposed; which relies on itself fatalistically, and is a law among laws:—such power expresses itself quite naturally in grandeur of style.

The actor, the mime, the dancer, the musician, and the lyricist are fundamentally related in their instincts. But each has gradually specialized in a particular branch of art. They have grown apart, even to the point of contradiction. The lyricist remained united with the musician the longest, and the actor with the dancer. The architect expresses neither a Dionysian nor an Apollonian state. In the architect, it is the great act of will, the will that moves mountains, that seeks expression in art. It is the ecstasy of the great will. The most powerful men have always inspired architects. Architects have always been influenced by power. In a building, human pride, humanity’s triumph over gravity, and the human will to power take visible form. Architecture is a kind of speech about power, expressed through forms. Sometimes it persuades, even flatters. At other times it simply commands. The highest feeling of power and security finds expression in grandeur of style. This is power that no longer needs to prove itself and scorns to please. It responds only with difficulty and feels no witnesses around it. It is unaware of opposition, relies on itself as if by fate, and is a law among laws. Such power expresses itself naturally in grandeur of style.

I have been reading the life of Thomas Carlyle, that unconscious and involuntary farce, that heroico-moral interpretation of dyspeptic moods.—Carlyle, a man of strong words and attitudes, a rhetorician by necessity, who seems ever to be tormented by the desire of finding some kind of strong faith, and by his inability to do so (—in this respect a typical Romanticist!). To yearn for a strong faith is not the proof of a strong faith, but rather the reverse. If a man have a strong faith he can indulge in the luxury of scepticism; he is strong enough, firm enough, well-knit enough for such a luxury. Carlyle stupefies something in himself by means of the fortissimo of his reverence for men of a strong faith, and his rage over those who are less foolish: he is in sore need of noise. An attitude of constant and passionate dishonesty towards himself—this is his proprium; by virtue of this he is and remains interesting.—Of course, in England he is admired precisely on account of his honesty. Well, that is English; and in view of the fact that the English are the nation of consummate cant, it is not only comprehensible but also very natural. At bottom, Carlyle is an English atheist who makes it a point of honour not to be one.

I have been reading the life of Thomas Carlyle. It is an unconscious, involuntary farce, a heroic and moral interpretation of moods caused by indigestion. Carlyle is a man of strong words and poses, a rhetorician by necessity. He seems constantly tormented by his desire for some kind of strong faith and his inability to find one. In this respect, he is a typical Romanticist! To long for a strong faith is not proof of having one. It suggests the opposite. If a man has a strong faith, he can enjoy the luxury of skepticism. He is strong enough, firm enough, and secure enough for such a luxury. Carlyle numbs something in himself through the fortissimo of his reverence for men of strong faith. He does the same through his rage at those who are less foolish. He badly needs noise. His constant, passionate dishonesty with himself is his proprium, his defining trait. Because of this, he is and remains interesting. Of course, in England he is admired precisely for his honesty. Well, that is English. The English are the nation of consummate hypocrisy, so this admiration is not only understandable but also perfectly natural. At bottom, Carlyle is an English atheist who makes it a point of honor not to be one.

Emerson.—He is much more enlightened, much broader, more versatile, and more subtle than Carlyle; but above all, he is happier. He is one who instinctively lives on ambrosia and who leaves the indigestible parts of things on his plate. Compared with Carlyle he is a man of taste.—Carlyle, who was very fond of him, nevertheless declared that “he does not give us enough to chew.” This is perfectly true but it is not unfavourable to Emerson.—Emerson possesses that kindly intellectual cheerfulness which deprecates overmuch seriousness; he has absolutely no idea of how old he is already, and how young he will yet be,—he could have said of himself, in Lope de Vega’s words: “yo me sucedo a mi mismo.” His mind is always finding reasons for being contented and even thankful; and at times he gets preciously near to that serene superiority of the worthy bourgeois who returning from an amorous rendezvous tamquam re bene gesta, said gratefully “Ut desint vires, tamen est laudanda voluptas.”—

Emerson. He is much more enlightened, broader, more versatile, and subtler than Carlyle. But above all, he is happier. He instinctively lives on ambrosia and leaves the indigestible parts of things on his plate. Compared with Carlyle, he is a man of taste. Carlyle was very fond of him, but said that “he does not give us enough to chew.” This is perfectly true, but it is not a point against Emerson. Emerson has a kindly intellectual cheerfulness that dislikes too much seriousness. He has absolutely no idea how old he already is, or how young he will yet be. He could have said of himself, in Lope de Vega’s words: “yo me sucedo a mi mismo.” His mind is always finding reasons to be content and even thankful. At times he comes remarkably close to the serene superiority of the worthy bourgeois. After returning from a romantic encounter tamquam re bene gesta, this man said gratefully, “Ut desint vires, tamen est laudanda voluptas.”

Anti-Darwin.—As to the famous “struggle for existence,” it seems to me, for the present, to be more of an assumption than a fact. It does occur, but as an exception. The general condition of life is not one of want or famine, but rather of riches, of lavish luxuriance, and even of absurd prodigality,—where there is a struggle, it is a struggle for power. We should not confound Malthus with nature.—Supposing, however, that this struggle exists,—and it does indeed occur,—its result is unfortunately the very reverse of that which the Darwinian school seems to desire, and of that which in agreement with them we also might desire: that is to say, it is always to the disadvantage of the strong, the privileged, and the happy exceptions. Species do not evolve towards perfection: the weak always prevail over the strong—simply because they are the majority, and because they are also the more crafty. Darwin forgot the intellect (—that is English!), the weak have more intellect. In order to acquire intellect, one must be in need of it. One loses it when one no longer needs it. He who possesses strength flings intellect to the deuce (—“let it go hence!”² say the Germans of the present day, “the Empire will remain”). As you perceive, intellect to me means caution, patience, craft, dissimulation, great self-control, and everything related to mimicry (what is praised nowadays as virtue is very closely related the latter).

Anti-Darwin. For now, the famous “struggle for existence” seems to me more an assumption than a fact. It does occur, but only as an exception. Life’s general condition is not scarcity or famine, but wealth, lavish abundance, and even absurd wastefulness. Where there is a struggle, it is a struggle for power. We should not confuse Malthus with nature. Suppose, however, that this struggle exists, as it indeed does. Unfortunately, its result is the exact opposite of what the Darwinian school seems to want. It is also the opposite of what we, agreeing with them, might want. The struggle always works against the strong, the privileged, and the happy exceptions. Species do not evolve toward perfection. The weak always prevail over the strong, simply because they are more numerous and more crafty. Darwin forgot the intellect (how English!). The weak have more intellect. To acquire intellect, one must need it. One loses it when one no longer needs it. Those who possess strength throw intellect to the devil. (“Let it go hence!”² say today’s Germans. “The Empire will remain.”) As you can see, by intellect I mean caution, patience, craft, concealment, great self-control, and everything related to mimicry. (What people praise as virtue today is very closely related to mimicry.)

Casuistry of a Psychologist.—This man knows mankind: to what purpose does he study his fellows? He wants to derive some small or even great advantages from them,—he is a politician!... That man yonder is also well versed in human nature: and ye tell me that he wishes to draw no personal profit from his knowledge, that he is a thoroughly disinterested person? Examine him a little more closely! Maybe he wishes to derive a more wicked advantage from his possession; namely, to feel superior to men, to be able to look down upon them, no longer to feel one of them. This “disinterested person” is a despiser of mankind; and the former is of a more humane type, whatever appearances may seem to say to the contrary. At least he considers himself the equal of those about him, at least he classifies himself with them.

Casuistry of a Psychologist. This man knows people. Why does he study them? He wants to gain some small or even great advantage from them. He is a politician!... That man over there also knows human nature. And you tell me he wants no personal gain from his knowledge, that he is entirely disinterested? Look at him more closely! Perhaps he wants to gain a more wicked advantage from his knowledge. He wants to feel superior to others, to look down on them, and no longer to feel like one of them. This “disinterested person” despises humanity. The first man is more humane, whatever appearances may suggest to the contrary. At least he considers himself equal to those around him. At least he counts himself among them.

The psychological tact of Germans seems to me to have been set in doubt by a whole series of cases which my modesty forbids me to enumerate. In one case at least I shall not let the occasion slip for substantiating my contention: I bear the Germans a grudge for having made a mistake about Kant and his “backstairs philosophy,” as I call it. Such a man was not the type of intellectual uprightness. Another thing I hate to hear is a certain infamous “and”: the Germans say, “Goethe and Schiller,”—I even fear that they say, “Schiller and Goethe.” ... Has nobody found Schiller out yet?—But there are other “ands” which are even more egregious. With my own ears I have heard—only among University professors, it is true!—men speak of “Schopenhauer and Hartmann.” ...³

The psychological tact of Germans seems doubtful to me for a whole series of reasons. Modesty forbids me to list them. But I will not miss the chance to support my claim with at least one example. I hold it against the Germans that they got Kant wrong and his “backstairs philosophy,” as I call it. He was not a model of intellectual honesty. Another thing I hate to hear is a certain infamous “and”: the Germans say, “Goethe and Schiller.” I even fear they say, “Schiller and Goethe.” ... Has nobody seen through Schiller yet? But there are other “ands” that are even worse. With my own ears I have heard men speak of “Schopenhauer and Hartmann.” Only among University professors, it is true! ...³

The most intellectual men, provided they are also the most courageous, experience the most excruciating tragedies: but on that very account they honour life, because it confronts them with its most formidable antagonism.

The most intellectual men experience the most agonizing tragedies, if they are also the most courageous. But for that very reason, they honor life, because it confronts them with its fiercest opposition.

Concerning “the Conscience of the Intellect” Nothing seems to me more uncommon to-day than genuine hypocrisy. I strongly suspect that this growth is unable to flourish in the mild climate of our culture. Hypocrisy belongs to an age of strong faith,—one in which one does not lose one’s own faith in spite of the fact that one has to make an outward show of holding another faith. Nowadays a man gives it up; or, what is still more common, he acquires a second faith,—in any case, however, he remains honest. Without a doubt it is possible to have a much larger number of convictions at present, than it was formerly: possible—that is to say, allowable,—that is to say, harmless. From this there arises an attitude of toleration towards one’s self. Toleration towards one’s self allows of a greater number of convictions: the latter live comfortably side by side, and they take jolly good care, as all the world does to-day, not to compromise themselves. How does a man compromise himself to-day? When he is consistent; when he pursues a straight course; when he has anything less than five faces; when he is genuine.... I very greatly fear that modern man is much too fond of comfort for certain vices; and the consequence is that the latter are dying out. Everything evil which is the outcome of strength of will—and maybe there is nothing evil without the strengh of will,—degenerates, in our muggy atmosphere, into virtue. The few hypocrites I have known only imitated hypocrisy: like almost every tenth man to-day, they were actors.—

Concerning “the Conscience of the Intellect” Nothing seems rarer to me today than genuine hypocrisy. I strongly suspect that this growth cannot flourish in the mild climate of our culture. Hypocrisy belongs to an age of strong faith. In such an age, a man keeps his own faith even when he must pretend to hold another. Nowadays, a man gives up his faith. Or, more commonly, he acquires a second faith. In either case, he remains honest. Without a doubt, it is possible to have far more convictions now than in the past. Possible, that is, permitted, that is, harmless. This leads to tolerance toward oneself. And tolerance toward oneself allows for more convictions. These convictions live comfortably side by side. Like everyone today, they take great care not to compromise themselves. How does a man compromise himself today? By being consistent, by following a straight course, by having fewer than five faces, by being genuine.... I greatly fear that modern man is too fond of comfort for certain vices. As a result, these vices are dying out. Everything evil that comes from strength of will becomes virtue in our muggy atmosphere. And perhaps nothing evil exists without strength of will. The few hypocrites I have known only imitated hypocrisy. Like almost one man in ten today, they were actors.

Beautiful and Ugly:—Nothing is more relative, let us say, more restricted, than our sense of the beautiful. He who would try to divorce it from the delight man finds in his fellows, would immediately lose his footing. “Beauty in itself,” is simply a word, it is not even a concept. In the beautiful, man postulates himself as the standard of perfection; in exceptional cases he worships himself as that standard. A species has no other alternative than to say “yea” to itself alone, in this way. Its lowest instinct, the instinct of self-preservation and self-expansion, still radiates in such sublimities. Man imagines the world itself to be overflowing with beauty,—he forgets that he is the cause of it all. He alone has endowed it with beauty. Alas! and only with human all-too-human beauty! Truth to tell man reflects himself in things, he thinks everything beautiful that throws his own image back at him. The judgment “beautiful” is the “vanity of his species.” ... A little demon of suspicion may well whisper into the sceptic’s ear: is the world really beautified simply because man thinks it beautiful? He has only humanised it—that is all. But nothing, absolutely nothing proves to us that it is precisely man who is the proper model of beauty. Who knows what sort of figure he would cut in the eyes of a higher judge of taste? He might seem a little outré? perhaps even somewhat amusing? perhaps a trifle arbitrary? “O Dionysus, thou divine one, why dost thou pull mine ears?” Ariadne asks on one occasion of her philosophic lover, during one of those famous conversations on the island of Naxos. “I find a sort of humour in thine ears, Ariadne: why are they not a little longer?”

Beautiful and Ugly: Nothing is more relative, or rather more limited, than our sense of beauty. Anyone who tries to separate it from the pleasure humans take in one another immediately loses their footing. “Beauty in itself” is just a phrase, not even a concept. In beauty, man makes himself the standard of perfection. In exceptional cases, he worships himself as that standard. A species has no choice but to say “yes” to itself alone in this way. Its lowest instinct, the instinct for self-preservation and self-expansion, still shines through such lofty expressions. Man imagines that the world itself overflows with beauty. He forgets that he is the cause of it all. He alone has given the world its beauty. Alas, and only a human, all-too-human beauty! In truth, man sees his own reflection in things. He thinks everything beautiful that reflects his own image back to him. The judgment “beautiful” is the “vanity of his species.” ... A little demon of suspicion might whisper in the skeptic’s ear: is the world really made beautiful simply because man thinks it beautiful? He has only made it human, that is all. But nothing, absolutely nothing, proves that man is the proper model of beauty. Who knows how he would look in the eyes of a higher judge of taste? Might he seem a little outré? Perhaps even somewhat amusing? Perhaps a bit arbitrary? “O Dionysus, you divine one, why do you pull my ears?” Ariadne asks her philosophical lover on one occasion. They are having one of their famous conversations on the island of Naxos. “I find something funny about your ears, Ariadne: why aren’t they a little longer?”

Nothing is beautiful; man alone is beautiful: all æsthetic rests on this piece of ingenuousness, it is the first axiom of this science. And now let us straightway add the second to it: nothing is ugly save the degenerate man,—within these two first principles the realm of æsthetic judgments is confined. From the physiological standpoint, everything ugly weakens and depresses man. It reminds him of decay, danger, impotence; he literally loses strength in its presence. The effect of ugliness may be gauged by the dynamometer. Whenever man’s spirits are downcast, it is a sign that he scents the proximity of something “ugly.” His feeling of power, his will to power, his courage and his pride—these things collapse at the sight of what is ugly, and rise at the sight of what is beautiful. In both cases an inference is drawn; the premises to which are stored with extra ordinary abundance in the instincts. Ugliness is understood to signify a hint and a symptom of degeneration: that which reminds us however remotely of degeneracy, impels us to the judgment “ugly.” Every sign of exhaustion, of gravity, of age, of fatigue; every kind of constraint, such as cramp, or paralysis; and above all the smells, colours and forms associated with decomposition and putrefaction, however much they may have been attenuated into symbols,—all these things provoke the same reaction which is the judgment “ugly.” A certain hatred expresses itself here: what is it that man hates? Without a doubt it is the decline of his type. In this regard his hatred springs from the deepest instincts of the race: there is horror, caution, profundity and far-reaching vision in this hatred,—it is the most profound hatred that exists. On its account alone Art is profound.

Nothing is beautiful. Man alone is beautiful. All aesthetics rests on this piece of innocence. It is the first axiom of this science. Let us immediately add the second: nothing is ugly except the degenerate man. These two first principles set the limits of aesthetic judgments. From a physiological standpoint, everything ugly weakens and depresses man. It reminds him of decay, danger, and impotence. He literally loses strength in its presence. The effect of ugliness can be measured with a dynamometer. Whenever man’s spirits fall, it is a sign that he senses something “ugly” nearby. His feeling of power, his will to power, his courage, and his pride collapse at the sight of ugliness. They rise at the sight of beauty. In both cases, he draws a conclusion from evidence stored in extraordinary abundance in his instincts. Ugliness is understood as a hint and a symptom of degeneration. Whatever reminds us of degeneration, however remotely, leads us to judge it “ugly.” Every sign of exhaustion, heaviness, age, or fatigue provokes this judgment. So does every kind of physical restriction, such as cramp or paralysis. Above all, the smells, colors, and forms associated with decay and rotting provoke it. They do so even when reduced to mere symbols. A certain hatred expresses itself here. What does man hate? Without a doubt, he hates the decline of his type. In this regard, his hatred springs from the deepest instincts of the race. It contains horror, caution, depth, and far-reaching vision. It is the deepest hatred that exists. This hatred alone makes Art profound.

Schopenhauer.—Schopenhauer, the last German who is to be reckoned with (—who is a European event like Goethe, Hegel, or Heinrich Heine, and who is not merely local, national), is for a psychologist a case of the first rank: I mean as a malicious though masterly attempt to enlist on the side of a general nihilistic depreciation of life, the very forces which are opposed to such a movement,—that is to say, the great self-affirming powers of the “will to live,” the exuberant forms of life itself. He interpreted Art, heroism, genius, beauty, great sympathy, knowledge, the will to truth, and tragedy, one after the other, as the results of the denial, or of the need of the denial, of the “will”—the greatest forgery, Christianity always excepted, which history has to show. Examined more carefully, he is in this respect simply the heir of the Christian interpretation; except that he knew how to approve in a Christian fashion (i.e., nihilistically) even of the great facts of human culture, which Christianity completely repudiates. (He approved of them as paths to “salvation,” as preliminary stages to “salvation,” as appetisers calculated to arouse the desire for “salvation.”)

Schopenhauer. Schopenhauer is the last German who must be taken seriously. Like Goethe, Hegel, or Heinrich Heine, he is a European event, not merely a local or national one. For a psychologist, he is a case of the first rank. His attempt was malicious but masterly. He tried to enlist the very forces opposed to a general nihilistic devaluation of life in its cause. These are the great self-affirming powers of the “will to live,” the exuberant forms of life itself. He interpreted art, heroism, genius, beauty, great sympathy, knowledge, the will to truth, and tragedy in turn as results of denying the “will” or of needing to deny it. Except for Christianity, this is the greatest forgery in history. On closer examination, Schopenhauer is in this respect simply the heir of the Christian interpretation. But he also knew how to approve, in a Christian way (that is, nihilistically), of the great achievements of human culture, which Christianity completely rejects. (He approved of them as paths to “salvation,” as preliminary stages of “salvation,” as appetizers meant to stir the desire for “salvation.”)

Let me point to one single instance. Schopenhauer speaks of beauty with melancholy ardour,—why in sooth does he do this? Because in beauty he sees a bridge on which one can travel further, or which stimulates one’s desire to travel further. According to him it constitutes a momentary emancipation from the “will”—it lures to eternal salvation. He values it more particularly as a deliverance from the “burning core of the will” which is sexuality,—in beauty he recognises the negation of the procreative instinct. Singular Saint! Some one contradicts thee; I fear it is Nature. Why is there beauty of tone, colour, aroma, and of rhythmic movement in Nature at all? What is it forces beauty to the fore? Fortunately, too, a certain philosopher contradicts him. No less an authority than the divine Plato himself (thus does Schopenhauer call him), upholds another proposition: that all beauty lures to procreation,—that this precisely is the chief characteristic of its effect, from the lowest sensuality to the highest spirituality.

Let me point to a single example. Schopenhauer speaks of beauty with melancholy passion. Why does he do this? Because he sees beauty as a bridge that lets one travel further, or awakens the desire to do so. For him, beauty offers a momentary release from the “will”. It draws us toward eternal salvation. He values it especially as a release from the “burning core of the will”, which is sexuality. In beauty, he sees the denial of the instinct to procreate. What a strange saint! Someone contradicts you. I fear it is Nature. Why is there beauty in Nature’s sounds, colors, scents, and rhythmic movements at all? What brings beauty to the fore? Fortunately, a certain philosopher also contradicts Schopenhauer. None other than the divine Plato himself, as Schopenhauer calls him, argues otherwise. Plato says that all beauty draws us toward procreation. That is precisely its chief effect, from the lowest sensuality to the highest spirituality.

Plato goes further. With an innocence for which a man must be Greek and not “Christian,” he says that there would be no such thing as Platonic philosophy if there were not such beautiful boys in Athens: it was the sight of them alone that set the soul of the philosopher reeling with erotic passion, and allowed it no rest until it had planted the seeds of all lofty things in a soil so beautiful. He was also a singular saint!—One scarcely believes one’s ears, even supposing one believes Plato. At least one realises that philosophy was pursued differently in Athens; above all, publicly. Nothing is less Greek than the cobweb-spinning with concepts by an anchorite, amor intellectualis dei after the fashion of Spinoza. Philosophy according to Plato’s style might be defined rather as an erotic competition, as a continuation and a spiritualisation of the old agonal gymnastics and the conditions on which they depend.... What was the ultimate outcome of this philosophic eroticism of Plato’s? A new art-form of the Greek Agon, dialectics.—In opposition to Schopenhauer and to the honour of Plato, I would remind you that all the higher culture and literature of classical France, as well, grew up on the soil of sexual interests. In all its manifestations you may look for gallantry, the senses, sexual competition, and “woman,” and you will not look in vain.

Plato goes further. With an innocence that requires a man to be Greek and not “Christian,” he makes a striking claim. He says there would be no Platonic philosophy if Athens did not have such beautiful boys. The sight of them alone sent the philosopher’s soul reeling with erotic passion. It gave his soul no rest until he had planted the seeds of all lofty things in such beautiful soil. He was a remarkable saint, too! One can hardly believe one’s ears, even if one believes Plato. At least one realizes that philosophy was practiced differently in Athens. Above all, it was practiced publicly. Nothing is less Greek than a hermit spinning cobwebs of concepts, practicing amor intellectualis dei in Spinoza’s fashion. Plato’s style of philosophy might instead be called an erotic competition. It was a continuation and spiritual refinement of the old competitive gymnastics and the conditions they depended on.... What was the final result of Plato’s philosophical eroticism? Dialectics, a new art form of the Greek Agon. Against Schopenhauer and in Plato’s honor, I would remind you of something. All the higher culture and literature of classical France also grew out of sexual interests. In all its forms, look for gallantry, the senses, sexual competition, and “woman,” and you will not look in vain.

L’Art pour l’Art.—The struggle against a purpose in art is always a struggle against the moral tendency in art, against its subordination to morality. L’art pour l’art means, “let morality go to the devil!” —But even this hostility betrays the preponderating power of the moral prejudice. If art is deprived of the purpose of preaching morality and of improving mankind, it does not by any means follow that art is absolutely pointless, purposeless, senseless, in short l’art pour l’art—a snake which bites its own tail. “No purpose at all is better than a moral purpose!”—thus does pure passion speak. A psychologist, on the other hand, puts the question: what does all art do? does it not praise? does it not glorify? does it not select? does it not bring things into prominence? In all this it strengthens or weakens certain valuations. Is this only a secondary matter? an accident? something in which the artist’s instinct has no share? Or is it not rather the very prerequisite which enables the artist to accomplish something?... Is his most fundamental instinct concerned with art? Is it not rather concerned with the purpose of art, with life? with a certain desirable kind of life? Art is the great stimulus to life; how can it be regarded as purpose less, as pointless, as l’art pour l’art?—There still remains one question to be answered: Art also reveals much that is ugly, hard and questionable in life,—does it not thus seem to make life intolerable?—And, as a matter of fact, there have been philosophers who have ascribed this function to art. According to Schopenhauer’s doctrine, the general object of art was to “free one from the Will”; and what he honoured as the great utility of tragedy, was that it “made people more resigned.”—But this, as I have already shown, is a pessimistic standpoint; it is the “evil eye”: the artist himself must be appealed to. What is it that the soul of the tragic artist communicates to others? Is it not precisely his fearless attitude towards that which is terrible and questionable? This attitude is in itself a highly desirable one; he who has once, experienced it honours it above everything else. He communicates it. He must communicate, provided he is an artist and a genius in the art of communication. A courageous and free spirit, in the presence of a mighty foe, in the presence of a sublime misfortune, and face to face with a problem that inspires horror—this is the triumphant attitude which the tragic artist selects and which he glorifies. The martial elements in our soul celebrate their Saturnalia in tragedy; he who is used to suffering, he who looks out for suffering, the heroic man, extols his existence by means of tragedy,—to him alone does the tragic artist offer this cup of sweetest cruelty.—

L’Art pour l’Art. The struggle against a purpose in art is always a struggle against art’s moral tendency, against its subordination to morality. L’art pour l’art means, “let morality go to the devil!” But even this hostility reveals the overwhelming power of moral prejudice. Suppose art is no longer expected to preach morality and improve mankind. It does not follow that art is utterly pointless, purposeless, meaningless, in short, l’art pour l’art, a snake biting its own tail. “No purpose at all is better than a moral purpose!” That is pure passion speaking. A psychologist, on the other hand, asks: what does all art do? Does it not praise? Does it not glorify? Does it not select? Does it not bring things to the fore? In all this, art strengthens or weakens certain values. Is that only a secondary matter? An accident? Something in which the artist’s instinct plays no part? Or is it not the very condition that enables the artist to accomplish anything? ... Is the artist’s most basic instinct concerned with art? Or is it concerned with the purpose of art, with life? With a certain desirable kind of life? Art is the great stimulus to life. How can it be regarded as purposeless, as pointless, as l’art pour l’art? One question remains to be answered: art also reveals much in life that is ugly, hard, and questionable. Does it not seem, then, to make life intolerable? In fact, some philosophers have assigned this role to art. According to Schopenhauer’s doctrine, the general aim of art was to “free one from the Will”. He valued tragedy above all because it “made people more resigned.” But, as I have already shown, this is a pessimistic standpoint. It is the “evil eye”. We must turn to the artist himself. What does the soul of the tragic artist communicate to others? Is it not precisely his fearless attitude toward what is terrible and questionable? This attitude is itself highly desirable. Anyone who has once experienced it honors it above everything else. The tragic artist communicates it. He must communicate it, if he is an artist and a genius in the art of communication. A courageous and free spirit faces a mighty enemy, a sublime misfortune, or a problem that inspires horror. This is the triumphant attitude the tragic artist chooses and glorifies. The warlike forces in our souls celebrate their Saturnalia in tragedy. Through tragedy, the heroic man praises his own existence. He is used to suffering and seeks it out. To him alone the tragic artist offers this cup of sweetest cruelty.

To associate in an amiable fashion with anybody; to keep the house of one’s heart open to all, is certainly liberal: but it is nothing else. One can recognise the hearts that are capable of noble hospitality, by their wealth of screened windows and closed shutters: they keep their best rooms empty. Whatever for?—Because they are expecting guests who are somebodies.

Being friendly with everyone and keeping the house of your heart open to all is certainly liberal. But it is nothing more than that. You can recognize hearts capable of noble hospitality by their many screened windows and closed shutters. They keep their best rooms empty. Why? Because they are expecting guests who are somebody.

We no longer value ourselves sufficiently highly when we communicate our soul’s content. Our real experiences are not at all garrulous. They could not communicate themselves even if they wished to. They are at a loss to find words for such confidences. Those things for which we find words, are things wehave already overcome. In all speech there lies an element of contempt. Speech, it would seem, was only invented for average, mediocre and communicable things.—Every spoken word proclaims the speaker vulgarised—(Extract from a moral code for deaf-and-dumb people and other philosophers.)

We no longer value ourselves highly enough when we share what is in our souls. Our real experiences are not talkative at all. They could not express themselves even if they wanted to. They cannot find words for such confidences. The things we can put into words are things we have already overcome. There is an element of contempt in all speech. It seems that speech was invented only for average, mediocre things that can be communicated. Every spoken word declares that the speaker has been made vulgar. (From a moral code for deaf-and-dumb people and other philosophers.)

“This picture is perfectly beautiful!”⁴ The dissatisfied and exasperated literary woman with a desert in her heart and in her belly, listening with agonised curiosity every instant to the imperative which whispers to her from the very depths of her being: aut liberi, aut libri: the literary woman, sufficiently educated to understand the voice of nature, even when nature speaks Latin, and moreover enough of a peacock and a goose to speak even French with herself in secret “Je me verrai, je me lirai, je m’extasierai et je dirai: Possible, que j’aie eu tant d’esprit?” ...

“This picture is perfectly beautiful!”⁴ The dissatisfied, exasperated literary woman has a desert in her heart and belly. Every moment, she listens with agonized curiosity to the command that whispers from the depths of her being: aut liberi, aut libri: The literary woman is educated enough to understand nature’s voice, even when nature speaks Latin. She is also enough of a peacock and a goose to speak French to herself in secret: “Je me verrai, je me lirai, je m’extasierai et je dirai: Possible, que j’aie eu tant d’esprit?” ...

The objective ones speak.—“Nothing comes more easily to us, than to be wise, patient, superior. We are soaked in the oil of indulgence and of sympathy, we are absurdly just, we forgive everything. Precisely on that account we should be severe with ourselves; for that very reason we ought from time to time to go in for a little emotion, a little emotional vice. It may seem bitter to us; and between ourselves we may even laugh at the figure which it makes us cut But what does it matter? We have no other kind of self-control left. This is our asceticism, our manner of performing penance.” To become personal—the virtues of the “impersonal and objective one.”

The objective ones speak: “Nothing comes more easily to us than being wise, patient, and superior. We are soaked in the oil of tolerance and sympathy. We are absurdly fair. We forgive everything. That is precisely why we should be hard on ourselves. That is why we ought to indulge in a little emotion, a little emotional vice, from time to time. It may be bitter for us. In private, we may even laugh at how it makes us look. But what does that matter? We have no other kind of self-control left. This is our asceticism, our way of doing penance.” To become personal: the virtues of the “impersonal and objective one.”

Extract from a doctor’s examination paper.—“What is the task of all higher schooling?”—To make man into a machine. “What are the means employed?”—He must learn how to be bored. “How is this achieved?”—By means of the concept duty. “What example of duty has he before his eyes?”—The philologist: it is he who teaches people how to swat. “Who is the perfect man?”—The Government official. “Which philosophy furnishes the highest formula for the Government official?”—Kant’s philosophy: the Government official as thing-in-itself made judge over the Government official as appearance.

Extract from a doctor’s exam. “What is the purpose of all higher education?” To turn a person into a machine. “How is this done?” The person must learn to be bored. “How is this achieved?” Through the concept of duty. “What example of duty does the person see?” The philologist, who teaches people how to cram. “Who is the perfect person?” The government official. “Which philosophy provides the highest formula for the government official?” Kant’s philosophy: the government official as thing-in-itself judging the government official as appearance.

The right to Stupidity.—The worn-out worker, whose breath is slow, whose look is good-natured, and who lets things slide just as they please: this typical figure which in this age of labour (and of “Empire!”) is to be met with in all classes of society, has now begun to appropriate even Art, including the book, above all the newspaper,—and how much more so beautiful nature, Italy! This man of the evening, with his “savage instincts lulled,” as Faust has it; needs his summer holiday, his sea-baths, his glacier, his Bayreuth. In such ages Art has the right to be purely foolish,—as a sort of vacation for spirit, wit and sentiment. Wagner understood this. Pure foolishness⁵ is a pick-me-up....

The right to Stupidity. The worn-out worker breathes slowly, looks good-natured, and lets things go as they please. In this age of labor (and of “Empire!”), this typical figure appears in every class of society. He has now begun to claim Art for himself too, including books and, above all, the newspaper. How much more, then, does he claim beautiful nature, Italy! This man of the evening has his “savage instincts lulled,” as Faust puts it. He needs his summer holiday, his sea baths, his glacier, his Bayreuth. In such ages, Art has the right to be purely foolish, a kind of vacation for the spirit, wit, and feeling. Wagner understood this. Pure foolishness⁵ is a pick-me-up....

Yet another problem of diet.—The means with which Julius Cæsar preserved himself against sickness and headaches: heavy marches, the simplest mode of living, uninterrupted sojourns in the open air, continual hardships,—generally speaking these are the self-preservative and self-defensive measures against the extreme vulnerability of those subtle machines working at the highest pressure, which are called geniuses.

Yet another problem of diet. Julius Cæsar protected himself against illness and headaches through long marches, simple living, constant time outdoors, and continual hardship. Generally speaking, such measures protect and preserve geniuses. These delicate machines work under the highest pressure and are extremely vulnerable.

The Immoralist speaks.—Nothing is more distasteful to true philosophers than man when he begins to wish.... If they see man only at his deeds; if they see this bravest, craftiest and most enduring of animals even inextricably entangled in disaster, how admirable he then appears to them! They even encourage him.... But true philosophers despise the man who wishes, as also the “desirable” man—and all the desiderata and ideals of man in general. If a philosopher could be a nihilist, he would be one; for he finds only nonentity behind all human ideals. Or, not even nonentity, but vileness, absurdity, sickness, cowardice, fatigue and all sorts of dregs from out the quaffed goblets of his life.... How is it that man, who as a reality is so estimable, ceases from deserving respect the moment he begins to desire? Must he pay for being so perfect as a reality? Must he make up for his deeds, for the tension of spirit and will which underlies all his deeds, by an eclipse of his powers in matters of the imagination and in absurdity? Hitherto the history of his desires has been the partie honteuse of mankind: one should take care not to read too deeply in this history. That which justifies man is his reality,—it will justify him to all eternity. How much more valuable is a real man than any other man who is merely the phantom of desires, of dreams of stinks and of lies?—than any kind of ideal man? ... And the ideal man, alone, is what the philosopher cannot abide.

The Immoralist speaks. Nothing is more distasteful to true philosophers than man when he begins to wish.... If they see man only in his deeds, how admirable he appears to them! He is the bravest, craftiest, and most enduring of animals, even when hopelessly tangled in disaster. They even encourage him.... But true philosophers despise the man who wishes, as well as the “desirable” man. They despise all human desires and ideals in general. If a philosopher could be a nihilist, he would be one. For he finds only nothingness behind all human ideals. Or not even nothingness, but vileness, absurdity, sickness, cowardice, fatigue, and all kinds of dregs from the emptied cups of his life.... Why does man, who is so admirable in reality, stop deserving respect the moment he begins to desire? Must he pay for being so perfect in reality? Must he make up for his deeds, and the strain of spirit and will behind them? Must he do so by letting his powers fail him in imagination and absurdity? Until now, the history of his desires has been the partie honteuse, the shameful part, of human history. One should be careful not to read too deeply into it. What justifies man is his reality. It will justify him for all eternity. How much more valuable is a real man than a man who is merely a phantom of desires, dreams of stinks, and lies? How much more valuable than any kind of ideal man? ... And the ideal man alone is what the philosopher cannot stand.

The Natural Value of Egoism.—Selfishness has as much value as the physiological value of him who practises it: its worth may be great, or it may be worthless and contemptible. Every individual may be classified according to whether he represents the ascending or the descending line of life. When this is decided, a canon is obtained by means of which the value of his selfishness may be determined. If he represent the ascending line of life, his value is of course extraordinary—and for the sake of the collective life which in him makes one step forward, the concern about his maintenance, about procuring his optimum of conditions may even be extreme. The human unit, the “individual,” as the people and the philosopher have always understood him, is certainly an error: he is nothing in himself, no atom, no “link in the chain,” no mere heritage from the past,—he represents the whole direct line of mankind up to his own life.... If he represent declining development, decay, chronic degeneration, sickness (—illnesses are on the whole already the outcome of decline, and not the cause thereof), he is of little worth, and the purest equity would have him take away as little as possible from those who are lucky strokes of nature. He is then only a parasite upon them....

The Natural Value of Egoism. Selfishness is worth as much as the physiological value of the person who practices it. Its worth may be great, or it may be worthless and contemptible. Every individual can be classified as representing either the ascending or the descending line of life. Once this is decided, it gives us a standard for judging the value of that person’s selfishness. If he represents the ascending line of life, his value is of course extraordinary. Collective life takes one step forward in him. For its sake, concern for his survival and for securing his optimum conditions may even be extreme. The human unit, the “individual,” as people and philosophers have always understood him, is certainly an error. He is nothing in himself, no atom, no “link in the chain,” no mere inheritance from the past. He represents the whole direct line of humanity up to his own life.... If he represents declining development, decay, chronic degeneration, or sickness, he is worth little. (Illnesses are on the whole already the result of decline, not its cause.) The purest justice would have him take away as little as possible from those who are nature’s lucky strokes. He is then only a parasite upon them....

The Christian and the Anarchist.—When the anarchist, as the mouthpiece of the decaying strata of society, raises his voice in splendid indignation for “right,” “justice,” “equal rights,” he is only groaning under the burden of his ignorance, which cannot understand why he actually suffers,—what his poverty consists of—the poverty of life. An instinct of causality is active in him: someone must be responsible for his being so ill at ease. His “splendid indignation” alone relieves him somewhat, it is a pleasure for all poor devils to grumble—it gives them a little intoxicating sensation of power. The very act of complaining, the mere fact that one bewails one’s lot, may lend such a charm to life that on that account alone, one is ready to endure it. There is a small dose of revenge in every lamentation. One casts one’s afflictions, and, under certain circumstances, even one’s baseness, in the teeth of those who are different, as if their condition were an injustice, an iniquitous privilege. “Since I am a blackguard you ought to be one too.” It is upon such reasoning that revolutions are based.—To bewail one’s lot is always despicable: it is always the outcome of weakness. Whether one ascribes one’s afflictions to others or to one’s self, it is all the same. The socialist does the former, the Christian, for instance, does the latter. That which is common to both attitudes, or rather that which is equally ignoble in them both, is the fact that somebody must be to blame if one suffers—in short that the sufferer drugs himself with the honey of revenge to allay his anguish. The objects towards which this lust of vengeance, like a lust of pleasure, are directed, are purely accidental causes. In all directions the sufferer finds reasons for cooling his petty passion for revenge. If he is a Christian, I repeat, he finds these reasons in himself. The Christian and the Anarchist—both are decadents. But even when the Christian condemns, slanders, and sullies the world, he is actuated by precisely the same instinct as that which leads the socialistic workman to curse, calumniate and cast dirt at society. The last “Judgment” itself is still the sweetest solace to revenge—revolution, as the socialistic workman expects it, only thought of as a little more remote.... The notion of a “Beyond,” as well—why a Beyond, if it be not a means of splashing mud over a “Here,” over this world? ...

The Christian and the Anarchist. The anarchist speaks for the decaying layers of society. When he raises his voice in splendid indignation for “right,” “justice,” and “equal rights,” he is only groaning under the weight of his ignorance. He cannot understand why he suffers or what his poverty consists of. It is a poverty of life. An instinct to find a cause is at work in him: someone must be responsible for his discomfort. His “splendid indignation” alone gives him some relief. All poor devils enjoy grumbling, because it gives them a mildly intoxicating sense of power. The act of complaining, the mere fact of lamenting one’s fate, can lend life such charm that one is ready to endure it for that reason alone. There is a small dose of revenge in every lament. One throws one’s troubles in the face of those who are different. Under certain circumstances, one even throws one’s own baseness in their faces. One does this as if their condition were an injustice, a wicked privilege. “Since I am a scoundrel you ought to be one too.” Revolutions are based on such reasoning. To lament one’s fate is always despicable. It always comes from weakness. It makes no difference whether one blames others or oneself for one’s troubles. The socialist does the former, the Christian, for instance, does the latter. Both attitudes have something in common, or rather, something equally base. Both insist that somebody must be to blame when one suffers. In short, the sufferer dulls his anguish with the honey of revenge. The targets of this lust for revenge, like those of a lust for pleasure, are purely accidental. Everywhere the sufferer finds reasons to cool his petty passion for revenge. If he is a Christian, I repeat, he finds these reasons in himself. The Christian and the Anarchist are both decadents. But even when the Christian condemns, slanders, and dirties the world, he acts on the very same instinct that leads the socialist worker to curse, slander, and throw dirt at society. The last “Judgment” itself is still the sweetest comfort to revenge. It is revolution as the socialist worker expects it, only imagined as a little further off.... And the idea of a “Beyond” too, why a Beyond, if not as a way to splash mud on a “Here,” on this world? ...

A Criticism of the Morality of Decadence.—An “altruistic” morality, a morality under which selfishness withers, is in all circumstances a bad sign. This is true of individuals and above all of nations. The best are lacking when selfishness begins to be lacking. Instinctively to select that which is harmful to one, to be lured by “disinterested” motives,—these things almost provide the formula for decadence. “Not to have one’s own interests at heart” —this is simply a moral fig-leaf concealing a very different fact, a physiological one, to wit:—“I no longer know how to find what is to my interest.”... Disintegration of the instincts!—All is up with man when he becomes altruistic.—Instead of saying ingenuously “I am no longer any good,” the lie of morality in the decadent’s mouth says: “Nothing is any good,—life is no good.”—A judgment of this kind ultimately becomes a great danger; for it is infectious, and it soon flourishes on the polluted soil of society with tropical luxuriance, now as a religion (Christianity), anon as a philosophy (Schopenhauerism). In certain circumstances the mere effluvia of such a venomous vegetation, springing as it does out of the very heart of putrefaction, can poison life for thousands and thousands of years.

A Criticism of the Morality of Decadence. An “altruistic” morality, under which selfishness withers, is always a bad sign. This is true of individuals and above all of nations. When selfishness begins to disappear, the best are missing. To choose instinctively what harms you, to be lured by “selfless” motives, is almost a formula for decadence. “Not to have one’s own interests at heart” is merely a moral fig leaf. It conceals a very different fact, a physiological one: “I no longer know how to find what is in my interest.”... The instincts are falling apart! Man is finished when he becomes altruistic. Instead of saying honestly, “I am no longer any good,” the decadent lies in the language of morality: “Nothing is any good. Life is no good.” A judgment like this ultimately becomes a great danger because it is infectious. It soon flourishes with tropical abundance in the polluted soil of society, sometimes as a religion (Christianity), sometimes as a philosophy (Schopenhauerism). This poisonous growth springs from the very heart of decay. In certain circumstances, its mere fumes can poison life for thousands and thousands of years.

A moral for doctors.—The sick man is a parasite of society. In certain cases it is indecent to go on living. To continue to vegetate in a state of cowardly dependence upon doctors and special treatments, once the meaning of life, the right to life, has been lost, ought to be regarded with the greatest contempt by society. The doctors, for their part, should be the agents for imparting this contempt,—they should no longer prepare prescriptions, but should every day administer a fresh dose of disgust to their patients. A new responsibility should be created, that of the doctor—the responsibility of ruthlessly suppressing and eliminating degenerate life, in all cases in which the highest interests of life itself, of ascending life, demand such a course—for instance in favour of the right of procreation, in favour of the right of being born, in favour of the right to live. One should die proudly when it is no longer possible to live proudly. Death should be chosen freely,—death at the right time, faced clearly and joyfully and embraced while one is surrounded by one’s children and other witnesses. It should be affected in such a way that a proper farewell is still possible, that he who is about to take leave of us is still himself, and really capable not only of valuing what he has achieved and willed in life, but also of summing-up the value of life itself. Everything precisely the opposite of the ghastly comedy which Christianity has made of the hour of death. We should never forgive Christianity for having so abused the weakness of the dying man as to do violence to his conscience, or for having used his manner of dying as a means of valuing both man and his past—In spite of all cowardly prejudices, it is our duty, in this respect, above all to reinstate the proper—that is to say, the physiological, aspect of so-called natural death, which after all is perfectly “unnatural” and nothing else than suicide. One never perishes through anybody’s fault but one’s own. The only thing is that the death which takes place in the most contemptible circumstances, the death that is not free, the death which occurs at the wrong time, is the death of a coward. Out of the very love one bears to life, one should wish death to be different from this—that is to say, free, deliberate, and neither a matter of chance nor of surprise. Finally let me whisper a word of advice to our friends the pessimists and all other decadents. We have not the power to prevent ourselves from being born: but this error—for sometimes it is an error—can be rectified if we choose. The man who does away with himself, performs the most estimable of deeds: he almost deserves to live for having done so. Society—nay, life itself, derives more profit from such a deed than from any sort of life spent in renunciation, anæmia and other virtues,—at least the suicide frees others from the sight of him, at least he removes one objection against life. Pessimism pur et vert, can be proved only by the self-refutation of the pessimists themselves: one should go a step further in one’s consistency; one should not merely deny life with “The World as Will and Idea,” as Schopenhauer did; one should in the first place deny Schopenhauer. ... Incidentally, Pessimism, however infectious it may be, does not increase the morbidness of an age or of a whole species; it is rather the expression of that morbidness. One falls a victim to it in the same way as one falls a victim to cholera; one must already be predisposed to the disease. Pessimism in itself does not increase the number of the world’s decadents by a single unit. Let me remind you of the statistical fact that in those years in which cholera rages, the total number of deaths does not exceed that of other years.

A moral for doctors. The sick person is a parasite on society. In certain cases, it is indecent to go on living. Suppose someone has lost life’s meaning and the right to live. If that person continues to vegetate, cowardly dependent on doctors and special treatments, society should regard it with the greatest contempt. Doctors, for their part, should be the agents of this contempt. They should no longer write prescriptions, but should give their patients a fresh dose of disgust every day. Doctors should be given a new responsibility: to ruthlessly suppress and eliminate degenerate life whenever the highest interests of life itself, of ascending life, demand it. For example, they should do so in favor of the right to procreate, the right to be born, and the right to live. One should die proudly when it is no longer possible to live proudly. Death should be freely chosen, at the right time. One should face it clearly and joyfully, and embrace it surrounded by one’s children and other witnesses. It should be done while a proper farewell is still possible. The person about to leave us should still be himself. He should be able to assess not only what he has achieved and willed in life, but also to sum up the value of life itself. All this is the exact opposite of the ghastly comedy Christianity has made of the hour of death. We should never forgive Christianity for exploiting a dying person’s weakness to violate his conscience. Nor should we forgive it for using the manner of his death to judge both the person and his past. Despite all cowardly prejudices, we have a duty here. Above all, we must restore the proper perspective on so-called natural death, the physiological one. After all, natural death is perfectly “unnatural” and nothing but suicide. No one dies through anyone’s fault but his own. Death in the most contemptible circumstances, death that is not free, death at the wrong time, is a coward’s death. Out of love for life itself, one should want death to be different. It should be free and deliberate, not a matter of chance or surprise. Finally, let me whisper a word of advice to our friends the pessimists and all other decadents. We cannot prevent ourselves from being born. But this mistake, for sometimes it is a mistake, can be corrected if we choose. The person who kills himself performs a most admirable deed. He almost deserves to live for having done it. Society, indeed life itself, gains more from such a deed than from a life spent in renunciation, anemia, and other virtues. At least the suicide spares others the sight of him. At least he removes one objection to life. Pessimism pur et vert can be proved only when pessimists refute themselves. One should take one’s consistency a step further. One should not merely deny life with “The World as Will and Idea,” as Schopenhauer did. One should first of all deny Schopenhauer. ... Incidentally, however infectious pessimism may be, it does not make an age or an entire species more morbid. Rather, it is an expression of that morbidness. One falls victim to pessimism just as one falls victim to cholera. One must already be predisposed to the disease. Pessimism itself does not add a single person to the world’s decadents. Let me remind you of a statistical fact: in years when cholera rages, the total number of deaths is no higher than in other years.

Have we become more moral?—As might have been expected, the whole ferocity of moral stultification, which, as is well known, passes for morality itself in Germany, hurled itself against my concept “Beyond Good and Evil.” I could tell you some nice tales about this. Above all, people tried to make me see the “incontestable superiority” of our age in regard to moral sentiment, and the progress we had made in these matters. Compared with us, a Cæsar Borgia was by no means to be represented as “higher man,” the sort of Superman, which I declared him to be. The editor of the Swiss paper the Bund went so far as not only to express his admiration for the courage displayed by my enterprise, but also to pretend to “understand” that the intended purpose of my work was to abolish all decent feeling. Much obliged!—In reply, I venture to raise the following question: have we really become more moral? The fact that everybody believes that we have is already an objection to the belief. We modern men, so extremely delicate and susceptible, full of consideration one for the other, actually dare to suppose that the pampering fellow-feeling which we all display, this unanimity which we have at last acquired in sparing and helping and trusting one another marks a definite step forward, and shows us to be far ahead of the man of the Renaissance. But every age thinks the same, it is bound to think the same. This at least, is certain, that we should not dare to stand amid the conditions which prevailed at the Renaissance, we should not even dare to imagine ourselves in those conditions: our nerves could not endure that reality, not to speak of our muscles. The inability to do this however does not denote any progress; but simply the different and more senile quality of our particular nature, its greater weakness, delicateness, and susceptibility, out of which a morality more rich in consideration was bound to arise. If we imagine our delicateness and senility, our physiological decrepitude as non-existent, our morality of “humanisation” would immediately lose all value—no morality has any value per se—it would even fill us with scorn. On the other hand, do not let us doubt that we moderns, wrapped as we are in the thick cotton wool of our humanitarianism which would shrink even from grazing a stone, would present a comedy to Cæsar Borgia’s contemporaries which would literally make them die of laughter. We are indeed, without knowing it, exceedingly ridiculous with our modern “virtues.” ... The decline of the instincts of hostility and of those instincts that arouse suspicion,—for this if anything is what constitutes our progress—is only one of the results manifested by the general decline in vitality: it requires a hundred times more trouble and caution to live such a dependent and senile existence. In such circumstances everybody gives everybody else a helping hand, and, to a certain extent, everybody is either an invalid or an invalid’s attendant. This is then called “virtue”: among those men who knew a different life—that is to say, a fuller, more prodigal, more superabundant sort of life, it might have been called by another name,—possibly “cowardice,” or “vileness,” or “old woman’s morality.” ... Our mollification of morals—this is my cry; this it you will is my innovation—is the outcome of our decline; conversely hardness and terribleness in morals may be the result of a surplus of life. When the latter state prevails, much is dared, much is challenged, and much is also squandered. That which formerly was simply the salt of life, would now be our poison. To be indifferent—even this is a form of strength—for that, likewise, we are too senile, too decrepit: our morality of fellow-feeling, against which I was the first to raise a finger of warning, that which might be called moral impressionism, is one symptom the more of the excessive physiological irritability which is peculiar to everything decadent. That movement which attempted to introduce itself in a scientific manner on the shoulders of Schopenhauer’s morality of pity—a very sad attempt!—is in its essence the movement of decadence in morality, and as such it is intimately related to Christian morality. Strong ages and noble cultures see something contemptible in pity, in the “love of one’s neighbour,” and in a lack of egoism and of self-esteem.—Ages should be measured according to their positive forces;—valued by this standard that prodigal and fateful age of the Renaissance, appears as the last great age, while we moderns with our anxious care of ourselves and love of our neighbours, with all our unassuming virtues of industry, equity, and scientific method—with our lust of collection, of economy and of mechanism—represent a weak age.... Our virtues are necessarily determined, and are even stimulated, by our weakness. “Equality,” a certain definite process of making everybody uniform, which only finds its expression in the theory of equal rights, is essentially bound up with a declining culture: the chasm between man and man, class and class, the multiplicity of types, the will to be one’s self, and to distinguish one’s self—that, in fact, which I call the pathos of distance is proper to all strong ages. The force of tension,—nay, the tension itself, between extremes grows slighter every day,—the extremes themselves are tending to become obliterated to the point of becoming identical. All our political theories and state constitutions, not by any means excepting “The German Empire,” are the logical consequences, the necessary consequences of decline; the unconscious effect of decadence has begun to dominate even the ideals of the various sciences. My objection to the whole of English and French sociology still continues to be this, that it knows only the decadent form of society from experience, and with perfectly childlike innocence takes the instincts of decline as the norm, the standard, of sociological valuations. Descending life, the decay of all organising power—that is to say, of all that power which separates, cleaves gulfs, and establishes rank above and below, formulated itself in modern sociology as the ideal. Our socialists are decadents: but Herbert Spencer was also a decadent,—he saw something to be desired in the triumph of altruism!...

Have we become more moral? As might have been expected, the full ferocity of moral stupidity hurled itself against my concept “Beyond Good and Evil.” In Germany, as everyone knows, this stupidity passes for morality itself. I could tell you some fine stories about that. Above all, people tried to show me the “incontestable superiority” of our age in moral feeling and the progress we have made in such matters. Compared with us, Cæsar Borgia was by no means to be presented as a “higher man,” the kind of Superman I declared him to be. The editor of the Swiss paper the Bund even expressed his admiration for the courage of my undertaking. But he also claimed to “understand” that my work was intended to abolish all decent feeling. Much obliged! In reply, I venture to ask: have we really become more moral? The fact that everyone believes we have is already an objection to that belief. We moderns are so extremely delicate and sensitive, so considerate of one another. We actually dare to think that our pampering sympathy marks a definite step forward. We have finally come to agree that we should spare, help, and trust one another. We think this puts us far ahead of the man of the Renaissance. But every age thinks the same. It has to think the same. This much is certain: we would not dare to live in the conditions that prevailed during the Renaissance. We would not even dare to imagine ourselves in them. Our nerves could not endure that reality, let alone our muscles. But this inability does not mean progress. It simply shows that our nature is different and more senile, weaker, more delicate, and more sensitive. A morality richer in consideration was bound to arise from this nature. Imagine that our delicacy and senility, our physical decline, did not exist. Our morality of “humanisation” would immediately lose all value. No morality has value in itself. Indeed, it would fill us with contempt. On the other hand, let us have no doubt about how we moderns would appear to Cæsar Borgia’s contemporaries. We are wrapped in the thick cotton wool of our humanitarianism and shrink even from scraping ourselves against a stone. We would put on a comedy that would literally make them die of laughter. Without knowing it, we are exceedingly ridiculous with our modern “virtues.” ... The decline of hostile and suspicious instincts is, if anything, what constitutes our progress. Yet it is only one result of the general decline in vitality. A dependent, senile existence takes a hundred times more trouble and caution to maintain. In such conditions, everyone helps everyone else. To some extent, everyone is either an invalid or an invalid’s attendant. This is then called “virtue.” Among people who knew a different life, a fuller, more lavish, more abundant life, it might have had another name. Perhaps they would have called it “cowardice,” “vileness,” or “old woman’s morality.” ... The softening of our morals is the result of our decline. This is my cry, and, if you like, my innovation. Conversely, hardness and terribleness in morals may result from an abundance of life. When that condition prevails, people dare much, challenge much, and also squander much. What was once simply the salt of life would now be our poison. Even indifference is a form of strength. We are too senile and decrepit for that, too. I was the first to raise a finger of warning against our morality of sympathy. This morality, which might be called moral impressionism, is one more symptom of the excessive physical sensitivity peculiar to everything decadent. One movement tried to present itself as scientific by riding on the back of Schopenhauer’s morality of pity. A very sad attempt! In essence, it is the movement of decadence in morality. As such, it is closely related to Christian morality. Strong ages and noble cultures see something contemptible in pity, in “love of one’s neighbour,” and in a lack of egoism and self-esteem. Ages should be measured by their positive forces. By this standard, the lavish and fateful age of the Renaissance appears as the last great age. We moderns, by contrast, represent a weak age. We are anxious to care for ourselves and love our neighbours. We have all our modest virtues of industry, fairness, and scientific method, along with our passion for collecting, saving, and machinery. ... Our virtues are necessarily shaped, and even encouraged, by our weakness. “Equality” is a particular process of making everyone uniform. The theory of equal rights is only its expression. This process is essentially bound up with a declining culture. All strong ages are marked by the gulf between person and person, class and class. They are marked by a variety of types and the will to be oneself and stand apart. This is what I call the pathos of distance. The strength of the tension between extremes, indeed the tension itself, grows less every day. The extremes themselves are tending to disappear and become identical. All our political theories and state constitutions, including “The German Empire,” are the logical, necessary consequences of decline. The unconscious influence of decadence has even begun to dominate the ideals of the various sciences. My objection to all English and French sociology remains the same. It knows only the decadent form of society from experience. With perfect childlike innocence, it takes the instincts of decline as the norm, the standard for judging society. Modern sociology has made an ideal of declining life and the decay of all organizing power. By organizing power, I mean all power that separates, opens up gulfs, and establishes ranks above and below. Our socialists are decadents. But Herbert Spencer was also a decadent. He saw something desirable in the triumph of altruism! ...

My Concept of Freedom.—Sometimes the value of a thing does not lie in that which it helps us to achieve, but in the amount we have to pay for it,—what it costs us. For instance, liberal institutions straightway cease from being liberal, the moment they are soundly established: once this is attained no more grievous and more thorough enemies of freedom exist than liberal institutions! One knows, of course, what they bring about: they undermine the Will to Power, they are the levelling of mountain and valley exalted to a morality, they make people small, cowardly and pleasure-loving,—by means of them the gregarious animal invariably triumphs. Liberalism, or, in plain English, the transformation of mankind into cattle. The same institutions, so long as they are fought for, produce quite other results; then indeed they promote the cause of freedom quite powerfully. Regarded more closely, it is war which produces these results, war in favour of liberal institutions, which, as war, allows the illiberal instincts to subsist. For war trains men to be free. What in sooth is freedom? Freedom is the will to be responsible for ourselves. It is to preserve the distance which separates us from other men. To grow more indifferent to hardship, to severity, to privation, and even to life itself. To be ready to sacrifice men for one’s cause, one’s self included. Freedom denotes that the virile instincts which rejoice in war and in victory, prevail over other instincts; for instance, over the instincts of “happiness.” The man who has won his freedom, and how much more so, therefore, the spirit that has won its freedom, tramples ruthlessly upon that contemptible kind of comfort which tea-grocers, Christians, cows, women, Englishmen and other democrats worship in their dreams. The free man is a warrior.—How is freedom measured in individuals as well as in nations? According to the resistance which has to be overcome, according to the pains which it costs to remain uppermost. The highest type of free man would have to be sought where the greatest resistance has continually to be overcome: five paces away from tyranny, on the very threshold of the danger of thraldom. This is psychologically true if, by the word “Tyrants” we mean inexorable and terrible instincts which challenge the maximum amount of authority and discipline to oppose them—the finest example of this is Julius Cæsar; it is also true politically: just examine the course of history. The nations which were worth anything, which got to be worth anything, never attained to that condition under liberal institutions: great danger made out of them something which deserves reverence, that danger which alone can make us aware of our resources, our virtues, our means of defence, our weapons, our genius,—which compels us to be strong. First principle: a man must need to be strong, otherwise he will never attain it.—Those great forcing-houses of the strong, of the strongest kind of men that have ever existed on earth, the aristocratic communities like those of Rome and Venice, understood freedom precisely as I understand the word: as something that one has and that one has not, as something that one will have and that one seizes by force.

My Concept of Freedom. Sometimes a thing’s value lies not in what it helps us achieve, but in what we pay for it. Its value lies in what it costs us. For example, liberal institutions stop being liberal the moment they are firmly established. Once established, nothing is a more serious or thorough enemy of freedom than liberal institutions! We know, of course, what they do. They undermine the Will to Power. They make a morality out of leveling mountains and valleys. They make people small, cowardly, and pleasure-loving. Through liberal institutions, the herd animal always triumphs. Liberalism is, in plain English, the transformation of humanity into cattle. Yet while people are fighting for these same institutions, the results are quite different. Then they do much to advance freedom. On closer inspection, it is war that produces these results. It is the war for liberal institutions that, as war, allows illiberal instincts to survive. For war trains people to be free. What, then, is freedom? Freedom is the will to take responsibility for ourselves. It is maintaining the distance that separates us from other people. It is becoming more indifferent to hardship, severity, deprivation, and even life itself. It is being ready to sacrifice people for one’s cause, including oneself. Freedom means that the manly instincts that delight in war and victory prevail over other instincts, such as the instincts of “happiness.” A man who has won his freedom, and still more a spirit that has won its freedom, ruthlessly tramples on that contemptible comfort. It is the comfort that tea-grocers, Christians, cows, women, Englishmen, and other democrats worship in their dreams. The free man is a warrior. How do we measure freedom in individuals and nations alike? By the resistance they must overcome and the pain it costs them to remain on top. We would have to seek the highest type of free man where the greatest resistance must constantly be overcome. He would be five paces from tyranny, right on the threshold of the danger of bondage. This is psychologically true if by “Tyrants” we mean relentless and terrible instincts. These instincts demand the maximum authority and discipline to oppose them. Julius Cæsar is the finest example. It is also politically true. Just look at the course of history. Nations that were worth anything, nations that became worth anything, never achieved that condition under liberal institutions. Great danger made them into something deserving of reverence. Only such danger can make us aware of our resources, our virtues, our means of defense, our weapons, and our genius. Only such danger compels us to be strong. First principle: a man must need to be strong, or he will never become strong. The aristocratic communities of Rome and Venice were great breeding grounds for the strong. They bred the strongest kind of men ever to exist on earth. They understood freedom exactly as I do: as something one has and does not have, as something one will have and seizes by force.

A Criticism of Modernity.—Our institutions are no longer any good; on this point we are all agreed. But the fault does not lie with them; but with us. Now that we have lost all the instincts out of which institutions grow, the latter on their part are beginning to disappear from our midst because we are no longer fit for them. Democracy has always been the death agony of the power of organisation: already in “Human All-too-Human,” Part I., Aph. 472, I pointed out that modern democracy, together with its half-measures, of which the “German Empire” is an example, was a decaying form of the State. For institutions to be possible there must exist a sort of will, instinct, imperative, which cannot be otherwise than antiliberal to the point of wickedness: the will to tradition, to authority, to responsibility for centuries to come, to solidarity in long family lines forwards and backwards in infinitum. If this will is present, something is founded which resembles the imperium Romanum; or Russia, the only great nation to-day that has some lasting power and grit in her, that can bide her time, that can still promise something.—Russia the opposite of all wretched European petty-statism and neurasthenia, which the foundation of the German Empire has brought to a crisis. The whole of the Occident no longer possesses those instincts from which institutions spring, out of which a future grows: maybe nothing is more opposed to its “modern spirit” than these things. People live for the present, the live at top speed,—they certainly live without any sense of responsibility; and this is precisely what they call “freedom.” Everything in institutions which makes them institutions, is scorned, loathed and repudiated: everybody is in mortal fear of a new slavery, wherever the word “authority” is so much as whispered. The decadence of the valuing instinct, both in our politicians and in our political parties, goes so far, that they instinctively prefer that which acts as a solvent, that which precipitates the final catastrophe.... As an example of this behold modern marriage. All reason has obviously been divorced from modern marriage: but this is no objection to matrimony itself but to modernity. The rational basis of marriage—it lay in the exclusive legal responsibility of the man: by this means some ballast was laid in the ship of matrimony, whereas nowadays it has a list, now on this side, now on that. The rational basis of marriage—it lay in its absolute indissolubleness: in this way it was given a gravity which knew how to make its influence felt, in the face of the accident of sentiment, passion and momentary impulse: it lay also in the fact that the responsibility of choosing the parties to the contract, lay with the families. By showing ever more and more favour to love-marriages, the very foundation of matrimony, that which alone makes it an institution, has been undermined. No institution ever has been nor ever will be built upon an idiosyncrasy; as I say, marriage cannot be based upon “love.” It can be based upon sexual desire; upon the instinct of property (wife and child as possessions); upon the instinct of dominion, which constantly organises for itself the smallest form of dominion,—the family which requires children and heirs in order to hold fast, also in the physiological sense, to a certain quantum of acquired power, influence and wealth, so as to prepare for lasting tasks, and for solidarity in the instincts from one century to another. Marriage as an institution presupposes the affirmation of the greatest and most permanent form of organisation; if society cannot as a whole stand security for itself into the remotest generations, marriage has no meaning whatsoever.—Modern marriage has lost its meaning; consequently it is being abolished.

A Criticism of Modernity. Our institutions are no longer any good. We all agree on that. But the fault lies not with them, but with us. We have lost all the instincts from which institutions grow. As a result, institutions are beginning to disappear because we are no longer fit for them. Democracy has always been the death agony of the power to organize. I pointed this out in “Human All-too-Human,” Part I., Aph. 472. There I said that modern democracy was a decaying form of the State. So were its half-measures, such as the “German Empire.” For institutions to be possible, a certain will, instinct, or imperative must exist. It must be illiberal to the point of wickedness. It is the will to tradition, to authority, and to responsibility for centuries to come. It is the will to solidarity across long family lines, stretching backward and forward in infinitum. When this will is present, something like the imperium Romanum is founded. Or something like Russia. Russia is the only great nation today with lasting power and grit. It can wait, and it can still make promises. Russia is the opposite of all the wretched small-state politics and nervous exhaustion of Europe. The founding of the German Empire has brought these to a crisis. The whole of the West no longer has the instincts from which institutions spring and a future grows. Perhaps nothing is more opposed to its “modern spirit” than these instincts. People live for the present. They live at top speed. They certainly live without any sense of responsibility, and that is precisely what they call “freedom.” Everything that makes institutions what they are is scorned, hated, and rejected. Wherever the word “authority” is even whispered, everyone is terrified of a new slavery. The instinct for judging value has decayed so far in our politicians and political parties that they instinctively prefer whatever dissolves institutions and hastens the final catastrophe.... Take modern marriage as an example. All reason has obviously been divorced from modern marriage. But this is no objection to marriage itself. It is an objection to modernity. The rational basis of marriage lay in the man's sole legal responsibility. This gave the ship of marriage some ballast. Nowadays it lists first to one side, then to the other. The rational basis of marriage also lay in the fact that it could never be dissolved. This gave it a gravity strong enough to withstand the accidents of sentiment, passion, and momentary impulse. Its rational basis also lay in the families' responsibility for choosing the parties to the contract. By increasingly favoring marriages for love, people have undermined the very foundation of marriage, the one thing that makes it an institution. No institution has ever been or ever will be built on a personal peculiarity. As I say, marriage cannot be based on “love.” It can be based on sexual desire or on the instinct of property, with wife and child as possessions. It can also be based on the instinct for domination. This instinct constantly organizes its own smallest form of rule, the family. The family requires children and heirs to hold on to a certain amount of acquired power, influence, and wealth, including in the physiological sense. It needs them to prepare for lasting tasks and for solidarity in instincts from one century to the next. Marriage as an institution assumes the affirmation of the greatest and most lasting form of organization. If society as a whole cannot guarantee its own future into the most distant generations, marriage has no meaning whatsoever. Modern marriage has lost its meaning. Consequently, it is being abolished.

The question of the Working-man.—The mere fact that there is such a thing as the question of the working-man is due to stupidity, or at bottom to degenerate instincts which are the cause of all the stupidity of modern times. Concerning certain things no questions ought to be put: the first imperative principle of instinct. For the life of me I cannot see what people want to do with the working-man of Europe, now that they have made a question of him. He is far too comfortable to cease from questioning ever more and more, and with ever less modesty. After all, he has the majority on his side. There is now not the slightest hope that an unassuming and contented sort of man, after the style of the Chinaman, will come into being in this quarter: and this would have been the reasonable course, it was even a dire necessity. What has been done? Everything has been done with the view of nipping the very pre-requisite of this accomplishment in the bud, —with the most frivolous thoughtlessness those selfsame instincts by means of which a working-class becomes possible, and tolerable even to its members themselves, have been destroyed root and branch. The working-man has been declared fit for military service; he has been granted the right of combination, and of voting: can it be wondered at that he already regards his condition as one of distress (expressed morally, as an injustice)? But, again I ask, what do people want? If they desire a certain end, then they should desire the means thereto. If they will have slaves, then it is madness to educate them to be masters.

The question of the working-man. The mere fact that there is a question of the working-man is due to stupidity. Or, at bottom, it is due to degenerate instincts, the cause of all the stupidity of modern times. There are certain things no questions should be asked about: that is the first command of instinct. I cannot for the life of me see what people want to do with the working-man of Europe. They have turned him into a question. He is far too comfortable to stop asking more and more questions, with ever less modesty. After all, he has the majority on his side. There is now no hope at all that a modest and contented sort of man, like the Chinaman, will emerge in Europe. Yet this would have been the reasonable course. It was even a desperate necessity. What has been done instead? Everything has been done to nip the very prerequisite for this outcome in the bud. With the most frivolous thoughtlessness, people have destroyed the very instincts that make a working class possible. These instincts also make it tolerable even to its own members. The working-man has been declared fit for military service. He has been granted the right to organize and to vote. Is it any wonder that he already sees his condition as one of distress? In moral terms, he sees it as an injustice. But again I ask, what do people want? If they want a certain end, they should want the means to it. If they want slaves, then it is madness to educate them to be masters.

“The kind of freedom I do not mean....”⁶—In an age like the present, it simply adds to one’s perils to be left to one’s instincts. The instincts contradict, disturb, and destroy each other; I have already defined modernism as physiological self-contradiction. A reasonable system of education would insist upon at least one of these instinct-systems being paralysed beneath an iron pressure, in order to allow others to assert their power, to grow strong, and to dominate. At present, the only conceivable way of making the individual possible would be to prune him:—of making him possible—that is to say, whole. The very reverse occurs. Independence, free development, and laisser aller are clamoured for most violently precisely by those for whom no restraint could be too severe—this is true in politics, it is true in Art. But this is a symptom of decadence: our modern notion of “freedom” is one proof the more of the degeneration of instinct.

“The kind of freedom I do not mean....”⁶ In an age like ours, following your instincts only exposes you to more dangers. The instincts contradict, disrupt, and destroy one another. I have already defined modernism as physiological self-contradiction. A reasonable system of education would insist on paralyzing at least one of these instinct systems under iron pressure. This would allow the others to assert their power, grow strong, and dominate. Today, the only conceivable way to make an individual possible would be to prune him. By possible, I mean whole. The exact opposite happens. The loudest demands for independence, free development, and letting go come from those who cannot be restrained too severely. This is true in politics and in art. But this is a symptom of decadence: our modern idea of “freedom” is further proof that instinct is degenerating.

Where faith is necessary.—Nothing is more rare among moralists and saints than uprightness; maybe they say the reverse is true, maybe they even believe it. For, when faith is more useful, more effective, more convincing than conscious hypocrisy, by instinct that hypocrisy forthwith becomes innocent: first principle towards the understanding of great saints. The same holds good of philosophers, that other order of saints; their whole business compels them to concede only certain truths—that is to say, those by means of which their particular trade receives the public sanction,—to speak “Kantingly”: the truths of practical reason. They know what they must prove; in this respect they are practical,—they recognise each other by the fact that they agree upon “certain truths.”—“Thou shalt not lie”—in plain English:—Beware, Mr Philosopher, of speaking the truth....

Where faith is necessary. Nothing is rarer among moralists and saints than honesty. Perhaps they say the opposite is true, and perhaps they even believe it. For when faith is more useful, effective, and convincing than conscious hypocrisy, that hypocrisy instinctively becomes innocent: this is the first principle for understanding great saints. The same is true of philosophers, that other order of saints. Their whole profession forces them to acknowledge only certain truths. These are the truths that earn their particular trade public approval. To speak “Kantingly”: the truths of practical reason. They know what they must prove. In this respect, they are practical. They recognize one another by their agreement on “certain truths.” “Thou shalt not lie.” In plain English: Beware, Mr. Philosopher, of speaking the truth....

A quiet hint to Conservatives.—That which we did not know formerly, and know now, or might know if we chose,—is the fact that a retrograde formation, a reversion in any sense or degree, is absolutely impossible. We physiologists, at least, are aware of this. But all priests and moralists have believed in it,—they wished to drag and screw man back to a former standard of virtue. Morality has always been a Procrustean bed. Even the politicians have imitated the preachers of virtue in this matter. There are parties at the present day whose one aim and dream is to make all things adopt the crab-march. But not everyone can be a crab. It cannot be helped: we must go forward,—that is to say step by step further and further into decadence (—this is my definition of modern “progress”). We can hinder this development, and by so doing dam up and accumulate degeneration itself and render it more convulsive, more volcanic: we cannot do more.

A quiet hint to Conservatives. We did not know this before, but now we do, or could if we chose to: retrograde formation, a return to an earlier state in any sense or degree, is absolutely impossible. We physiologists, at least, know this. But all priests and moralists have believed it possible. They wanted to drag and twist humanity back to an earlier standard of virtue. Morality has always been a Procrustean bed. Even politicians have imitated the preachers of virtue in this. Today, some parties have one aim and dream: to make everything move in the crab-march. But not everyone can be a crab. It cannot be helped: we must go forward. That means moving step by step further into decadence. (This is my definition of modern “progress”.) We can slow this development. But by doing so, we dam up degeneration and allow it to accumulate, making it more convulsive, more volcanic: we can do no more.

My concept of Genius.—Great men, like great ages, are explosive material, in which a stupendous amount of power is accumulated; the first conditions of their existence are always historical and physiological; they are the outcome of the fact that for long ages energy has been collected, hoarded up, saved up and preserved for their use, and that no explosion has taken place. When, the tension in the bulk has become sufficiently excessive, the most fortuitous stimulus suffices in order to call “genius,” “great deeds,” and momentous fate into the world. What then is the good of all environment, historical periods, “Zeitgeist” (Spirit of the age) and “public opinion”?—Take the case of Napoleon. France of the Revolution, and still more of the period preceding the Revolution, would have brought forward a type which was the very reverse of Napoleon: it actually did produce such a type. And because Napoleon was something different, the heir of a stronger, more lasting and older civilisation than that which in France was being smashed to atoms he became master there, he was the only master there. Great men are necessary, the age in which they appear is a matter of chance; the fact that they almost invariably master their age is accounted for simply by the fact that they are stronger, that they are older, and that power has been stored longer for them. The relation of a genius to his age is that which exists between strength and weakness and between maturity and youth: the age is relatively always very much younger, thinner, less mature, less resolute and more childish. The fact that the general opinion in France at the present day, is utterly different on this very point (in Germany too, but that is of no consequence); the fact that in that country the theory of environment—a regular neuropathic notion—has become sacrosanct and almost scientific, and finds acceptance even among the physiologists, is a very bad, and exceedingly depressing sign. In England too the same belief prevails: but nobody will be surprised at that. The Englishman knows only two ways of understanding the genius and the “great man”: either democratically in the style of Buckle, or religiously after the manner of Carlyle.—The danger which great men and great ages represent, is simply extraordinary; every kind of exhaustion and of sterility follows in their wake. The great man is an end; the great age—the Renaissance for instance,—is an end. The genius—in work and in deed,—is necessarily a squanderer: the fact that he spends himself constitutes his greatness. The instinct of self-preservation is as it were suspended in him; the overpowering pressure of out-flowing energy in him forbids any such protection and prudence. People call this “self-sacrifice,” they praise his “heroism,” his indifference to his own well-being, his utter devotion to an idea, a great cause, a father-land: All misunderstandings.... He flows out, he flows over, he consumes himself, he does not spare himself,—and does all this with fateful necessity, irrevocably, involuntarily, just as a river involuntarily bursts its dams. But, owing to the fact that humanity has been much indebted to such explosives, it has endowed them with many things, for instance, with a kind of higher morality.... This is indeed the sort of gratitude that humanity is capable of: it misunderstands its benefactors.

My concept of Genius. Great men, like great ages, are explosive material in which an enormous amount of power has accumulated. The first conditions of their existence are always historical and physiological. For long ages, energy has been collected, stored, saved, and preserved for their use, without an explosion taking place. When the tension within the mass becomes great enough, the most accidental stimulus can bring “genius,” “great deeds,” and momentous fate into the world. What use, then, are environment, historical periods, “Zeitgeist” (Spirit of the age), and “public opinion”? Take Napoleon. Revolutionary France, and even more so the France before the Revolution, would have produced a type exactly opposite to Napoleon. It actually did produce such a type. Napoleon was different. He was the heir to a stronger, more enduring, and older civilization than the one being smashed to pieces in France. Because of this, he became master there. He was the only master there. Great men are necessary. The age in which they appear is a matter of chance. They almost always master their age simply because they are stronger and older, and because power has been stored up longer for them. A genius stands in relation to his age as strength does to weakness, and maturity to youth. The age is always comparatively much younger, thinner, less mature, less resolute, and more childish. Today, public opinion in France takes a completely different view of this point. The same is true in Germany, but that is of no consequence. In France, the theory of environment has become sacred and almost scientific. Even physiologists accept it. This theory is a thoroughly neuropathic notion, and its acceptance is a very bad and deeply depressing sign. The same belief prevails in England too, but nobody will be surprised by that. The Englishman knows only two ways to understand genius and the “great man”: either democratically, like Buckle, or religiously, like Carlyle. The danger posed by great men and great ages is simply extraordinary. Every kind of exhaustion and sterility follows in their wake. The great man is an end. The great age, the Renaissance for instance, is an end. The genius, in work and in deed, is necessarily a squanderer. His greatness lies in the fact that he spends himself. His instinct for self-preservation is, as it were, suspended. The overwhelming pressure of energy flowing out of him leaves no room for such protection and caution. People call this “self-sacrifice.” They praise his “heroism,” his indifference to his own well-being, and his complete devotion to an idea, a great cause, a fatherland. All misunderstandings.... He flows out, he overflows, he consumes himself, he does not spare himself. He does all this with fateful necessity, irrevocably and involuntarily, just as a river involuntarily bursts its dams. But humanity owes much to such explosives, so it has endowed them with many things, including a kind of higher morality.... This is indeed the sort of gratitude humanity is capable of: it misunderstands its benefactors.

The criminal and his like.—The criminal type is the type of the strong man amid unfavourable conditions, a strong man made sick. He lacks the wild and savage state, a form of nature and existence which is freer and more dangerous, in which everything that constitutes the shield and the sword in the instinct of the strong man, takes a place by right. Society puts a ban upon his virtues; the most spirited instincts inherent in him immediately become involved with the depressing passions, with suspicion, fear and dishonour. But this is almost the recipe for physiological degeneration. When a man has to do that which he is best suited to do, which he is most fond of doing, not only clandestinely, but also with long suspense, caution and ruse, he becomes anæmic; and inasmuch as he is always having to pay for his instincts in the form of danger, persecution and fatalities, even his feelings begin to turn against these instincts—he begins to regard them as fatal. It is society, our tame, mediocre, castrated society, in which an untutored son of nature who comes to us from his mountains or from his adventures at sea, must necessarily degenerate into a criminal. Or almost necessarily: for there are cases in which such a man shows himself to be stronger than society: the Corsican Napoleon is the most celebrated case of this. Concerning the problem before us, Dostoiewsky’s testimony is of importance—Dostoiewsky who, incidentally, was the only psychologist from whom I had anything to learn: he belongs to the happiest windfalls of my life, happier even than the discovery of Stendhal. This profound man, who was right ten times over in esteeming the superficial Germans low, found the Siberian convicts among whom he lived for many years,—those thoroughly hopeless criminals for whom no road back to society stood open—very different from what even he had expected,—that is to say carved from about the best, hardest and most valuable material that grows on Russian soil.⁷ Let us generalise the case of the criminal; let us imagine creatures who for some reason or other fail to meet with public approval, who know that they are regarded neither as beneficent nor useful,—the feeling of the Chandala, who are aware that they are not looked upon as equal, but as proscribed, unworthy, polluted. The thoughts and actions of all such natures are tainted with a subterranean mouldiness; everything in them is of a paler hue than in those on whose existence the sun shines. But almost all those creatures whom, nowadays, we honour and respect, formerly lived in this semi-sepulchral atmosphere: the man of science, the artist, the genius, the free spirit, the actor, the business man, and the great explorer. As long as the priest represented the highest type of man, every valuable kind of man was depreciated.... The time is coming—this I guarantee—when he will pass as the lowest type, as our Chandala, as the falsest and most disreputable kind of man.... I call your attention to the fact that even now, under the sway of the mildest customs and usages which have ever ruled on earth or at least in Europe, every form of standing aside, every kind of prolonged, excessively prolonged concealment, every unaccustomed and obscure form of existence tends to approximate to that type which the criminal exemplifies to perfection. All pioneers of the spirit have, for a while, the grey and fatalistic mark of the Chandala on their brows: not because they are regarded as Chandala, but because they themselves feel the terrible chasm which separates them from all that is traditional and honourable. Almost every genius knows the “Catilinarian life” as one of the stages in his development, a feeling of hate, revenge and revolt against everything that exists, that has ceased to evolve.... Catiline—the early stage of every Cæsar.

The criminal and his like. The criminal type is the strong man in unfavorable conditions, a strong man made sick. He lacks the wild, savage environment, a freer and more dangerous way of living. There, everything in a strong man’s instincts that serves as shield and sword has a rightful place. Society forbids his virtues. His most spirited instincts immediately become entangled with depressing passions: suspicion, fear, and dishonor. But this is almost a recipe for physical degeneration. A man becomes anemic when he must do what he does best and loves most in secret. He must also do it with prolonged suspense, caution, and cunning. He is always paying for his instincts with danger, persecution, and disaster. So even his feelings begin to turn against them, and he comes to see them as fatal. Our society is tame, mediocre, and castrated. In such a society, an untutored son of nature who comes to us from the mountains or from adventures at sea must necessarily degenerate into a criminal. Or almost necessarily. For some such men prove stronger than society. The Corsican Napoleon is the most celebrated example. Dostoiewsky’s testimony is important to the problem before us. Incidentally, Dostoiewsky was the only psychologist from whom I had anything to learn. Discovering him was one of the happiest strokes of luck in my life, happier even than discovering Stendhal. This profound man was right ten times over to think little of the superficial Germans. He lived for many years among Siberian convicts, thoroughly hopeless criminals with no road back into society. He found them very different from what even he had expected. They were cut from some of the best, hardest, and most valuable material that grows on Russian soil.⁷ Let us broaden the case of the criminal. Imagine creatures who, for one reason or another, fail to win public approval. They know they are seen as neither helpful nor useful. They have the feeling of the Chandala, who know they are not seen as equals, but as outcasts, unworthy and polluted. The thoughts and actions of all such natures are tainted with an underground moldiness. Everything in them is paler than in those whose lives are touched by sunlight. Yet almost all the creatures we honor and respect today once lived in this half buried atmosphere: the man of science, the artist, the genius, the free spirit, the actor, the businessman, and the great explorer. As long as the priest represented the highest type of man, every valuable kind of man was held in low esteem.... The time is coming, I guarantee it, when he will be seen as the lowest type, as our Chandala, as the falsest and most disreputable kind of man.... Notice that even now we live under the mildest customs and practices ever to have ruled on earth, or at least in Europe. Yet every way of standing apart, every prolonged, excessively prolonged concealment, and every unusual and obscure way of life tends toward the type the criminal perfectly exemplifies. For a while, all pioneers of the spirit bear the gray and fatalistic mark of the Chandala on their brows. This is not because they are seen as Chandala. It is because they themselves feel the terrible chasm separating them from everything traditional and honorable. Almost every genius experiences the “Catilinarian life” as a stage in his development. It is a feeling of hate, revenge, and revolt against everything that exists and has ceased to develop.... Catiline is the early stage of every Cæsar.

Here the outlook is free.—When a philosopher holds his tongue it may be the sign of the loftiness of his soul: when he contradicts himself it may be love; and the very courtesy of a knight of knowledge may force him to lie. It has been said, and not without subtlety:—il est indigne des grands cœurs de répandre le trouble qu’ils ressentent⁸: but it is necessary to add that there may also be grandeur de cœur in not shrinking from the most undignified proceeding. A woman who loves sacrifices her honour; a knight of knowledge who “loves,” sacrifices perhaps his humanity; a God who loved, became a Jew....

The view is clear here. When a philosopher stays silent, it may be a sign of a noble soul. When he contradicts himself, it may be out of love. A knight of knowledge may even be forced to lie out of courtesy. Someone has said, not without insight: it is unworthy of great hearts to spread the distress they feel⁸. But we must add that greatness of heart may also lie in not shrinking from the most undignified act. A woman who loves sacrifices her honor. A knight of knowledge who “loves” perhaps sacrifices his humanity. A God who loved became a Jew....

Beauty no accident—Even the beauty of a race or of a family, the charm and perfection of all its movements, is attained with pains: like genius it is the final result of the accumulated work of generations. Great sacrifices must have been made on the altar ol good taste, for its sake many things must have been done, and much must have been left undone—the seventeenth century in France is admirable for both of these things,—in this century there must have been a principle of selection in respect to company, locality, clothing, the gratification of the instinct of sex; beauty must have been preferred to profit, to habit, to opinion and to indolence. The first rule of all:—nobody must “let himself go,” not even when he is alone.—Good things are exceedingly costly:; and in all cases the law obtains that he who possesses them is a different person from him who is acquiring them. Everything good is an inheritance: that which is not inherited is imperfect, it is simply a beginning. In Athens at the time of Cicero—who expresses his surprise at the fact—the men and youths were by far superior in beauty to the women: but what hard work and exertions the male sex had for centuries imposed upon itself in the service of beauty! We must not be mistaken in regard to the method employed here: the mere discipline of feelings and thoughts is little better than nil (—it is in this that the great error of German culture, which is quite illusory, lies): the body must be persuaded first. The strict maintenance of a distinguished and tasteful demeanour, the obligation of frequenting only those who do not “let themselves go,” is amply sufficient to render one distinguished and tasteful: in two or three generations everything has already taken deep root. The fate of a people and of humanity is decided according to whether they begin culture at the right place—not at the “soul” (as the fatal superstition of the priests and half-priests would have it): the right place is the body, demeanour, diet, physiology—the rest follows as the night the day.... That is why the Greeks remain the first event in culture—they knew and they did what was needful. Christianity with its contempt of the body is the greatest mishap that has ever befallen mankind.

Beauty is no accident: Even the beauty of a race or a family, the charm and perfection of all its movements, takes effort to achieve. Like genius, it is the final result of generations of accumulated work. Great sacrifices must have been made on the altar of good taste. For beauty’s sake, people must have done many things and left many others undone. Seventeenth-century France is admirable on both counts. People in that century must have been selective about their company, where they lived, their clothing, and how they satisfied their sexual instinct. They must have preferred beauty to profit, habit, opinion, and laziness. The first rule of all is that nobody must “let himself go,” not even when alone. Good things are extremely costly. And in every case, the same law applies: the person who possesses them is different from the person who is acquiring them. Everything good is inherited. What is not inherited is imperfect, merely a beginning. In Athens in Cicero’s time, men and youths were far more beautiful than women. Cicero himself expresses surprise at this. But for centuries, men had imposed hard work and exertion on themselves in the service of beauty! We must not mistake the method used here. Merely disciplining feelings and thoughts is little better than doing nothing. This is the great error of German culture, which is entirely illusory. The body must be persuaded first. Strictly maintaining a distinguished and tasteful manner is quite enough to make a person distinguished and tasteful. So is mixing only with people who do not “let themselves go.” In two or three generations, everything has already taken deep root. The fate of a people and of humanity depends on whether they begin culture in the right place. The right place is not the “soul,” as the fatal superstition of the priests and half-priests would have it. It is the body, manners, diet, physiology. The rest follows as night follows day.... That is why the Greeks remain the first event in culture. They knew what was needed, and they did it. Christianity, with its contempt for the body, is the greatest disaster that has ever befallen mankind.

Progress in my sense.—I also speak of a “return to nature,” although it is not a process of going back but of going up—up into lofty, free and even terrible nature and naturalness; such a nature as can play with great tasks and may play with them.... To speak in a parable. Napoleon was an example of a “return to nature,” as I understand it (for instance in rebus tacticis, and still more, as military experts know, in strategy). But Rousseau—whither did he want to return? Rousseau this first modern man, idealist and canaille in one person; who was in need of moral “dignity,” in order even to endure the sight of his own person,—ill with unbridled vanity and wanton self-contempt; this abortion, who planted his tent on the threshold of modernity, also wanted a “return to nature”; but, I ask once more, whither did he wish to return? I hate Rousseau, even in the Revolution itself: the latter was the historical expression of this hybrid of idealist and canaille. The bloody farce which this Revolution ultimately became, its “immorality,” concerns me but slightly; what I loathe however is its Rousseauesque morality—the so-called “truths” of the Revolution, by means of which it still exercises power and draws all flat and mediocre things over to its side. The doctrine of equality! ... But there is no more deadly poison than this; for it seems to proceed from the very lips of justice, whereas in reality it draws the curtain down on all justice.... “To equals equality, to unequals inequality”—that would be the real speech of justice and that which follows from it “Never make unequal things equal.” The fact that so much horror and blood are associated with this doctrine of equality, has lent this “modern idea” par excellence such a halo of fire and glory, that the Revolution as a drama has misled even the most noble minds.—That after all is no reason for honouring it the more.—I can see only one who regarded it as it should be regarded—that is to say, with loathing; I speak of Goethe.

Progress as I understand it. I too speak of a “return to nature.” But it is not a journey backward. It is a climb upward, into a lofty, free, and even terrible nature and naturalness. This nature can play with great tasks and may play with them.... Let me speak in a parable. Napoleon was an example of a “return to nature” as I understand it. This was true, for example, in matters of tactics, and even more so in strategy, as military experts know. But Rousseau, where did he want to return? Rousseau was the first modern man, an idealist and a scoundrel in one person. He needed moral “dignity” just to stand the sight of himself. He was sick with unrestrained vanity and reckless self-contempt. This monstrosity, who pitched his tent on the threshold of modernity, also wanted a “return to nature.” But I ask again, where did he want to return? I hate Rousseau, even in the Revolution itself. The Revolution was the historical expression of this mixture of idealist and scoundrel. The bloody farce the Revolution eventually became, its “immorality,” concerns me little. What I loathe is its Rousseau-like morality, the so-called “truths” of the Revolution. Through these “truths,” the Revolution still exercises power and draws all that is shallow and mediocre to its side. The doctrine of equality! ... There is no deadlier poison. For it seems to come from the very lips of justice, while actually bringing all justice to an end.... “Equality for equals, inequality for unequals.” That would be the true voice of justice. And what follows from it is: “Never make unequal things equal.” So much horror and blood are associated with this doctrine of equality. They have given this “modern idea” above all others a halo of fire and glory. As a result, the Revolution, viewed as a drama, has misled even the most noble minds. But that is no reason to honor it any more. I can see only one person who regarded it as it should be regarded, with loathing. I mean Goethe.

Goethe.—No mere German, but a European event: a magnificent attempt to overcome the eighteenth century by means of a return to nature, by means of an ascent to the naturalness of the Renaissance, a kind of self-overcoming on the part of the century in question.—He bore the strongest instincts of this century in his breast: its sentimentality, and idolatry of nature, its anti-historic, idealistic, unreal, and revolutionary spirit (—the latter is only a form of the unreal). He enlisted history, natural science, antiquity, as well as Spinoza, and above all practical activity, in his service. He drew a host of very definite horizons around him; far from liberating himself from life, he plunged right into it; he did not give in; he took as much as he could on his own shoulders, and into his heart. That to which he aspired was totality; he was opposed to the sundering of reason, sensuality, feeling and will (as preached with most repulsive scholasticism by Kant, the antipodes of Goethe); he disciplined himself into a harmonious whole, he created himself. Goethe in the midst of an age of unreal sentiment, was a convinced realist: he said yea to everything that was like him in this regard,—there was no greater event in his life than that ens realissimum, surnamed Napoleon. Goethe conceived a strong, highly-cultured man, skilful in all bodily accomplishments, able to keep himself in check, having a feeling of reverence for himself, and so constituted as to be able to risk the full enjoyment of naturalness in all its rich profusion and be strong enough for this freedom; a man of tolerance, not out of weakness but out of strength, because he knows how to turn to his own profit that which would ruin the mediocre nature; a man unto whom nothing is any longer forbidden, unless it be weakness either as a vice or as a virtue. Such a spirit, become free, appears in the middle of the universe with a feeling of cheerful and confident fatalism; he believes that only individual things are bad, and that as a whole the universe justifies and, affirms itself—He no longer denies.... But such a faith is the highest Of all faiths: I christened it with the name of Dionysus.

Goethe. No mere German, but a European event. He was a magnificent attempt to overcome the eighteenth century by returning to nature. He sought to rise to the naturalness of the Renaissance. In him, the century sought to overcome itself. He carried the century’s strongest instincts within him: its sentimentality and worship of nature, and its anti-historical, idealistic, unreal, and revolutionary spirit. (The revolutionary spirit is only a form of the unreal.) He put history, natural science, antiquity, Spinoza, and above all practical activity to work for him. He set many clear horizons around himself. Far from freeing himself from life, he plunged into it. He did not give in. He took as much as he could upon his shoulders and into his heart. What he sought was wholeness. He opposed the separation of reason, sensuality, feeling, and will. Kant, Goethe’s opposite, preached this separation with the most repulsive scholasticism. Goethe disciplined himself into a harmonious whole. He created himself. In an age of unreal sentiment, Goethe was a committed realist. He said yes to everything that shared his realism. There was no greater event in his life than that ens realissimum, known as Napoleon. Goethe imagined a strong, highly cultured man, skilled in every physical accomplishment. Such a man can control himself and has reverence for himself. He can dare to enjoy naturalness in all its richness and is strong enough for that freedom. He is tolerant, not out of weakness but out of strength. He knows how to benefit from what would ruin a mediocre nature. Nothing is forbidden to him anymore, except weakness, whether as a vice or a virtue. Such a spirit, set free, stands in the middle of the universe with cheerful, confident fatalism. He believes that only individual things are bad, and that the universe as a whole justifies and affirms itself. He no longer denies.... But such a faith is the highest of all faiths. I gave it the name of Dionysus.

It might be said that, in a certain sense, the nineteenth century also strove after all that Goethe himself aspired to: catholicity in understanding, in approving; a certain reserve towards everything, daring realism, and a reverence for every fact. How is it that the total result of this is not a Goethe, but a state of chaos, a nihilistic groan, an inability to discover where one is, an instinct of fatigue which in praxi is persistently driving Europe to hark back to the eighteenth century? (—For instance in the form of maudlin romanticism, altruism, hyper-sentimentality, pessimism in taste, and socialism in politics). Is not the nineteenth century, at least in its closing years, merely an accentuated, brutalised eighteenth century,—that is to say a century of decadence? And has not Goethe been—not alone for Germany, but also for the whole of Europe,—merely an episode, a beautiful “in vain”? But great men are misunderstood when they are regarded from the wretched standpoint of public utility. The fact that no advantage can be derived from them—this in itself may perhaps be peculiar to greatness.

One might say that, in a sense, the nineteenth century also pursued everything Goethe himself aspired to. It sought broad understanding and approval, a certain reserve toward everything, bold realism, and respect for every fact. Why, then, was the result not a Goethe, but chaos, a nihilistic groan, and an inability to know where we are? Why was it a feeling of exhaustion that in practice keeps driving Europe back to the eighteenth century? (This takes the form, for example, of maudlin romanticism, altruism, excessive sentimentality, pessimism in taste, and socialism in politics.) Is the nineteenth century, at least in its final years, merely a more extreme, brutalized eighteenth century? In other words, is it a century of decadence? And has Goethe been merely an episode for Germany and for all of Europe, a beautiful “in vain”? But great men are misunderstood when judged from the miserable standpoint of public usefulness. Perhaps it is a mark of greatness itself that no advantage can be gained from them.

Goethe is the last German whom I respect: he had understood three things as I understand them. We also agree as to the “cross.”⁹ People often ask me why on earth I write in German: nowhere am I less read than in the Fatherland. But who knows whether I even desire to be read at present?—To create things on which time may try its teeth in vain; to be concerned both in the form and the substance of my writing, about a certain degree of immortality—never have I been modest enough to demand less of myself. The aphorism, the sentence, in both of which I, as the first among Germans, am a master, are the forms of “eternity”; it is my ambition to say in ten sentences what everyone else says in a whole book,—what everyone else does not say in a whole book.

Goethe is the last German I respect. He understood three things as I do. We also agree about the “cross.”⁹ People often ask me why on earth I write in German: nowhere am I read less than in the Fatherland. But who knows whether I even desire to be read now? I want to create things that time can never wear down. I want both the form and the substance of my writing to achieve a certain degree of immortality. I have never been modest enough to demand less of myself. The aphorism and the sentence are the forms of “eternity.” I am the first German to master both. My ambition is to say in ten sentences what everyone else says in a whole book, what everyone else does not say in a whole book.

I have given mankind the deepest book it possesses, my Zarathustra; before long I shall give it the most independent one.

I have given humanity the deepest book it has, my Zarathustra. Soon I will give it the most independent one.