{"schema_version":1,"access":"public","rights":"Public-domain or compatibly licensed source editions; provenance is retained per record.","work":{"slug":"twilight-of-the-idols","title":"Twilight of the Idols","author":"Friedrich Nietzsche","tradition":"european","language":"de","genre":"philosophy","period":"1889","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7203","original":{"text":"### Preface\n\nGötzen-Dämmerung\n\noder\n\nWie man mit dem Hammer philosophirt.\n\nInmitten einer düstern und über die Maassen verantwortlichen Sache seine Heiterkeit aufrecht erhalten ist nichts Kleines von - Kunststück: und doch, was wäre nöthiger als Heiterkeit? Kein Ding geräth, an dem nicht der Übermuth seinen Theil hat. Das Zuviel von Kraft erst ist der Beweis der Kraft. - Eine Umwerthung aller Werthe, dies Fragezeichen so schwarz, so ungeheuer, dass es Schatten auf Den wirft, der es setzt - ein solches Schicksal von Aufgabe zwingt jeden Augenblick, in die Sonne zu laufen, einen schweren, allzuschwer gewordnen Ernst von sich zu schütteln. Jedes Mittel ist dazu recht, jeder \"Fall\" ein Glücksfall. Vor Allem der Krieg. Der Krieg war immer die grosse Klugheit aller zu innerlich, zu tief gewordnen Geister; selbst in der Verwundung liegt noch Heilkraft. Ein Spruch, dessen Herkunft ich der gelehrten Neugierde vorenthalte, war seit langem mein Wahlspruch:\n\nincrescunt animi, virescit volnere virtus.\n\nEine andere Genesung, unter Umständen mir noch erwünschter, ist Götzen aushorchen… Es giebt mehr Götzen als Realitäten in der Welt: das ist mein \"böser Blick\" für diese Welt, das ist auch mein \"böses Ohr\"… Hier einmal mit dem Hammer Fragen stellen und, vielleicht, als Antwort jenen berühmten hohlen Ton hören, der von geblähten Eingeweiden redet - welches Entzücken für Einen, der Ohren noch hinter den Ohren hat, - für mich alten Psychologen und Rattenfänger, vor dem gerade Das, was still bleiben möchte, laut werden muss…\n\nAuch diese Schrift - der Titel verräth es - ist vor Allem eine Erholung, ein Sonnenfleck, ein Seitensprung in den Müssiggang eines Psychologen. Vielleicht auch ein neuer Krieg? Und werden neue Götzen ausgehorcht?… Diese kleine Schrift ist eine grosse Kriegserklärung; und was das Aushorchen von Götzen anbetrifft, so sind es dies Mal keine Zeitgötzen, sondern ewige Götzen, an die hier mit dem Hammer wie mit einer Stimmgabel gerührt wird, - es giebt überhaupt keine älteren, keine überzeugteren, keine aufgeblaseneren Götzen… Auch keine hohleren… Das hindert nicht, dass sie die geglaubtesten sind; auch sagt man, zumal im vornehmsten Falle, durchaus nicht Götze…\n\nTurin, am 30. September 1888,\nam Tage, da das Buch der Umwerthung\naller Werthe zu Ende kam.\n\nFRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE.\n\n### Maxims and Arrows\n\n[1] Müssiggang ist aller Psychologie Anfang. Wie? wäre Psychologie ein -\nLaster?\n\n[2] Auch der Muthigste von uns hat nur selten den Muth zu dem, was er eigentlich weiss…\n\n[3] Um allein zu leben, muss man ein Thier oder ein Gott sein - sagt Aristoteles. Fehlt der dritte Fall: man muss Beides sein - Philosoph…\n\n[4] \"Alle Wahrheit ist einfach.\" - Ist das nicht zwiefach eine Lüge? -\n\n[5] Ich will, ein für alle Mal, Vieles nicht wissen. - Die Weisheit zieht auch der Erkenntniss Grenzen.\n\n[6] Man erholt sich in seiner wilden Natur am besten von seiner Unnatur, von seiner Geistigkeit…\n\n[7] Wie? ist der Mensch nur ein Fehlgriff Gottes? Oder Gott nur ein\nFehlgriff des Menschen? -\n\n[8] Aus der Kriegsschule des Lebens. - Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich stärker.\n\n[9] Hilf dir selber: dann hilft dir noch Jedermann. Princip der\nNächstenliebe.\n\n[10] Dass man gegen seine Handlungen keine Feigheit begeht! dass man sie nicht hinterdrein im Stiche lässt! - Der Gewissensbiss ist unanständig.\n\n[11] Kann ein Esel tragisch sein? - Dass man unter einer Last zu Grunde geht, die man weder tragen, noch abwerfen kann?… Der Fall des Philosophen.\n\n[12] Hat man sein warum? des Lebens, so verträgt man sich fast mit jedem wie? - Der Mensch strebt nicht nach Glück; nur der Engländer thut das.\n\n[13] Der Mann hat das Weib geschaffen - woraus doch? Aus einer Rippe seines\nGottes, - seines \"Ideals\"…\n\n[14] Was? du suchst? du möchtest dich verzehnfachen, verhundertfachen? du suchst Anhänger? - Suche Nullen.\n\n[15] Posthume Menschen - ich zum Beispiel - werden schlechter verstanden als zeitgemässe, aber besser gehört. Strenger: wir werden nie verstanden - und daher unsre Autorität…\n\n[16] Unter Frauen. - \"Die Wahrheit? Oh Sie kennen die Wahrheit nicht! Ist sie nicht ein Attentat auf alle unsre pudeurs?\" -\n\n[17] Das ist ein Künstler, wie ich Künstler liebe, bescheiden in seinen\nBedürfnissen: er will eigentlich nur Zweierlei, sein Brod und seine\nKunst, - panem et Circen…\n\n[18] Wer seinen Willen nicht in die Dinge zu legen weiss, der legt wenigstens einen Sinn noch hinein: das heisst, er glaubt, dass ein Wille bereits darin sei (Princip des \"Glaubens\").\n\n[19] Wie? ihr wähltet die Tugend und den gehobenen Busen und seht zugleich scheel nach den Vortheilen der Unbedenklichen? - Aber mit der Tugend verzichtet man auf \"Vortheile\"… (einem Antisemiten an die Hausthür.)\n\n[20] Das vollkommene Weib begeht Litteratur, wie es eine kleine Sünde begeht: zum Versuch, im Vorübergehn, sich umblickend, ob es Jemand bemerkt und dass es Jemand bemerkt…\n\n[21] Sich in lauter Lagen begeben, wo man keine Scheintugenden haben darf, wo man vielmehr, wie der Seiltänzer auf seinem Seile, entweder stürzt oder steht - oder davon kommt…\n\n[22] \"Böse Menschen haben keine Lieder.\" - Wie kommt es, dass die Russen\nLieder haben?\n\n[23] \"Deutscher Geist\": seit achtzehn Jahren eine contradictio in adjecto.\n\n[24] Damit, dass man nach den Anfängen sucht, wird man Krebs. Der\nHistoriker sieht rückwärts; endlich glaubt er auch rückwärts.\n\n[25] Zufriedenheit schützt selbst vor Erkältung. Hat je sich ein Weib, das sich gut bekleidet wusste, erkältet? - Ich setze den Fall, das es kaum bekleidet war.\n\n[26] Ich misstraue allen Systematikern und gehe ihnen aus dem Weg. Der\nWille zum System ist ein Mangel an Rechtschaffenheit.\n\n[27] Man hält das Weib für tief - warum? weil man nie bei ihm auf den Grund kommt. Das Weib ist noch nicht einmal flach.\n\n[28] Wenn das Weib männliche Tugenden hat, so ist es zum Davonlaufen; und wenn es keine männlichen Tugenden hat, so läuft es selbst davon.\n\n[29] \"Wie viel hatte ehemals das Gewissen zu beissen? welche guten Zähne hatte es? - Und heute? woran fehlt es?\" - Frage eines Zahnarztes.\n\n[30] Man begeht selten eine Übereilung allein. In der ersten Übereilung thut man immer zu viel. Eben darum begeht man gewöhnlich noch eine zweite - und nunmehr thut man zu wenig…\n\n[31] Der getretene Wurm krümmt sich. So ist es klug. Er verringert damit die Wahrscheinlichkeit, von Neuem getreten zu werden. In der Sprache der Moral: Demuth. -\n\n[32] Es giebt einen Hass auf Lüge und Verstellung aus einem reizbaren Ehrbegriff; es giebt einen ebensolchen Hass aus Feigheit, insofern die Lüge, durch ein göttliches Gebot, verboten ist. Zu feige, um zu lügen…\n\n[33] Wie wenig gehört zum Glücke! Der Ton eines Dudelsacks. - Ohne Musik wäre das Leben ein Irrthum. Der Deutsche denkt sich selbst Gott liedersingend.\n\n[34] On ne peut penser et écrire qu'assis (G. Flaubert). - Damit habe ich dich, Nihilist! Das Sitzfleisch ist gerade die Sünde wider den heiligen Geist. Nur die ergangenen Gedanken haben Werth.\n\n[35] Es giebt Fälle, wo wir wie Pferde sind, wir Psychologen, und in Unruhe gerathen: wir sehen unsren eignen Schatten vor uns auf und niederschwanken. Der Psychologe muss von sich absehn, um überhaupt zu sehn.\n\n[36] Ob wir Immoralisten der Tugend Schaden thun? - Eben so wenig, als die Anarchisten den Fürsten. Erst seitdem diese angeschossen werden, sitzen sie wieder fest auf ihrem Thron. Moral: man muss die Moral anschiessen.\n\n[37] Du läufst voran? - Thust du das als Hirt? oder als Ausnahme? Ein dritter Fall wäre der Entlaufene… Erste Gewissensfrage.\n\n[38] Bist du echt? oder nur ein Schauspieler? Ein Vertreter? oder das\nVertretene selbst? - Zuletzt bist du gar bloss ein nachgemachter\nSchauspieler… Zweite Gewissensfrage.\n\n[39] Der Enttäuschte spricht. - Ich suchte nach grossen Menschen, ich fand immer nur die Affen ihres Ideals.\n\n[40] Bist du Einer, der zusieht? oder der Hand anlegt? - oder der wegsieht, bei Seite geht?… Dritte Gewissensfrage.\n\n[41] Willst du mitgehn? oder vorangehn? oder für dich gehn?… Man muss wissen, was man will und dass man will. Vierte Gewissensfrage.\n\n[42] Das waren Stufen für mich ich bin über sie hinaufgestiegen, - dazu musste ich über sie hinweg. Aber sie meinten, ich wollte mich auf ihnen zur Ruhe setzen…\n\n[43] Was liegt daran, das ich Recht behalte! Ich habe zu viel Recht. - Und wer heute am besten lacht, lacht auch zuletzt.\n\n[44] Formel meines Glücks: ein Ja, ein Nein, eine gerade Linie ein Ziel…\n\n### The Problem of Socrates\n\n[1] Über das Leben haben zu allen Zeiten die Weisesten gleich geurtheilt: es taugt nichts… Immer und überall hat man aus ihrem Munde denselben Klang gehört, - einen Klang voll Zweifel, voll Schwermuth, voll Müdigkeit am Leben, voll Widerstand gegen das Leben. Selbst Sokrates sagte, als er starb: \"leben - das heisst lange krank sein: ich bin dem Heilande Asklepios einen Hahn schuldig.\" Selbst Sokrates hatte es satt. - Was beweist das? Worauf weist das? - Ehemals hätte man gesagt (- oh man hat es gesagt und laut genug und unsre Pessimisten voran!): \"Hier muss jedenfalls Etwas wahr sein! Der consensus sapientium beweist die Wahrheit.\" - Werden wir heute noch so reden? Dürfen wir das? \"Hier muss jedenfalls Etwas krank sein\" - geben wir zur Antwort: diese Weisesten aller Zeiten, man sollte sie sich erst aus der Nähe ansehn! Waren sie vielleicht allesammt auf den Beinen nicht mehr fest? spät? wackelig? décadents? Erschiene die Weisheit vielleicht auf Erden als Rabe, den ein kleiner Geruch von Aas begeistert?…\n\n[2] Mir selbst ist diese Unehrerbietigkeit, dass die grossen Weisen Niedergangs-Typen sind, zuerst gerade in einem Falle aufgegangen, wo ihr am stärksten das gelehrte und ungelehrte Vorurtheil entgegensteht: ich erkannte Sokrates und Plato als Verfalls-Symptome, als Werkzeuge der griechischen Auflösung, als pseudogriechisch, als antigriechisch (\"Geburt der Tragödie\" 1872), jener consensus sapientium - das begriff ich immer besser - beweist am wenigsten, dass sie Recht mit dem hatten, worüber sie übereinstimmten: er beweist vielmehr, dass sie selbst, diese Weisesten, irgend worin physiologisch übereinstimmten, um auf gleiche Weise negativ zum Leben zu stehn, - stehn zu müssen. Urtheile, Werthurtheile über das Leben, für oder wider, können zuletzt niemals wahr sein: sie haben nur Werth als Symptome, sie kommen nur als Symptome in Betracht, - an sich sind solche Urtheile Dummheiten. Man muss durchaus seine Finger darnach ausstrecken und den Versuch machen, diese erstaunliche finesse zu fassen, dass der Werth des Lebens nicht abgeschätzt werden kann. Von einem Lebenden nicht, weil ein solcher Partei, ja sogar Streitobjekt ist und nicht Richter; von einem Todten nicht, aus einem andren Grunde. - Von Seiten eines Philosophen im Werth des Lebens ein Problem sehn bleibt dergestalt sogar ein Einwurf gegen ihn, ein Fragezeichen an seiner Weisheit, eine Unweisheit. - Wie? und alle diese grossen Weisen - sie wären nicht nur décadents, sie wären nicht einmal weise gewesen? - Aber ich komme auf das Problem des Sokrates zurück.\n\n[3] Sokrates gehörte, seiner Herkunft nach, zum niedersten Volk: Sokrates war Pöbel. Man weiss, man sieht es selbst noch, wie hässlich er war. Aber Hässlichkeit, an sich ein Einwand, ist unter Griechen beinahe eine Widerlegung. War Sokrates überhaupt ein Grieche? Die Hässlichkeit ist häufig genug der Ausdruck einer gekreuzten, durch Kreuzung gehemmten Entwicklung. Im andren Falle erscheint sie als niedergehende Entwicklung.\n\nDie Anthropologen unter den Criminalisten sagen uns, dass der typische Verbrecher hässlich ist: monstrum in fronte, monstrum in animo. Aber der Verbrecher ist ein décadent. War Sokrates ein typischer Verbrecher? - Zum Mindesten widerspräche dem jenes berühmte Physiognomen-Urtheil nicht, das den Freunden des Sokrates so anstössig klang. Ein Ausländer, der sich auf Gesichter verstand, sagte, als er durch Athen kam, dem Sokrates in's Gesicht, er sei ein monstrum, - er berge alle schlimmen Laster und Begierden in sich. Und Sokrates antwortete bloss: \"Sie kennen mich, mein Herr!\" -\n\n[4] Auf décadence bei Sokrates deutet nicht nur die zugestandne Wüstheit und Anarchie in den Instinkten: eben dahin deutet auch die Superfötation des Logischen und jene Rhachitiker-Bosheit, die ihn auszeichnet. Vergessen wir auch jene Gehörs-Hallucinationen nicht, die, als \"Dämonion des Sokrates\", in's Religiöse interpretirt worden sind. Alles ist übertrieben, buffo, Karikatur an ihm, Alles ist zugleich versteckt, hintergedanklich, unterirdisch. - Ich suche zu begreifen, aus welcher Idiosynkrasie jene sokratische Gleichsetzung von Vernunft = Tugend = Glück stammt: jene bizarrste Gleichsetzung, die es giebt und die in Sonderheit alle Instinkte des älteren Hellenen gegen sich hat.\n\n[5] Mit Sokrates schlägt der griechische Geschmack zu Gunsten der Dialektik um: was geschieht da eigentlich? Vor Allem wird damit ein vornehmer Geschmack besiegt; der Pöbel kommt mit der Dialektik obenauf. Vor Sokrates lehnte man in der guten Gesellschaft die dialektischen Manieren ab: sie galten als schlechte Manieren, sie stellten bloss. Man warnte die Jugend vor ihnen. Auch misstraute man allein solchen Präsentiren seiner Gründe. Honnette Dinge tragen, wie honnette Menschen, ihre Gründe nicht so in der Hand. Es ist unanständig, alle fünf Finger zeigen. Was sich erst beweisen lassen muss, ist wenig werth. Überall, wo noch die Autorität zur guten Sitte gehört, wo man nicht \"begründet\", sondern befiehlt, ist der Dialektiker eine Art Hanswurst: man lacht über ihn, man nimmt ihn nicht ernst. - Sokrates war der Hanswurst, der sich ernst nehmen machte: was geschah da eigentlich? -\n\n[6] Man wählt die Dialektik nur, wenn man kein andres Mittel hat. Man weiss, dass man Misstrauen mit ihr erregt, dass sie wenig überredet. Nichts ist leichter wegzuwischen als ein Dialektiker-Effekt: die Erfahrung jeder Versammlung, wo geredet wird, beweist das. Sie kann nur Nothwehr sein, in den Händen Solcher, die keine andren Waffen mehr haben. Man muss sein Recht zu erzwingen haben: eher macht man keinen Gebrauch von ihr. Die Juden waren deshalb Dialektiker; Reinecke Fuchs war es: wie? und Sokrates war es auch? -\n\n[7] - Ist die Ironie des Sokrates ein Ausdruck von Revolte? von Pöbel-Ressentiment? geniesst er als Unterdrückter seine eigne Ferocität in den Messerstichen des Syllogismus? Rächt er sich an den Vornehmen, die er fascinirt? - Man hat, als Dialektiker, ein schonungsloses Werkzeug in der Hand; man kann mit ihm den Tyrannen machen; man stellt bloss, indem man siegt. Der Dialektiker überlässt seinem Gegner den Nachweis, kein Idiot zu sein: er macht wüthend, er macht zugleich hülflos. Der Dialektiker depotenzirt den Intellekt seines Gegners. - Wie? ist Dialektik nur eine Form der Rache bei Sokrates?\n\n[8] Ich habe zu verstehn gegeben, womit Sokrates abstossen konnte: es bleibt um so mehr zu erklären, dass er fascinirte. - Dass er eine neue Art Agon entdeckte, dass er der erste Fechtmeister davon für die vornehmen Kreise Athen's war, ist das Eine. Er fascinirte, indem er an den agonalen Trieb der Hellenen rührte, - er brachte eine Variante in den Ringkampf zwischen jungen Männern und Jünglingen. Sokrates war auch ein grosser Erotiker.\n\n[9] Aber Sokrates errieth noch mehr. Er sah hinter seine vornehmen Athener; er begriff, dass sein Fall, seine Idiosynkrasie von Fall bereits kein Ausnahmefall war. Die gleiche Art von Degenerescenz bereitete sich überall im Stillen vor: das alte Athen gieng zu Ende. - Und Sokrates verstand, dass alle Welt ihn nöthig hatte, - sein Mittel, seine Kur, seinen Personal-Kunstgriff der Selbst-Erhaltung… Überall waren die Instinkte in Anarchie; überall war man fünf Schritt weit vom Excess: das monstrum in animo war die allgemeine Gefahr. \"Die Triebe wollen den Tyrannen machen; man muss einen Gegentyrannen erfinden, der stärker ist\"… Als jener Physiognomiker dem Sokrates enthüllt hatte, wer er war, eine Höhle aller schlimmen Begierden, liess der grosse Ironiker noch ein Wort verlauten, das den Schlüssel zu ihm giebt. \"Dies ist wahr, sagte er, aber ich wurde über alle Herr.\" Wie wurde Sokrates über sich Herr? - Sein Fall war im Grunde nur der extreme Fall, nur der in die Augen springendste von dem, was damals die allgemeine Noth zu werden anfieng: dass Niemand mehr über sich Herr war, dass die Instinkte sich gegen einander wendeten. Er fascinirte als dieser extreme Fall - seine furchteinflössende Hässlichkeit sprach ihn für jedes Auge aus: er fascinirte, wie sich von selbst versteht, noch stärker als Antwort, als Lösung, als Anschein der Kur dieses Falls. -\n\n[10] Wenn man nöthig hat, aus der Vernunft einen Tyrannen zu machen, wie Sokrates es that, so muss die Gefahr nicht klein sein, dass etwas Andres den Tyrannen macht. Die Vernünftigkeit wurde damals errathen als Retterin, es stand weder Sokrates, noch seinen \"Kranken\" frei, vernünftig zu sein, - es war de rigueur, es war ihr letztes Mittel. Der Fanatismus, mit dem sich das ganze griechische Nachdenken auf die Vernünftigkeit wirft, verräth eine Nothlage: man war in Gefahr, man hatte nur Eine Wahl: entweder zu Grunde zu gehn oder - absurd-vernünftig zu sein… Der Moralismus der griechischen Philosophen von Plato ab ist pathologisch bedingt; ebenso ihre Schätzung der Dialektik. Vernunft = Tugend = Glück heisst bloss: man muss es dem Sokrates nachmachen und gegen die dunklen Begehrungen ein Tageslicht in Permanenz herstellen - das Tageslicht der Vernunft. Man muss klug, klar, hell um jeden Preis sein: jedes Nachgeben an die Instinkte, an's Unbewusste führt hinab…\n\n[11] Ich habe zu verstehn gegeben, womit Sokrates fascinirte: er schien ein Arzt, ein Heiland zu sein. Ist es nöthig, noch den Irrthum aufzuzeigen, der in seinem Glauben an die \"Vernünftigkeit um jeden Preis\" lag? - Es ist ein Selbstbetrug seitens der Philosophen und Moralisten, damit schon aus der décadence herauszutreten, dass sie gegen dieselbe Krieg machen. Das Heraustreten steht ausserhalb ihrer Kraft: was sie als Mittel, als Rettung wählen, ist selbst nur wieder ein Ausdruck der décadence - sie verändern deren Ausdruck, sie schaffen sie selbst nicht weg. Sokrates war ein Missverständniss; die ganze Besserungs-Moral, auch die christliche, war ein Missverständniss… Das grellste Tageslicht, die Vernünftigkeit um jeden Preis, das Leben hell, kalt, vorsichtig, bewusst, ohne Instinkt, im Widerstand gegen Instinkte war selbst nur eine Krankheit, eine andre Krankheit - und durchaus kein Rückweg zur \"Tugend\", zur \"Gesundheit\", zum Glück… Die Instinkte bekämpfen müssen - das ist die Formel für décadence: so lange das Leben aufsteigt, ist Glück gleich Instinkt. -\n\n[12] - Hat er das selbst noch begriffen, dieser Klügste aller Selbstüberlister? Sagte er sich das zuletzt, in der Weisheit seines Muthes zum Tode?… Sokrates wollte sterben: - nicht Athen, er gab sich den Giftbecher, er zwang Athen zum Giftbecher… Sokrates ist kein Arzt sprach er leise zu sich: \"der Tod allein ist hier Arzt… Sokrates selbst war nur lange krank…\"\n\n### \"Reason\" in Philosophy\n\n[1] Sie fragen mich, was Alles Idiosynkrasie bei den Philosophen ist?… Zum Beispiel ihr Mangel an historischem Sinn, ihr Hass gegen die Vorstellung selbst des Werdens, ihr Ägypticismus. Sie glauben einer Sache eine Ehre anzuthun, wenn sie dieselbe enthistorisiren, sub specie aeterni, - wenn sie aus ihr eine Mumie machen. Alles, was Philosophen seit Jahrtausenden gehandhabt haben, waren Begriffs-Mumien; es kam nichts Wirkliches lebendig aus ihren Händen. Sie tödten, sie stopfen aus, diese Herren Begriffs-Götzendiener, wenn sie anbeten, - sie werden Allem lebensgefährlich, wenn sie anbeten. Der Tod, der Wandel, das Alter ebensogut als Zeugung und Wachsthum sind für sie Einwände, - Widerlegungen sogar. Was ist, wird nicht; was wird ist nicht… Nun glauben sie Alle, mit Verzweiflung sogar, an's Seiende. Da sie aber dessen nicht habhaft werden, suchen sie nach Gründen, weshalb man's ihnen vorenthält. \"Es muss ein Schein, eine Betrügerei dabei sein, dass wir das Seiende nicht wahrnehmen: wo steckt der Betrüger?\" - \"Wir haben ihn, schreien sie glückselig, die Sinnlichkeit ist's! Diese Sinne, die auch sonst so unmoralisch sind, sie betrügen uns über die wahre Welt. Moral: loskommen von dem Sinnentrug, vom Werden, von der Historie, von der Lüge, - Historie ist nichts als Glaube an die Sinne, Glaube an die Lüge. Moral: Neinsagen zu Allem, was den Sinnen Glauben schenkt, zum ganzen Rest der Menschheit: das ist Alles `Volk`. Philosoph sein, Mumie sein, den Monotono-Theismus durch eine Todtengräber-Mimik darstellen! - Und weg vor Allem mit dem Leibe, dieser erbarmungswürdigen idée fixe der Sinne! behaftet mit allen Fehlern der Logik, die es giebt, widerlegt, unmöglich sogar, ob er schon frech genug ist, sich als wirklich zu gebärden!\"…\n\n[2] Ich nehme, mit hoher Ehrerbietung, den Namen Heraklit's bei Seite. Wenn das andre Philosophen-Volk das Zeugniss der Sinne verwarf, weil dieselben Vielheit und Veränderung zeigten, verwarf er deren Zeugniss, weil sie die Dinge zeigten, als ob sie Dauer und Einheit hätten. Auch Heraklit that den Sinnen Unrecht. Dieselben lügen weder in der Art, wie die Eleaten es glauben, noch wie er es glaubte, - sie lügen überhaupt nicht. Was wir aus ihrem Zeugniss machen, das legt erst die Lüge hinein, zum Beispiel die Lüge der Einheit, die Lüge der Dinglichkeit, der Substanz, der Dauer… Die \"Vernunft\" ist die Ursache, dass wir das Zeugniss der Sinne fälschen. Sofern die Sinne das Werden, das Vergehn, den Wechsel zeigen, lügen sie nicht… Aber damit wird Heraklit ewig Recht behalten, dass das Sein eine leere Fiktion ist. Die \"scheinbare\" Welt ist die einzige: die wahre Welt ist nur hinzugelogen…\n\n[3] - Und was für feine Werkzeuge der Beobachtung haben wir an unsren Sinnen! Diese Nase zum Beispiel, von der noch kein Philosoph mit Verehrung und Dankbarkeit gesprochen hat, ist sogar einstweilen das delikateste Instrument, das uns zu Gebote steht: es vermag noch Minimaldifferenzen der Bewegung zu constatiren, die selbst das Spektroskop nicht constatirt. Wir besitzen heute genau so weit Wissenschaft, als wir uns entschlossen haben, das Zeugniss der Sinne anzunehmen, - als wir sie noch schärfen, bewaffnen, zu Ende denken lernten. Der Rest ist Missgeburt und Noch-nicht-Wissenschaft: will sagen Metaphysik, Theologie, Psychologie, Erkenntnisstheorie. Oder Formal-Wissenschaft, Zeichenlehre: wie die Logik und jene angewandte Logik, die Mathematik. In ihnen kommt die Wirklichkeit gar nicht vor, nicht einmal als Problem; ebensowenig als die Frage, welchen Werth überhaupt eine solche Zeichen-Convention, wie die Logik ist, hat. -\n\n[4] Die andre Idiosynkrasie der Philosophen ist nicht weniger gefährlich: sie besteht darin, das Letzte und das Erste zu verwechseln. Sie setzen Das, was am Ende kommt - leider! denn es sollte gar nicht kommen! - die \"höchsten Begriffe\", das heisst die allgemeinsten, die leersten Begriffe, den letzten Rauch der verdunstenden Realität an den Anfang als Anfang. Es ist dies wieder nur der Ausdruck ihrer Art zu verehren: das Höhere darf nicht aus dem Niederen wachsen, darf überhaupt nicht gewachsen sein… Moral: Alles, was ersten Ranges ist, muss causa sui sein. Die Herkunft aus etwas Anderem gilt als Einwand, als Werth-Anzweifelung. Alle obersten Werthe sind ersten Ranges, alle höchsten Begriffe, das Seiende, das Unbedingte, das Gute, das Wahre, das Vollkommne - das Alles kann nicht geworden sein, muss folglich causa sui sein. Das Alles aber kann auch nicht einander ungleich, kann nicht mit sich im Widerspruch sein… Damit haben sie ihren stupenden Begriff \"Gott\"… Das Letzte, Dünnste, Leerste wird als Erstes gesetzt, als Ursache an sich, als ens realissimum… Dass die Menschheit die Gehirnleiden kranker Spinneweber hat ernst nehmen müssen! - Und sie hat theuer dafür gezahlt!…\n\n[5] - Stellen wir endlich dagegen, auf welche verschiedne Art wir (- ich sage höflicher Weise wir… ) das Problem des Irrthums und der Scheinbarkeit in's Auge fassen. Ehemals nahm man die Veränderung, den Wechsel, das Werden überhaupt als Beweis für Scheinbarkeit, als Zeichen dafür, dass Etwas da sein müsse, das uns irre führe. Heute umgekehrt sehen wir, genau so weit als das Vernunft-Vorurtheil uns zwingt, Einheit, Identität, Dauer, Substanz, Ursache, Dinglichkeit, Sein anzusetzen, uns gewissermaassen verstrickt in den Irrthum, necessitirt zum Irrthum; so sicher wir auf Grund einer strengen Nachrechnung bei uns darüber sind, dass hier der Irrthum ist. Es steht damit nicht anders als mit den Bewegungen des grossen Gestirns: bei ihnen hat der Irrthum unser Auge, hier hat er unsre Sprache zum beständigen Anwalt. Die Sprache gehört ihrer Entstehung nach in die Zeit der rudimentärsten Form von Psychologie: wir kommen in ein grobes Fetischwesen hinein, wenn wir uns die Grundvoraussetzungen der Sprach-Metaphysik, auf deutsch: der Vernunft, zum Bewusstsein bringen. Das sieht überall Thäter und Thun: das glaubt an Willen als Ursache überhaupt; das glaubt an's \"Ich\", an's Ich als Sein, an's Ich als Substanz und projicirt den Glauben an die Ich-Substanz auf alle Dinge - es schafft erst damit den Begriff \"Ding\"… Das Sein wird überall als Ursache hineingedacht, untergeschoben; aus der Conception \"Ich\" folgt erst, als abgeleitet, der Begriff \"Sein\"… Am Anfang steht das grosse Verhängniss von Irrthum, dass der Wille Etwas ist, das wirkt, - dass Wille ein Vermögen ist… Heute wissen wir, dass er bloss ein Wort ist… Sehr viel später, in einer tausendfach aufgeklärteren Welt kam die Sicherheit, die subjektive Gewissheit in der Handhabung der Vernunft-Kategorien den Philosophen mit Überraschung zum Bewusstsein: sie schlossen, dass dieselben nicht aus der Empirie stammen könnten, - die ganze Empirie stehe ja zu ihnen in Widerspruch. Woher also stammen sie? - Und in Indien wie in Griechenland hat man den gleichen Fehlgriff gemacht: \"wir müssen schon einmal in einer höheren Welt heimisch gewesen sein (- statt in einer sehr viel niederen: was die Wahrheit gewesen wäre!), wir müssen göttlich gewesen sein, denn wir haben die Vernunft!\"… In der That, Nichts hat bisher eine naivere Überredungskraft gehabt als der Irrthum vom Sein, wie er zum Beispiel von den Eleaten formulirt wurde: er hat ja jedes Wort für sich, jeden Satz für sich, den wir sprechen! - Auch die Gegner der Eleaten unterlagen noch der Verführung ihres Seins-Begriffs: Demokrit unter Anderen, als er sein Atom erfand… Die \"Vernunft\" in der Sprache: oh was für eine alte betrügerische Weibsperson! Ich fürchte, wir werden Gott nicht los, weil wir noch an die Grammatik glauben…\n\n[6] Man wird mir dankbar sein, wenn ich eine so wesentliche, so neue\nEinsicht in vier Thesen zusammendränge: ich erleichtere damit das\nVerstehen, ich fordere damit den Widerspruch heraus.\n\nErster Satz. Die Gründe, darauf hin \"diese\" Welt als scheinbar bezeichnet worden ist, begründen vielmehr deren Realität, - eine andre Art Realität ist absolut unnachweisbar.\n\nZweiter Satz. Die Kennzeichen, welche man dem \"wahren Sein\" der Dinge gegeben hat, sind die Kennzeichen des Nicht Seins, des Nichts, - man hat die \"wahre Welt\" aus dem Widerspruch zur wirklichen Welt aufgebaut: eine scheinbare Welt in der That, insofern sie bloss eine moralisch-optische Täuschung ist.\n\nDritter Satz. Von einer \"andren\" Welt als dieser zu fabeln hat gar keinen Sinn, vorausgesetzt, dass nicht ein Instinkt der Verleumdung, Verkleinerung, Verdächtigung des Lebens in uns mächtig ist: im letzteren Falle rächen wir uns am Leben mit der Phantasmagorie eines \"anderen\", eines \"besseren\" Lebens.\n\nVierter Satz. Die Welt scheiden in eine \"wahre\" und eine \"scheinbare\", sei es in der Art des Christenthums, sei es in der Art Kant's (eines hinterlistigen Christen zu guterletzt) ist nur eine Suggestion der décadence, - ein Symptom niedergehenden Lebens… Dass der Künstler den Schein höher schätzt als die Realität, ist kein Einwand gegen diesen Satz. Denn \"der Schein\" bedeutet hier die Realität noch einmal, nur in einer Auswahl, Verstärkung, Correctur… Der tragische Künstler ist kein Pessimist, - er sagt gerade Ja zu allem Fragwürdigen und Furchtbaren selbst, er ist dionysisch…\n\n### How the \"True World\" Finally Became a Fable\n\nGeschichte eines Irrthums.\n\n[1] Die wahre Welt erreichbar für den Weisen, den Frommen, den Tugendhaften, - er lebt in ihr, er ist sie.\n\n(Älteste Form der Idee, relativ klug, simpel, überzeugend.\nUmschreibung des Satzes \"ich, Plato, bin die Wahrheit\".)\n\n[2] Die wahre Welt, unerreichbar für jetzt, aber versprochen für den Weisen, den Frommen, den Tugendhaften (\"für den Sünder, der Busse thut\").\n\n(Fortschritt der Idee: sie wird feiner, verfänglicher, unfasslicher, - sie wird Weib, sie wird christlich… )\n\n[3] Die wahre Welt, unerreichbar, unbeweisbar, unversprechbar, aber schon als gedacht ein Trost, eine Verpflichtung, ein Imperativ.\n\n(Die alte Sonne im Grunde, aber durch Nebel und Skepsis hindurch; die\nIdee sublim geworden, bleich, nordisch, königsbergisch.)\n\n[4] Die wahre Welt - unerreichbar? jedenfalls unerreicht. Und als unerreicht auch unbekannt. Folglich auch nicht tröstend, erlösend, verpflichtend: wozu könnte uns etwas Unbekanntes verpflichten?…\n\n(Grauer Morgen. Erstes Gähnen der Vernunft. Hahnenschrei des\nPositivismus.)\n\n[5] Die \"wahre Welt\" - eine Idee, die zu Nichts mehr nütz ist, nicht einmal mehr verpflichtend, - eine unnütz, eine überflüssig gewordene Idee, folglich eine widerlegte Idee: schaffen wir sie ab!\n\n(Heller Tag; Frühstück; Rückkehr des bon sens und der Heiterkeit;\nSchamröthe Plato's; Teufelslärm aller freien Geister.)\n\n[6] Die wahre Welt haben wir abgeschafft: welche Welt blieb übrig? die scheinbare vielleicht?… Aber nein! mit der wahren Welt haben wir auch die scheinbare abgeschafft!\n\n(Mittag; Augenblick des kürzesten Schattens; Ende des längsten\nIrrthums; Höhepunkt der Menschheit; INCIPIT ZARATHUSTRA.)\n\n### Morality as Anti-Nature\n\n[1] Alle Passionen haben eine Zeit, wo sie bloss verhängnissvoll sind, wo sie mit der Schwere der Dummheit ihr Opfer hinunterziehen - und eine spätere, sehr viel spätere, wo sie sich mit dem Geist verheirathen, sich \"vergeistigen\". Ehemals machte man, wegen der Dummheit in der Passion, der Passion selbst den Krieg: man verschwor sich zu deren Vernichtung, - alle alten Moral-Unthiere sind einmüthig darüber \"il faut tuer les passions.\" Die berühmteste Formel dafür steht im neuen Testament, in jener Bergpredigt, wo, anbei gesagt, die Dinge durchaus nicht aus der Höhe betrachtet werden. Es wird daselbst zum Beispiel mit Nutzanwendung auf die Geschlechtlichkeit gesagt \"wenn dich dein Auge ärgert, so reisse es aus\": zum Glück handelt kein Christ nach dieser Vorschrift. Die Leidenschaften und Begierden vernichten, bloss um ihrer Dummheit und den unangenehmen Folgen ihrer Dummheit vorzubeugen, erscheint uns heute selbst bloss als eine akute Form der Dummheit. Wir bewundern die Zahnärzte nicht mehr, welche die Zähne ausreissen, damit sie nicht mehr weh thun… Mit einiger Billigkeit werde andrerseits zugestanden, dass auf dem Boden, aus dem das Christenthum gewachsen ist, der Begriff \"Vergeistigung der Passion\" gar nicht concipirt werden konnte. Die erste Kirche kämpfte ja, wie bekannt, gegen die \"Intelligenten\" zu Gunsten der \"Armen des Geistes\": wie dürfte man von ihr einen intelligenten Krieg gegen die Passion erwarten? - Die Kirche bekämpft die Leidenschaft mit Ausschneidung in jedem Sinne: ihre Praktik, ihre \"Kur\" ist der Castratismus. Sie fragt nie: \"wie vergeistigt, verschönt, vergöttlicht man eine Begierde?\" - sie hat zu allen Zeiten den Nachdruck der Disciplin auf die Ausrottung (der Sinnlichkeit, des Stolzes, der Herrschsucht, der Habsucht, der Rachsucht) gelegt. - Aber die Leidenschaften an der Wurzel angreifen heisst das Leben an der Wurzel angreifen: die Praxis der Kirche ist lebensfeindlich…\n\n[2] Dasselbe Mittel, Verschneidung, Ausrottung, wird instinktiv im Kampfe mit einer Begierde von Denen gewählt, welche zu willensschwach, zu degenerirt sind, um sich ein Maass in ihr auflegen zu können: von jenen Naturen, die la Trappe nöthig haben, im Gleichniss gesprochen (und ohne Gleichniss -), irgend eine endgültige Feindschafts-Erklärung, eine Kluft zwischen sich und einer Passion. Die radikalen Mittel sind nur den Degenerirten unentbehrlich; die Schwäche des Willens, bestimmter geredet, die Unfähigkeit, auf einen Reiz nicht zu reagiren, ist selbst bloss eine andre Form der Degenerescenz. Die radikale Feindschaft, die Todfeindschaft gegen die Sinnlichkeit bleibt ein nachdenkliches Symptom: man ist damit zu Vermuthungen über den Gesammt-Zustand eines dergestalt Excessiven berechtigt. - Jene Feindschaft, jener Hass kommt übrigens erst auf seine Spitze, wenn solche Naturen selbst zur Radikal-Kur, zur Absage von ihrem \"Teufel\" nicht mehr Festigkeit genug haben. Man überschaue die ganze Geschichte der Priester und Philosophen, der Künstler hinzugenommen: das Giftigste gegen die Sinne ist nicht von den Impotenten gesagt, auch nicht von den Asketen, sondern von den unmöglichen Asketen, von Solchen, die es nöthig gehabt hätten, Asketen zu sein…\n\n[3] Die Vergeistigung der Sinnlichkeit heisst Liebe: sie ist ein grosser Triumph über das Christenthum. Ein andrer Triumph ist unsre Vergeistigung der Feindschaft. Sie besteht darin, dass man tief den Werth begreift, den es hat, Feinde zu haben: kurz, dass man umgekehrt thut und schliesst als man ehedem that und schloss. Die Kirche wollte zu allen Zeiten die Vernichtung ihrer Feinde: wir, wir Immoralisten und Antichristen, sehen unsern Vortheil darin, dass die Kirche besteht… Auch im Politischen ist die Feindschaft jetzt geistiger geworden, - viel klüger, viel nachdenklicher, viel schonender. Fast jede Partei begreift ihr Selbsterhaltungs-Interesse darin, dass die Gegenpartei nicht von Kräften kommt; dasselbe gilt von der grossen Politik. Eine neue Schöpfung zumal, etwa das neue Reich, hat Feinde nöthiger als Freunde: im Gegensatz erst fühlt es sich nothwendig, im Gegensatz wird es erst nothwendig… Nicht anders verhalten wir uns gegen den \"inneren Feind\": auch da haben wir die Feindschaft vergeistigt, auch da haben wir ihren Werth begriffen. Man ist nur fruchtbar um den Preis, an Gegensätzen reich zu sein; man bleibt nur jung unter der Voraussetzung, dass die Seele nicht sich streckt, nicht nach Frieden begehrt… Nichts ist uns fremder geworden als jene Wünschbarkeit von Ehedem, die vom \"Frieden der Seele\", die christliche Wünschbarkeit; Nichts macht uns weniger Neid als die Moral-Kuh und das fette Glück des guten Gewissens. Man hat auf das grosse Leben verzichtet, wenn man auf den Krieg verzichtet… In vielen Fällen freilich ist der \"Frieden der Seele\" bloss ein Missverständniss, - etwas Anderes, das sich nur nicht ehrlicher zu benennen weiss. Ohne Umschweif und Vorurtheil ein paar Fälle. \"Frieden der Seele\" kann zum Beispiel die sanfte Ausstrahlung einer reichen Animalität in's Moralische (oder Religiöse) sein. Oder der Anfang der Müdigkeit, der erste Schatten, den der Abend, jede Art Abend wirft. Oder ein Zeichen davon, dass die Luft feucht ist, dass Südwinde herankommen. Oder die Dankbarkeit wider Wissen für eine glückliche Verdauung (\"Menschenliebe\" mitunter genannt). Oder das Stille-werden des Genesenden, dem alle Dinge neu schmecken und der wartet… Oder der Zustand, der einer starken Befriedigung unsrer herrschenden Leidenschaft folgt, das Wohlgefühl einer seltnen Sattheit. Oder die Altersschwäche unsres Willens, unsrer Begehrungen, unsrer Laster. Oder die Faulheit, von der Eitelkeit überredet, sich moralisch aufzuputzen. Oder der Eintritt einer Gewissheit, selbst furchtbaren Gewissheit, nach einer langen Spannung und Marterung durch die Ungewissheit. Oder der Ausdruck der Reife und Meisterschaft mitten im Thun, Schaffen, Wirken, Wollen, das ruhige Athmen, die erreichte \"Freiheit des Willens\"… Götzen-Dämmerung: wer weiss? vielleicht auch nur eine Art \"Frieden der Seele\"…\n\n[4] - Ich bringe ein Princip in Formel. Jeder Naturalismus in der Moral, das heisst jede gesunde Moral ist von einem Instinkte des Lebens beherrscht, - irgend ein Gebot des Lebens wird mit einem bestimmten Kanon von \"Soll\" und \"Soll nicht\" erfüllt, irgend eine Hemmung und Feindseligkeit auf dem Wege des Lebens wird damit bei Seite geschafft. Die widernatürliche Moral, das heisst fast jede Moral, die bisher gelehrt, verehrt und gepredigt worden ist, wendet sich umgekehrt gerade gegen die Instinkte des Lebens, - sie ist eine bald heimliche, bald laute und freche Verurtheilung dieser Instinkte. Indem sie sagt \"Gott sieht das Herz an\", sagt sie Nein zu den untersten und obersten Begehrungen des Lebens und nimmt Gott als Feind des Lebens… Der Heilige, an dem Gott sein Wohlgefallen hat, ist der ideale Castrat… Das Leben ist zu Ende, wo das \"Reich Gottes\" anfängt…\n\n[5] Gesetzt, dass man das Frevelhafte einer solchen Auflehnung gegen das Leben begriffen hat, wie sie in der christlichen Moral beinahe sakrosankt geworden ist, so hat man damit, zum Glück, auch Etwas Andres begriffen: das Nutzlose, Scheinbare, Absurde, Lügnerische einer solchen Auflehnung. Eine Verurtheilung des Lebens von Seiten des Lebenden bleibt zuletzt doch nur das Symptom einer bestimmten Art von Leben: die Frage, ob mit Recht, ob mit Unrecht, ist gar nicht damit aufgeworfen. Man müsste eine Stellung ausserhalb des Lebens haben, und andrerseits es so gut kennen, wie Einer, wie Viele, wie Alle, die es gelebt haben, um das Problem vom Werth des Lebens überhaupt anrühren zu dürfen: Gründe genug, um zu begreifen, dass das Problem ein für uns unzugängliches Problem ist. Wenn wir von Werthen reden, reden wir unter der Inspiration, unter der Optik des Lebens: das Leben selbst zwingt uns Werthe anzusetzen, das Leben selbst werthet durch uns, wenn wir Werthe ansetzen… Daraus folgt, dass auch jene Widernatur von Moral, welche Gott als Gegenbegriff und Verurtheilung des Lebens fasst, nur ein Werthurtheil des Lebens ist - welches Lebens? Welcher Art von Leben? - Aber ich gab schon die Antwort: des niedergehenden, des geschwächten, des müden, des verurtheilten Lebens. Moral, wie sie bisher verstanden worden ist - wie sie zuletzt noch von Schopenhauer formulirt wurde als \"Verneinung des Willens zum Leben\" - ist der décadence-Instinkt selbst, der aus sich einen Imperativ macht: sie sagt: \"geh zu Grunde\" sie ist das Urtheil Verurtheilter…\n\n[6] Erwägen wir endlich noch, welche Naivetät es überhaupt ist, zu sagen \"so und so sollte der Mensch sein!\" Die Wirklichkeit zeigt uns einen entzückenden Reichthum der Typen, die Üppigkeit eines verschwenderischen Formenspiels und -Wechsels: und irgend ein armseliger Eckensteher von Moralist sagt dazu: \"nein! der Mensch sollte anders sein\"?… Er weiss es sogar, wie er sein sollte, dieser Schlucker und Mucker, er malt sich an die Wand und sagt dazu \"ecce homo!\"… Aber selbst wenn der Moralist sich bloss an den Einzelnen wendet und zu ihm sagt: \"so und so solltest du sein!\" hört er nicht auf, sich lächerlich zu machen. Der Einzelne ist ein Stück fatum, von Vorne und von Hinten, ein Gesetz mehr, eine Nothwendigkeit mehr für Alles, was kommt und sein wird. Zu ihm sagen \"ändere dich\" heisst verlangen, dass Alles sich ändert, sogar rückwärts noch… Und wirklich, es gab consequente Moralisten, sie wollten den Menschen anders, nämlich tugendhaft, sie wollten ihn nach ihrem Bilde, nämlich als Mucker: dazu verneinten sie die Welt! Keine kleine Tollheit! Keine bescheidne Art der Unbescheidenheit!… Die Moral, insofern sie verurtheilt, an sich, nicht aus Hinsichten, Rücksichten, Absichten des Lebens, ist ein spezifischer Irrthum, mit dem man kein Mitleiden haben soll, eine Degenerirten-Idiosynkrasie, die unsäglich viel Schaden gestiftet hat!… Wir Anderen, wir Immoralisten, haben umgekehrt unser Herz weit gemacht für alle Art Verstehn, Begreifen, Gutheissen. Wir verneinen nicht leicht, wir suchen unsre Ehre darin, Bejahende zu sein. Immer mehr ist uns das Auge für jene Ökonomie aufgegangen, welche alles Das noch braucht und auszunützen weiss, was der heilige Aberwitz des Priesters, der kranken Vernunft im Priester verwirft, für jene Ökonomie im Gesetz des Lebens, die selbst aus der widerlichen species des Muckers, des Priesters, des Tugendhaften ihren Vortheil zieht, - welchen Vortheil? - Aber wir selbst, wir Immoralisten sind hier die Antwort… -\n\n### The Four Great Errors\n\n[1] Irrthum der Verwechslung von Ursache und Folge. - Es giebt keinen gefährlicheren Irrthum als die Folge mit der Ursache zu verwechseln: ich heisse ihn die eigentliche Verderbniss der Vernunft. Trotzdem gehört dieser Irrthum zu den ältesten und jüngsten Gewohnheiten der Menschheit: er ist selbst unter uns geheiligt, er trägt den Namen \"Religion\", \"Moral\". Jeder Satz, den die Religion und die Moral formulirt, enthält ihn; Priester und Moral-Gesetzgeber sind die Urheber jener Verderbniss der Vernunft. - Ich nehme ein Beispiel: Jedermann kennt das Buch des berühmten Cornaro, in dem er seine schmale Diät als Recept zu einem langen und glücklichen Leben - auch tugendhaften - anräth. Wenige Bücher sind so viel gelesen worden, noch jetzt wird es in England jährlich in vielen Tausenden von Exemplaren gedruckt. Ich zweifle nicht daran, dass kaum ein Buch (die Bibel, wie billig, ausgenommen) so viel Unheil gestiftet, so viele Leben verkürzt hat wie dies so wohlgemeinte Curiosum. Grund dafür: die Verwechslung der Folge mit der Ursache. Der biedere Italiäner sah in seiner Diät die Ursache seines langen Lebens: während die Vorbedingung zum langen Leben, die ausserordentliche Langsamkeit des Stoffwechsels, der geringe Verbrauch, die Ursache seiner schmalen Diät war. Es stand ihm nicht frei, wenig oder viel zu essen, seine Frugalität war nicht ein \"freier Wille\": er wurde krank, wenn er mehr ass. Wer aber kein Karpfen ist, thut nicht nur gut, sondern hat es nöthig, ordentlich zu essen. Ein Gelehrter unsrer Tage, mit seinem rapiden Verbrauch an Nervenkraft, würde sich mit dem régime Cornaro's zu Grunde richten. Crede experto. -\n\n[2] Die allgemeinste Formel, die jeder Religion und Moral zu Grunde liegt, heisst: \"Thue das und das, lass das und das - so wirst du glücklich! Im andern Falle…\" Jede Moral, jede Religion ist dieser Imperativ, - ich nenne ihn die grosse Erbsünde der Vernunft, die unsterbliche Unvernunft. In meinem Munde verwandelt sich jene Formel in ihre Umkehrung - erstes Beispiel meiner \"Umwerthung aller Werthe\": ein wohlgerathener Mensch, ein \"Glücklicher\", muss gewisse Handlungen thun und scheut sich instinktiv vor anderen Handlungen, er trägt die Ordnung, die er physiologisch darstellt, in seine Beziehungen zu Menschen und Dingen hinein. In Formel: seine Tugend ist die Folge seines Glücks… Langes Leben, eine reiche Nachkommenschaft ist nicht der Lohn der Tugend, die Tugend ist vielmehr selbst jene Verlangsamung des Stoffwechsels, die, unter Anderem, auch ein langes Leben, eine reiche Nachkommenschaft, kurz den Cornarismus im Gefolge hat. - Die Kirche und die Moral sagen: \"ein Geschlecht, ein Volk wird durch Laster und Luxus zu Grunde gerichtet.\" Meine wiederhergestellte Vernunft sagt: wenn ein Volk zu Grunde geht, physiologisch degenerirt, so folgen daraus Laster und Luxus (das heisst das Bedürfniss nach immer stärkeren und häufigeren Reizen, wie sie jede erschöpfte Natur kennt). Dieser junge Mann wird frühzeitig blass und welk. Seine Freunde sagen: daran ist die und die Krankheit schuld. Ich sage: dass er krank wurde, dass er der Krankheit nicht widerstand, war bereits die Folge eines verarmten Lebens, einer hereditären Erschöpfung. Der Zeitungsleser sagt: diese Partei richtet sich mit einem solchen Fehler zu Grunde. Meine höhere Politik sagt: eine Partei, die solche Fehler macht, ist am Ende - sie hat ihre Instinkt-Sicherheit nicht mehr. Jeder Fehler in jedem Sinne ist die Folge von Instinkt-Entartung, von Disgregation des Willens: man definirt beinahe damit das Schlechte. Alles Gute ist Instinkt - und, folglich, leicht, nothwendig, frei. Die Mühsal ist ein Einwand, der Gott ist typisch vom Helden unterschieden (in meiner Sprache: die leichten Füsse das erste Attribut der Göttlichkeit).\n\n[3] Irrthum einer falschen Ursächlichkeit. - Man hat zu allen Zeiten geglaubt, zu wissen, was eine Ursache ist: aber woher nahmen wir unser Wissen, genauer, unsern Glauben, hier zu wissen? Aus dem Bereich der berühmten \"inneren Thatsachen\", von denen bisher keine sich als thatsächlich erwiesen hat. Wir glaubten uns selbst im Akt des Willens ursächlich; wir meinten da wenigstens die Ursächlichkeit auf der That zu ertappen. Man zweifelte insgleichen nicht daran, dass alle antecedentia einer Handlung, ihre Ursachen, im Bewusstsein zu suchen seien und darin sich wiederfänden, wenn man sie suche - als \"Motive\": man wäre ja sonst zu ihr nicht frei, für sie nicht verantwortlich gewesen. Endlich, wer hätte bestritten, dass ein Gedanke verursacht wird? dass das Ich den Gedanken verursacht?… Von diesen drei \"inneren Thatsachen\", mit denen sich die Ursächlichkeit zu verbürgen schien, ist die erste und überzeugendste die vom Willen als Ursache; die Conception eines Bewusstseins (\"Geistes\") als Ursache und später noch die des Ich (des \"Subjekts\") als Ursache sind bloss nachgeboren, nachdem vom Willen die Ursächlichkeit als gegeben feststand, als Empirie… Inzwischen haben wir uns besser besonnen. Wir glauben heute kein Wort mehr von dem Allen. Die \"innere Welt\" ist voller Trugbilder und Irrlichter: der Wille ist eins von ihnen. Der Wille bewegt nichts mehr, erklärt folglich auch nichts mehr - er begleitet bloss Vorgänge, er kann auch fehlen. Das sogenannte \"Motiv\": ein andrer Irrthum. Bloss ein Oberflächenphänomen des Bewusstseins, ein Nebenher der That, das eher noch die antecedentia einer That verdeckt, als dass es sie darstellt. Und gar das Ich! Das ist zur Fabel geworden, zur Fiktion, zum Wortspiel: das hat ganz und gar aufgehört, zu denken, zu fühlen und zu wollen!… Was folgt daraus? Es giebt gar keine geistigen Ursachen! Die ganze angebliche Empirie dafür gieng zum Teufel! Das folgt daraus! - Und wir hatten einen artigen Missbrauch mit jener \"Empirie\" getrieben, wir hatten die Welt daraufhin geschaffen als eine Ursachen-Welt, als eine Willens-Welt, als eine Geister-Welt. Die älteste und längste Psychologie war hier am Werk, sie hat gar nichts Anderes gethan: alles Geschehen war ihr ein Thun, alles Thun Folge eines Willens, die Welt wurde ihr eine Vielheit von Thätern, ein Thäter (ein \"Subjekt\") schob sich allem Geschehen unter. Der Mensch hat seine drei \"inneren Thatsachen\", Das, woran er am festesten glaubte, den Willen, den Geist, das Ich, aus sich herausprojicirt, - er nahm erst den Begriff Sein aus dem Begriff Ich heraus, er hat die \"Dinge\" als seiend gesetzt nach seinem Bilde, nach seinem Begriff des Ichs als Ursache. Was Wunder, dass er später in den Dingen immer nur wiederfand, was er in sie gesteckt hatte?- Das Ding selbst, nochmals gesagt, der Begriff Ding, ein Reflex bloss vom Glauben an's Ich als Ursache… Und selbst noch Ihr Atom, meine Herren Mechanisten und Physiker, wie viel Irrthum, wie viel rudimentäre Psychologie ist noch in Ihrem Atom rückständig! - Gar nicht zu reden vom \"Ding an sich\", vom horrendum pudendum der Metaphysiker! Der Irrthum vom Geist als Ursache mit der Realität verwechselt! Und zum Maass der Realität gemacht! Und Gott genannt! -\n\n[4] Irrthum der imaginären Ursachen. - Vom Traume auszugehn: einer bestimmten Empfindung, zum Beispiel in Folge eines fernen Kanonenschusses, wird nachträglich eine Ursache untergeschoben (oft ein ganzer kleiner Roman, in dem gerade der Träumende die Hauptperson ist). Die Empfindung dauert inzwischen fort, in einer Art von Resonanz: sie wartet gleichsam, bis der Ursachentrieb ihr erlaubt, in den Vordergrund zu treten, - nunmehr nicht mehr als Zufall, sondern als \"Sinn\". Der Kanonenschuss tritt in einer causalen Weise auf, in einer anscheinenden Umkehrung der Zeit. Das Spätere, die Motivirung, wird zuerst erlebt, oft mit hundert Einzelnheiten, die wie im Blitz vorübergehn, der Schuss folgt… Was ist geschehen? Die Vorstellungen, welche ein gewisses Befinden erzeugte, wurden als Ursache desselben missverstanden. - Thatsächlich machen wir es im Wachen ebenso. Unsre meisten Allgemeingefühle - jede Art Hemmung, Druck, Spannung, Explosion im Spiel und Gegenspiel der Organe, wie in Sonderheit der Zustand des nervus sympathicus - erregen unsern Ursachentrieb: wir wollen einen Grund haben, uns so und so zu befinden, - uns schlecht zu befinden oder gut zu befinden. Es genügt uns niemals, einfach bloss die Thatsache, dass wir uns so und so befinden, festzustellen: wir lassen diese Thatsache erst zu, - werden ihrer bewusst -, wenn wir ihr eine Art Motivirung gegeben haben. - Die Erinnerung, die in solchem Falle, ohne unser Wissen, in Thätigkeit tritt, führt frühere Zustände gleicher Art und die damit verwachsenen Causal-Interpretationen herauf, - nicht deren Ursächlichkeit. Der Glaube freilich, dass die Vorstellungen, die begleitenden Bewusstseins-Vorgänge die Ursachen gewesen seien, wird durch die Erinnerung auch mit heraufgebracht. So entsteht eine Gewöhnung an eine bestimmte Ursachen-Interpretation, die in Wahrheit eine Erforschung der Ursache hemmt und selbst ausschliesst.\n\n[5] Psychologische Erklärung dazu. - Etwas Unbekanntes auf etwas Bekanntes zurückführen, erleichtert, beruhigt, befriedigt, giebt ausserdem ein Gefühl von Macht. Mit dem Unbekannten ist die Gefahr, die Unruhe, die Sorge gegeben, - der erste Instinkt geht dahin, diese peinlichen Zustände wegzuschaffen. Erster Grundsatz: irgend eine Erklärung ist besser als keine. Weil es sich im Grunde nur um ein Loswerdenwollen drückender Vorstellungen handelt, nimmt man es nicht gerade streng mit den Mitteln, sie loszuwerden: die erste Vorstellung, mit der sich das Unbekannte als bekannt erklärt, thut so wohl, dass man sie \"für wahr hält\". Beweis der Lust (\"der Kraft\") als Criterium der Wahrheit. - Der Ursachen-Trieb ist also bedingt und erregt durch das Furchtgefühl. Das \"Warum?\" soll, wenn irgend möglich, nicht sowohl die Ursache um ihrer selber willen geben, als vielmehr eine Art von Ursache - eine beruhigende, befreiende, erleichternde Ursache. Dass etwas schon Bekanntes, Erlebtes, in die Erinnerung Eingeschriebenes als Ursache angesetzt wird, ist die erste Folge dieses Bedürfnisses. Das Neue, das Unerlebte, das Fremde wird als Ursache ausgeschlossen. - Es wird also nicht nur eine Art von Erklärungen als Ursache gesucht, sondern eine ausgesuchte und bevorzugte Art von Erklärungen, die, bei denen am schnellsten, am häufigsten das Gefühl des Fremden, Neuen, Unerlebten weggeschafft worden ist, - die gewöhnlichsten Erklärungen. - Folge: eine Art von Ursachen-Setzung überwiegt immer mehr, concentrirt sich zum System und tritt endlich dominirend hervor, das heisst andere Ursachen und Erklärungen einfach ausschliessend. - Der Banquier denkt sofort an's \"Geschäft\", der Christ an die \"Sünde\", das Mädchen an seine Liebe.\n\n[6] Der ganze Bereich der Moral und Religion gehört unter diesen Begriff der imaginären Ursachen. - \"Erklärung\" der unangenehmen Allgemeingefühle. Dieselben sind bedingt durch Wesen, die uns feind sind (böse Geister: berühmtester Fall - Missverständniss der Hysterischen als Hexen). Dieselben sind bedingt durch Handlungen, die nicht zu billigen sind (das Gefühl der \"Sünde\", der \"Sündhaftigkeit\" einem physiologischen Missbehagen untergeschoben - man findet immer Gründe, mit sich unzufrieden zu sein). Dieselben sind bedingt als Strafen, als eine Abzahlung für Etwas, das wir nicht hätten thun, das wir nicht hätten sein sollen (in impudenter Form von Schopenhauer zu einem Satze verallgemeinert, in dem die Moral als Das erscheint, was sie ist, als eigentliche Giftmischerin und Verleumderin des Lebens: \"jeder grosse Schmerz, sei er leiblich, sei er geistig, sagt aus, was wir verdienen; denn er könnte nicht an uns kommen, wenn wir ihn nicht verdienten.\" Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, 2, 666). Dieselben sind bedingt als Folgen unbedachter, schlimm auslaufender Handlungen (die Affekte, die Sinne als Ursache, als \"schuld\" angesetzt; physiologische Nothstände mit Hülfe anderer Nothstände als \"verdient\" ausgelegt). - \"Erklärung\" der angenehmen Allgemeingefühle. Dieselben sind bedingt durch Gottvertrauen. Dieselben sind bedingt durch das Bewusstsein guter Handlungen (das sogenannte \"gute Gewissen\", ein physiologischer Zustand, der mitunter einer glücklichen Verdauung zum Verwechseln ähnlich sieht). Dieselben sind bedingt durch den glücklichen Ausgang von Unternehmungen (- naiver Fehlschluss: der glückliche Ausgang einer Unternehmung schafft einem Hypochonder oder: einem Pascal durchaus keine angenehmen Allgemeingefühle). Dieselben sind bedingt durch Glaube, Liebe, Hoffnung - die christlichen Tugenden. - In Wahrheit sind alle diese vermeintlichen Erklärungen Folgezustände und gleichsam Übersetzungen von Lust oder Unlust-Gefühlen in einen falschen Dialekt: man ist im Zustande zu hoffen, weil das physiologische Grundgefühl wieder stark und reich ist; man vertraut Gott, weil das Gefühl der Fülle und Stärke Einem Ruhe giebt. - Die Moral und Religion gehört ganz und gar unter die Psychologie des Irrthums: in jedem einzelnen Falle wird Ursache und Wirkung verwechselt; oder die Wahrheit mit der Wirkung des als wahr Geglaubten verwechselt; oder ein Zustand des Bewusstseins mit der Ursächlichkeit dieses Zustands verwechselt.\n\n[7] Irrthum vom freien Willen. - Wir haben heute kein Mitleid mehr mit dem Begriff \"freier Wille\": wir wissen nur zu gut, was er ist - das anrüchigste Theologen-Kunststück, das es giebt, zum Zweck, die Menschheit in ihrem Sinne \"verantwortlich\" zu machen, das heisst sie von sich abhängig zu machen… Ich gebe hier nur die Psychologie alles Verantwortlichmachens. - überall, wo Verantwortlichkeiten gesucht werden, pflegt es der Instinkt des Strafen- und Richten-Wollens zu sein, der da sucht. Man hat das Werden seiner Unschuld entkleidet, wenn irgend ein So-und-so Sein auf Wille, auf Absichten, auf Akte der Verantwortlichkeit zurückgeführt wird: die Lehre vom Willen ist wesentlich erfunden zum Zweck der Strafe, das heisst des Schuldig-finden-wollens. Die ganze alte Psychologie, die Willens-Psychiologie hat ihre Voraussetzung darin, dass deren Urheber, die Priester an der Spitze alter Gemeinwesen, sich ein Recht schaffen wollten, Strafen zu verhängen - oder Gott dazu ein Recht schaffen wollten… Die Menschen wurden \"frei\" gedacht, um gerichtet, um gestraft werden zu können, - um schuldig werden zu können: folglich musste jede Handlung als gewollt, der Ursprung jeder Handlung im Bewusstsein liegend gedacht werden (- womit die grundsätzlichste Falschmünzerei in psychologicis zum Princip der Psychologie selbst gemacht war… ) Heute, wo wir in die umgekehrte Bewegung eingetreten sind, wo wir Immoralisten zumal mit aller Kraft den Schuldbegriff und den Strafbegriff aus der Welt wieder herauszunehmen und Psychologie, Geschichte, Natur, die gesellschaftlichen Institutionen und Sanktionen von ihnen zu reinigen suchen, giebt es in unsern Augen keine radikalere Gegnerschaft als die der Theologen, welche fortfahren, mit dem Begriff der \"sittlichen Weltordnung\" die Unschuld des Werdens durch \"Strafe\" und \"Schuld\" zu durchseuchen. Das Christenthum ist eine Metaphysik des Henkers…\n\n[8] Was kann allein unsre Lehre sein? - Dass Niemand dem Menschen seine Eigenschaften giebt, weder Gott, noch die Gesellschaft, noch seine Eltern und Vorfahren, noch er selbst (- der Unsinn der hier zuletzt abgelehnten Vorstellung ist als \"intelligible Freiheit\" von Kant, vielleicht auch schon von Plato gelehrt worden). Niemand ist dafür verantwortlich, dass er überhaupt da ist, dass er so und so beschaffen ist, dass er unter diesen Umständen, in dieser Umgebung ist. Die Fatalität seines Wesens ist nicht herauszulösen aus der Fatalität alles dessen, was war und was sein wird. Er ist nicht die Folge einer eignen Absicht, eines Willens, eines Zwecks, mit ihm wird nicht der Versuch gemacht, ein \"Ideal von Mensch\" oder ein \"Ideal von Glück\" oder ein \"Ideal von Moralität\" zu erreichen, - es ist absurd, sein Wesen in irgend einen Zweck hin abwälzen zu wollen. Wir haben den Begriff \"Zweck\" erfunden: in der Realität fehlt der Zweck… Man ist nothwendig, man ist ein Stück Verhängniss, man gehört zum Ganzen, man ist im Ganzen, - es giebt Nichts, was unser Sein richten, messen, vergleichen, verurtheilen könnte, denn das hiesse das Ganze richten, messen, vergleichen, verurtheilen… Aber es giebt Nichts ausser dem Ganzen! - Dass Niemand mehr verantwortlich gemacht wird, dass die Art des Seins nicht auf eine causa prima zurückgeführt werden darf, dass die Welt weder als Sensorium, noch als \"Geist\" eine Einheit ist, dies erst ist die grosse Befreiung, - damit erst ist die Unschuld des Werdens wieder hergestellt… Der Begriff \"Gott\" war bisher der grösste Einwand gegen das Dasein… Wir leugnen Gott, wir leugnen die Verantwortlichkeit in Gott: damit erst erlösen wir die Welt. -\n\n### The \"Improvers\" of Humanity\n\n[1] Man kennt meine Forderung an den Philosophen, sich jenseits von Gut und Böse zu stellen, - die Illusion des moralischen Urtheils unter sich zu haben. Diese Forderung folgt aus einer Einsicht, die von mir zum ersten Male formulirt worden ist: dass es gar keine moralischen Thatsachen giebt. Das moralische Urtheil hat Das mit dem religiösen gemein, dass es an Realitäten glaubt, die keine sind. Moral ist nur eine Ausdeutung gewisser Phänomene, bestimmter geredet, eine Missdeutung. Das moralische Urtheil gehört, wie das religiöse, einer Stufe der Unwissenheit zu, auf der selbst der Begriff des Realen, die Unterscheidung des Realen und Imaginären noch fehlt: so dass \"Wahrheit\" auf solcher Stufe lauter Dinge bezeichnet, die wir heute \"Einbildungen\" nennen. Das moralische Urtheil ist insofern nie wörtlich zu nehmen: als solches enthält es immer nur Widersinn. Aber es bleibt als Semiotik unschätzbar: es offenbart, für den Wissenden wenigstens, die werthvollsten Realitäten von Culturen und Innerlichkeiten, die nicht genug wussten, um sich selbst zu \"verstehn\". Moral ist bloss Zeichenrede, bloss Symptomatologie: man muss bereits wissen, worum es sich handelt, um von ihr Nutzen zu ziehen.\n\n[2] Ein erstes Beispiel und ganz vorläufig. Zu allen Zeiten hat man die Menschen \"verbessern\" wollen: dies vor Allem hiess Moral. Aber unter dem gleichen Wort ist das Allerverschiedenste von Tendenz versteckt. Sowohl die Zähmung der Bestie Mensch als die Züchtung einer bestimmten Gattung Mensch ist \"Besserung\" genannt worden: erst diese zoologischen termini drücken Realitäten aus - Realitäten freilich, von denen der typische \"Verbesserer\", der Priester, Nichts weiss - Nichts wissen will… Die Zähmung eines Thieres seine \"Besserung\" nennen ist in unsren Ohren beinahe ein Scherz. Wer weiss, was in Menagerien geschieht, zweifelt daran, dass die Bestie daselbst \"verbessert\" wird. Sie wird geschwächt, sie wird weniger schädlich gemacht, sie wird durch den depressiven Affekt der Furcht, durch Schmerz, durch Wunden, durch Hunger zur krankhaften Bestie. - Nicht anders steht es mit dem gezähmten Menschen, den der Priester \"verbessert\" hat. Im frühen Mittelalter, wo in der That die Kirche vor Allem eine Menagerie war, machte man allerwärts auf die schönsten Exemplare der \"blonden Bestie\" Jagd, - man \"verbesserte\" zum Beispiel die vornehmen Germanen. Aber wie sah hinterdrein ein solcher \"verbesserter\", in's Kloster verführter Germane aus? Wie eine Caricatur des Menschen, wie eine Missgeburt: er war zum \"Sünder\" geworden, er stak im Käfig, man hatte ihn zwischen lauter schreckliche Begriffe eingesperrt… Da lag er nun, krank, kümmerlich, gegen sich selbst böswillig; voller Hass gegen die Antriebe zum Leben, voller Verdacht gegen Alles, was noch stark und glücklich war. Kurz, ein \"Christ\"… Physiologisch geredet: im Kampf mit der Bestie kann Krank machen das einzige Mittel sein, sie schwach zu machen. Das verstand die Kirche: sie verdarb den Menschen, sie schwächte ihn, - aber sie nahm in Anspruch, ihn \"verbessert\" zu haben…\n\n[3] Nehmen wir den andern Fall der sogenannten Moral, den Fall der Züchtung einer bestimmten Rasse und Art. Das grossartigste Beispiel dafür giebt die indische Moral, als \"Gesetz des Manu\" zur Religion sanktionirt. Hier ist die Aufgabe gestellt, nicht weniger als vier Rassen auf einmal zu züchten: eine priesterliche, eine kriegerische, eine händler- und ackerbauerische, endlich eine Dienstboten-Rasse, die Sudras. Ersichtlich sind wir hier nicht mehr unter Thierbändigern: eine hundert Mal mildere und vernünftigere Art Mensch ist die Voraussetzung, um auch nur den Plan einer solchen Züchtung zu concipiren. Man athmet auf, aus der christlichen Kranken- und Kerkerluft in diese gesündere, höhere, weitere Welt einzutreten. Wie armselig ist das \"neue Testament\" gegen Manu, wie schlecht riecht es! - Aber auch diese Organisation hatte nöthig, furchtbar zu sein, - nicht dies Mal im Kampf mit der Bestie, sondern mit ihrem Gegensatz-Begriff, dem Nicht-Zucht-Menschen, dem Mischmasch-Menschen, dem Tschandala. Und wieder hatte sie kein andres Mittel, ihn ungefährlich, ihn schwach zu machen, als ihn krank zu machen, - es war der Kampf mit der \"grossen Zahl\". Vielleicht giebt es nichts unserm Gefühle Widersprechenderes als diese Schutzmaassregeln der indischen Moral. Das dritte Edikt zum Beispiel (Avadana-Sastra 1), das \"von den unreinen Gemüsen\", ordnet an, dass die einzige Nahrung, die den Tschandala erlaubt ist, Knoblauch und Zwiebeln sein sollen, in Anbetracht, dass die heilige Schrift verbietet, ihnen Korn oder Früchte, die Körner tragen, oder Wasser oder Feuer zu geben. Dasselbe Edikt setzt fest, dass das Wasser, welches sie nöthig haben, weder aus den Flüssen, noch aus den Quellen, noch aus den Teichen genommen werden dürfe, sondern nur aus den Zugängen zu Sümpfen und aus Löchern, welche durch die Fusstapfen der Thiere entstanden sind. Insgleichen wird ihnen verboten, ihre Wäsche zu waschen und sich selbst zu waschen, da das Wasser, das ihnen aus Gnade zugestanden wird, nur benutzt werden darf, den Durst zu löschen. Endlich ein Verbot an die Sudra-Frauen, den Tschandala-Frauen bei der Geburt beizustehen, insgleichen noch eins für die letzteren, einander dabei beizustehen… - Der Erfolg einer solchen Sanitäts-Polizei blieb nicht aus: mörderische Seuchen, scheussliche Geschlechtskrankheiten und darauf hin wieder \"das Gesetz des Messers\", die Beschneidung für die männlichen, die Abtragung der kleinen Schamlippen für die weiblichen Kinder anordnend. - Manu selbst sagt: \"die Tschandala sind die Frucht von Ehebruch, Incest und Verbrechen (- dies die nothwendige Consequenz des Begriffs Züchtung). Sie sollen zu Kleidern nur die Lumpen von Leichnamen haben, zum Geschirr zerbrochne Töpfe, zum Schmuck altes Eisen, zum Gottesdienst nur die bösen Geister; sie sollen ohne Ruhe von einem Ort zum andern schweifen. Es ist ihnen verboten, von links nach rechts zu schreiben und sich der rechten Hand zum Schreiben zu bedienen: der Gebrauch der rechten Hand und des von Links nach Rechts ist bloss den Tugendhaften vorbehalten, den Leuten von Rasse.\" -\n\n[4] Diese Verfügungen sind lehrreich genug: in ihnen haben wir einmal die arische Humanität, ganz rein, ganz ursprünglich, - wir lernen, dass der Begriff \"reines Blut\" der Gegensatz eines harmlosen Begriffs ist. Andrerseits wird klar, in welchem Volk sich der Hass, der Tschandala-Hass gegen diese \"Humanität\" verewigt hat, wo er Religion, wo er Genie geworden ist…Unter diesem Gesichtspunkte sind die Evangelien eine Urkunde ersten Ranges; noch mehr das Buch Henoch. - Das Christenthum, aus jüdischer Wurzel und nur verständlich als Gewächs dieses Bodens, stellt die Gegenbewegung gegen jede Moral der Züchtung, der Rasse, des Privilegiums dar: - es ist die antiarische Religion par excellence: das Christenthum die Umwerthung aller arischen Werthe, der Sieg der Tschandala Werthe, das Evangelium den Armen, den Niedrigen gepredigt, der Gesammt-Aufstand alles Niedergetretenen, Elenden, Missrathenen, Schlechtweggekommenen gegen die \"Rasse\", - die unsterbliche Tschandala-Rache als Religion der Liebe…\n\n[5] Die Moral der Züchtung und die Moral der Zähmung sind in den Mitteln, sich durchzusetzen, vollkommen einander würdig: wir dürfen als obersten Satz hinstellen, dass, um Moral zu machen, man den unbedingten Willen zum Gegentheil haben muss. Dies ist das grosse, das unheimliche Problem, dem ich am längsten nachgegangen bin: die Psychologie der \"Verbesserer\" der Menschheit. Eine kleine und im Grunde bescheidne Thatsache, die der sogenannten pia fraus, gab mir den ersten Zugang zu diesem Problem: die pia fraus, das Erbgut aller Philosophen und Priester, die die Menschheit \"verbesserten\". Weder Manu, noch Plato, noch Confucius, noch die jüdischen und christlichen Lehrer haben je an ihrem Recht zur Lüge gezweifelt. Sie haben an ganz andren Rechten nicht gezweifelt… In Formel ausgedrückt dürfte man sagen: alle Mittel, wodurch bisher die Menschheit moralisch gemacht werden sollte, waren von Grund aus unmoralisch. -\n\n### What the Germans Lack\n\n[1] Unter Deutschen ist es heute nicht genug, Geist zu haben: man muss ihn noch sich nehmen, sich Geist herausnehmen…\n\nVielleicht kenne ich die Deutschen, vielleicht darf ich selbst ihnen ein paar Wahrheiten sagen. Das neue Deutschland stellt ein grosses Quantum vererbter und angeschulter Tüchtigkeit dar, so dass es den aufgehäuften Schatz von Kraft eine Zeit lang selbst verschwenderisch ausgeben darf. Es ist nicht eine hohe Cultur, die mit ihm Herr geworden, noch weniger ein delikater Geschmack, eine vornehme \"Schönheit\" der Instinkte; aber männlichere Tugenden, als sonst ein Land Europa's aufweisen kann. Viel guther Muth und Achtung vor sich selber, viel Sicherheit im Verkehr, in der Gegenseitigkeit der Pflichten, viel Arbeitsamkeit, viel Ausdauer - und eine angeerbte Mässigung, welche eher des Stachels als des Hemmschuhs bedarf. Ich füge hinzu, dass hier noch gehorcht wird, ohne dass das Gehorchen demüthigt… Und Niemand verachtet seinen Gegner…\n\nMan sieht, es ist mein Wunsch, den Deutschen gerecht zu sein: ich möchte mir darin nicht untreu werden, - ich muss ihnen also auch meinen Einwand machen. Es zahlt sich theuer, zur Macht zu kommen: die Macht verdummt… Die Deutschen - man hiess sie einst das Volk der Denker: denken sie heute überhaupt noch? - Die Deutschen langweilen sich jetzt am Geiste, die Deutschen misstrauen jetzt dem Geiste, die Politik verschlingt allen Ernst für wirklich geistige Dinge - \"Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles\", ich fürchte, das war das Ende der deutschen Philosophie… \"Giebt es deutsche Philosophen? giebt es deutsche Dichter? giebt es gute deutsche Bücher?\" fragt man mich im Ausland. Ich erröthe, aber mit der Tapferkeit, die mir auch in verzweifelten Fällen zu eigen ist, antworte ich: \"Ja, Bismarck!\" - Dürfte ich auch nur eingestehn, welche Bücher man heute liest?… Vermaledeiter Instinkt der Mittelmässigkeit! -\n\n[2] - Was der deutsche Geist sein könnte, wer hätte nicht schon darüber seine schwermüthigen Gedanken gehabt! Aber dies Volk hat sich willkürlich verdummt, seit einem Jahrtausend beinahe: nirgendswo sind die zwei grossen europäischen Narcotica, Alkohol und Christenthum, lasterhafter gemissbraucht worden. Neuerdings kam sogar noch ein drittes hinzu, mit dem allein schon aller feinen und kühnen Beweglichkeit des Geistes der Garaus gemacht werden kann, die Musik, unsre verstopfte verstopfende deutsche Musik. - Wie viel verdriessliche Schwere, Lahmheit, Feuchtigkeit, Schlafrock, wie viel Bier ist in der deutschen Intelligenz! Wie ist es eigentlich möglich, dass junge Männer, die den geistigsten Zielen ihr Dasein weihn, nicht den ersten Instinkt der Geistigkeit, den Selbsterhaltungs-Instinkt des Geistes in sich fühlen - und Bier trinken?… Der Alkoholismus der gelehrten Jugend ist vielleicht noch kein Fragezeichen in Absicht ihrer Gelehrsamkeit - man kann ohne Geist sogar ein grosser Gelehrter sein -, aber in jedem andren Betracht bleibt er ein Problem. - Wo fände man sie nicht, die sanfte Entartung, die das Bier im Geiste hervorbringt! Ich habe einmal in einem beinahe berühmt gewordnen Fall den Finger auf eine solche Entartung gelegt - die Entartung unsres ersten deutschen Freigeistes, des klugen David Strauss, zum Verfasser eines Bierbank-Evangeliums und \"neuen Glaubens\"… Nicht umsonst hatte er der \"holden Braunen\" sein Gelöbniss in Versen gemacht - Treue bis zum Tod…\n\n[3] - Ich sprach vom deutschen Geiste: dass er gröber wird, dass er sich verflacht. Ist das genug? - Im Grunde ist es etwas ganz Anderes, das mich erschreckt: wie es immer mehr mit dem deutschen Ernste, der deutschen Tiefe, der deutschen Leidenschaft in geistigen Dingen abwärts geht. Das Pathos hat sich verändert, nicht bloss die Intellektualität. - Ich berühre hier und da deutsche Universitäten: was für eine Luft herrscht unter deren Gelehrten, welche öde, welche genügsam und lau gewordne Geistigkeit! Es wäre ein tiefes Missverständniss, wenn man mir hier die deutsche Wissenschaft einwenden wollte - und ausserdem ein Beweis dafür, dass man nicht ein Wort von mir gelesen hat. Ich bin seit siebzehn Jahren nicht müde geworden, den entgeistigenden Einfluss unsres jetzigen Wissenschafts-Betriebs an's Licht zu stellen. Das harte Helotenthum, zu dem der ungeheure Umfang der Wissenschaften heute jeden Einzelnen verurtheilt, ist ein Hauptgrund dafür, dass voller, reicher, tiefer angelegte Naturen keine ihnen gemässe Erziehung und Erzieher mehr vorfinden. Unsre Cultur leidet an Nichts mehr, als an dem Überfluss anmaasslicher Eckensteher und Bruchstück-Humanitäten; unsre Universitäten sind, wider Willen, die eigentlichen Treibhäuser für diese Art Instinkt-Verkümmerung des Geistes. Und ganz Europa hat bereits einen Begriff davon - die grosse Politik täuscht Niemanden… Deutschland gilt immer mehr als Europa's Flachland. - Ich suche noch nach einem Deutschen, mit dem ich auf meine Weise ernst sein könnte, - um wie viel mehr nach einem, mit dem ich heiter sein dürfte! Götzen-Dämmerung: ah wer begriffe es heute, von was für einem Ernste sich hier ein Einsiedler erholt! - Die Heiterkeit ist an uns das Unverständlichste…\n\n[4] Man mache einen Überschlag: es liegt nicht nur auf der Hand, dass die deutsche Cultur niedergeht, es fehlt auch nicht am zureichenden Grund dafür. Niemand kann zuletzt mehr ausgeben als er hat - das gilt von Einzelnen, das gilt von Völkern. Giebt man sich für Macht, für grosse Politik, für Wirthschaft, Weltverkehr, Parlamentarismus, Militär-Interessen aus, - giebt man das Quantum Verstand, Ernst, Wille, Selbstüberwindung, das man ist, nach dieser Seite weg, so fehlt es auf der andern Seite. Die Cultur und der Staat - man betrüge sich hierüber nicht - sind Antagonisten: \"Cultur-Staat\" ist bloss eine moderne Idee. Das Eine lebt vom Andern, das Eine gedeiht auf Unkosten des Anderen. Alle grossen Zeiten der Cultur sind politische Niedergangs-Zeiten: was gross ist im Sinn der Cultur war unpolitisch, selbst antipolitisch. - Goethen gieng das Herz auf bei dem Phänomen Napoleon, - es gieng ihm zu bei den \"Freiheits-Kriegen\"… In demselben Augenblick, wo Deutschland als Grossmacht heraufkommt, gewinnt Frankreich als Culturmacht eine veränderte Wichtigkeit. Schon heute ist viel neuer Ernst, viel neue Leidenschaft des Geistes nach Paris übergesiedelt; die Frage des Pessimismus zum Beispiel, die Frage Wagner, fast alle psychologischen und artistischen Fragen werden dort unvergleichlich feiner und gründlicher erwogen als in Deutschland, - die Deutschen sind selbst unfähig zu dieser Art Ernst. - In der Geschichte der europäischen Cultur bedeutet die Heraufkunft des \"Reichs\" vor allem Eins: eine Verlegung des Schwergewichts. Man weiss es überall bereits: in der Hauptsache - und das bleibt die Cultur - kommen die Deutschen nicht mehr in Betracht. Man fragt: habt ihr auch nur Einen für Europa mitzählenden Geist aufzuweisen? wie euer Goethe, euer Hegel, euer Heinrich Heine, euer Schopenhauer mitzählte? - Dass es nicht einen einzigen deutschen Philosophen mehr giebt, darüber ist des Erstaunens kein Ende. -\n\n[5] Dem ganzen höheren Erziehungswesen in Deutschland ist die Hauptsache abhanden gekommen: Zweck sowohl als Mittel zum Zweck. Dass Erziehung, Bildung selbst Zweck ist - und nicht das \"Reich\" -, dass es zu diesem Zweck der Erzieher bedarf - und nicht der Gymnasiallehrer und Universitäts-Gelehrten - man vergass das… Erzieher thun noth, die selbst erzogen sind, überlegene, vornehme Geister, in jedem Augenblick bewiesen, durch Wort und Schweigen bewiesen, reife, süss gewordene Culturen, - nicht die gelehrten Rüpel, welche Gymnasium und Universität der Jugend heute als \"höhere Ammen\" entgegenbringt. Die Erzieher fehlen, die Ausnahmen der Ausnahmen abgerechnet, die erste Vorbedingung der Erziehung: daher der Niedergang der deutschen Cultur. - Eine jener allerseltensten Ausnahmen ist mein verehrungswürdiger Freund Jakob Burckhardt in Basel: ihm zuerst verdankt Basel seinen Vorrang von Humanität. - Was die \"höheren Schulen\" Deutschlands thatsächlich erreichen, das ist eine brutale Abrichtung, um, mit möglichst geringem Zeitverlust, eine Unzahl junger Männer für den Staatsdienst nutzbar, ausnutzbar zu machen. \"Höhere Erziehung\" und Unzahl - das widerspricht sich von vornherein. Jede höhere Erziehung gehört nur der Ausnahme: man muss privilegirt sein, um ein Recht auf ein so hohes Privilegium zu haben. Alle grossen, alle schönen Dinge können nie Gemeingut sein: pulchrum est paucorum hominum. - Was bedingt den Niedergang der deutschen Cultur? Dass \"höhere Erziehung\" kein Vorrecht mehr ist - der Demokratismus der \"allgemeinen\", der gemein gewordnen \"Bildung\"… Nicht zu vergessen, dass militärische Privilegien den Zu-Viel-Besuch der höheren Schulen, das heisst ihren Untergang, förmlich erzwingen. - Es steht Niemandem mehr frei, im jetzigen Deutschland seinen Kindern eine vornehme Erziehung zu geben: unsre \"höheren\" Schulen sind allesammt auf die zweideutigste Mittelmässigkeit eingerichtet, mit Lehrern, mit Lehrplänen, mit Lehrzielen. Und überall herrscht eine unanständige Hast, wie als ob Etwas versäumt wäre, wenn der junge Mann Mit 23 Jahren noch nicht \"fertig\" ist, noch nicht Antwort weiss auf die \"Hauptfrage\": welchen Beruf? - Eine höhere Art Mensch, mit Verlaub gesagt, liebt nicht \"Berufe\", genau deshalb, weil sie sich berufen weiss… Sie hat Zeit, sie nimmt sich Zeit, sie denkt gar nicht daran, \"fertig\" zu werden, - mit dreissig Jahren ist man, im Sinne hoher Cultur, ein Anfänger, ein Kind. - Unsre überfüllten Gymnasien, unsre überhäuften, stupid gemachten Gymnasiallehrer sind ein Skandal: um diese Zustände in Schutz zu nehmen, wie es jüngst die Professoren von Heidelberg gethan haben, dazu hat man vielleicht Ursachen, - Gründe dafür giebt es nicht.\n\n[6] - Ich stelle, um nicht aus meiner Art zu fallen, die ja-sagend ist und mit Widerspruch und Kritik nur mittelbar, nur unfreiwillig zu thun hat, sofort die drei Aufgaben hin, derentwegen man Erzieher braucht. Man hat sehen zu lernen, man hat denken zu lernen, man hat sprechen und schreiben zu lernen: das Ziel in allen Dreien ist eine vornehme Cultur. - Sehen lernen - dem Auge die Ruhe, die Geduld, das An-sich-herankommen-lassen angewöhnen; das Urtheil hinausschieben, den Einzelfall von allen Seiten umgehn und umfassen lernen. Das ist die erste Vorschulung zur Geistigkeit: auf einen Reiz nicht sofort reagiren, sondern die hemmenden, die abschliessenden Instinkte in die Hand bekommen. Sehen lernen, so wie ich es verstehe, ist beinahe Das, was die unphilosophische Sprechweise den starken Willen nennt: das Wesentliche daran ist gerade, nicht \"wollen\", die Entscheidung aussetzen können. Alle Ungeistigkeit, alle Gemeinheit beruht auf dem Unvermögen, einem Reize Widerstand zu leisten - man muss reagiren, man folgt jedem Impulse. In vielen Fällen ist ein solches Müssen bereits Krankhaftigkeit, Niedergang, Symptom der Erschöpfung, - fast Alles, was die unphilosophische Rohheit mit dem Namen \"Laster\" bezeichnet, ist bloss jenes physiologische Unvermögen, nicht zu reagiren. - Eine Nutzanwendung vom Sehen-gelernt-haben: man wird als Lernender überhaupt langsam, misstrauisch, widerstrebend geworden sein. Man wird Fremdes, Neues jeder Art zunächst mit feindseliger Ruhe herankommen lassen, - man wird seine Hand davor zurückziehn. Das Offenstehn mit allen Thüren, das unterthänige Auf-dem-Bauch-Liegen vor jeder kleinen Thatsache, das allzeit sprungbereite Sich-hinein-Setzen, Sich-hinein-Stürzen in Andere und Anderes, kurz die berühmte moderne \"Objektivität\" ist schlechter Geschmack, ist unvornehm par excellence. -\n\n[7] Denken lernen: man hat auf unsren Schulen keinen Begriff mehr davon. Selbst auf den Universitäten, sogar unter den eigentlichen Gelehrten der Philosophie beginnt Logik als Theorie, als Praktik, als Handwerk, auszusterben. Man lese deutsche Bücher: nicht mehr die entfernteste Erinnerung daran, dass es zum Denken einer Technik, eines Lehrplans, eines Willens zur Meisterschaft bedarf, - dass Denken gelernt sein will, wie Tanzen gelernt sein will, als eine Art Tanzen… Wer kennt unter Deutschen jenen feinen Schauder aus Erfahrung noch, den die leichten Füsse im Geistigen in alle Muskeln überströmen! - Die steife Tölpelei der geistigen Gebärde, die plumpe Hand beim Fassen - das ist in dem Grade deutsch, dass man es im Auslande mit dem deutschen Wesen überhaupt verwechselt. Der Deutsche hat keine Finger für nuances… Dass die Deutschen ihre Philosophen auch nur ausgehalten haben, vor Allen jenen verwachsensten Begriffs-Krüppel, den es je gegeben hat, den grossen Kant, giebt keinen kleinen Begriff von der deutschen Anmuth. - Man kann nämlich das Tanzen in jeder Form nicht von der vornehmen Erziehung abrechnen, Tanzen können mit den Füssen, mit den Begriffen, mit den Worten; habe ich noch zu sagen, dass man es auch mit der Feder können muss, - dass man schreiben lernen muss? - Aber an dieser Stelle würde ich deutschen Lesern vollkommen zum Räthsel werden…\n\n### Skirmishes of an Untimely Man\n\n[1] Meine Unmöglichen. - Seneca: oder der Toreador der Tugend. - Rousseau: oder die Rückkehr zur Natur in impuris naturalibus. - Schiller: oder der Moral-Trompeter von Säckingen. - Dante: oder die Hyäne, die in Gräbern dichtet. - Kant: oder cant als intelligibler Charakter. -Victor Hugo: oder der Pharus am Meere des Unsinns. - Liszt: oder die Schule der Geläufigkeit - nach Weibern. - George Sand: oder lactea ubertas, auf deutsch: die Milchkuh mit \"schönem Stil\". - Michelet: oder die Begeisterung, die den Rock auszieht…Carlyle: oder Pessimismus als zurückgetretenes Mittagessen. - John Stuart Mill: oder die beleidigende Klarheit. - Les fréres de Goncourt: oder die beiden Ajaxe im Kampf mit Homer. Musik von Offenbach. - Zola: oder die Freude zu stinken. -\n\n[2] Renan. - Theologie, oder die Verderbniss der Vernunft durch die \"Erbsünde\" (das Christenthum). Zeugniss Renan, der, sobald er einmal ein Ja oder Nein allgemeinerer Art risquirt, mit peinlicher Regelmässigkeit daneben greift. Er möchte zum Beispiel la science und la noblesse in Eins verknüpfen: aber la science gehört zur Demokratie, das greift sich doch mit Händen. Er wünscht, mit keinem kleinen Ehrgeize, einen Aristokratismus des Geistes darzustellen: aber zugleich liegt er vor dessen Gegenlehre, dem évangile des humbles auf den Knien und nicht nur auf den Knien… Was hilft alle Freigeisterei, Modernität, Spötterei und Wendehals-Geschmeidigkeit, wenn man mit seinen Eingeweiden Christ, Katholik und sogar Priester geblieben ist! Renan hat seine Erfindsamkeit, ganz wie ein Jesuit und Beichtvater, in der Verführung; seiner Geistigkeit fehlt das breite Pfaffen-Geschmunzel nicht, - er wird, wie alle Priester, gefährlich erst, wenn er liebt. Niemand kommt ihm darin gleich, auf eine lebensgefährliche Weise anzubeten… Dieser Geist Renan's, ein Geist, der entnervt, ist ein Verhängniss mehr für das arme, kranke, willenskranke Frankreich. -\n\n[3] Sainte-Beuve. - Nichts von Mann; voll eines kleinen Ingrimms gegen alle Mannsgeister. Schweift umher, fein, neugierig, gelangweilt, aushorcherisch, - eine Weibsperson im Grunde, mit einer Weibs-Rachsucht und Weibs-Sinnlichkeit. Als Psycholog ein Genie der médisance; unerschöpflich reich an Mitteln dazu; Niemand versteht besser, mit einem Lob Gift zu mischen. Plebejisch in den untersten Instinkten und mit dem ressentiment Rousseau's verwandt: folglich Romantiker - denn unter allem romantisme grunzt und giert der Instinkt Rousseau's nach Rache. Revolutionär, aber durch die Furcht leidlich noch im Zaum gehalten. Ohne Freiheit vor Allem, was Stärke hat (öffentliche Meinung, Akademie, Hof, selbst Port Royal). Erbittert gegen alles Grosse an Mensch und Ding, gegen Alles, was an sich glaubt. Dichter und Halbweib genug, um das Grosse noch als Macht zu fühlen; gekrümmt beständig, wie jener berühmte Wurm, weil er sich beständig getreten fühlt. Als Kritiker ohne Maassstab, Halt und Rückgrat, mit der Zunge des kosmopolitischen libertin für Vielerlei, aber ohne den Muth selbst zum Eingeständniss der libertinage. Als Historiker ohne Philosophie, ohne die Macht des philosophischen Blicks, - deshalb die Aufgabe des Richtens in allen Hauptsachen ablehnend, die \"Objektivität\" als Maske vorhaltend. Anders verhält er sich zu allen Dingen, wo ein feiner, vernutzter Geschmack die höchste Instanz ist: da hat er wirklich den Muth zu sich, die Lust an sich, - da ist er Meister. - Nach einigen Seiten eine Vorform Baudelaire's. -\n\n[4] Die imitatio Christi gehört zu den Büchern, die ich nicht ohne einen physiologischen Widerstand in den Händen halte: sie haucht einen parfum des Ewig-Weiblichen aus, zu dem man bereits Franzose sein muss - oder Wagnerianer… Dieser Heilige hat eine Art von der Liebe zu reden, dass sogar die Pariserinnen neugierig werden. - Man sagt mir, dass jener klügste Jesuit, A. Comte, der seine Franzosen auf dem Umweg der Wissenschaft nach Rom führen wollte, sich an diesem Buche inspirirt habe. Ich glaube es: \"die Religion des Herzens\"…\n\n[5] G. Eliot. - Sie sind den christlichen Gott los und glauben nun um, so mehr die christliche Moral festhalten zu müssen: das ist eine englische Folgerichtigkeit, wir wollen sie den Moral Weiblein á la Eliot nicht verübeln. In England muss man sich für jede kleine Emancipation von der Theologie in furchteinflössender Weise als Moral-Fanatiker wieder zu Ehren bringen. Das ist dort die Busse, die man zahlt. - Für uns Andre steht es anders. Wenn man den christlichen Glauben aufgiebt, zieht man sich damit das Recht zur christlichen Moral unter den Füssen weg. Diese versteht sich schlechterdings nicht von selbst: man muss diesen Punkt, den englischen Flachköpfen zum Trotz, immer wieder an's Licht stellen. Das Christenthum ist ein System, eine zusammengedachte und ganze Ansicht der Dinge. Bricht man aus ihm einen Hauptbegriff, den Glauben an Gott, heraus, so zerbricht man damit auch das Ganze: man hat nichts Nothwendiges mehr zwischen den Fingern. Das Christenthum setzt voraus, dass der Mensch nicht wisse, nicht wissen könne, was für ihn gut, was böse ist: er glaubt an Gott, der allein es weiss. Die christliche Moral ist ein Befehl; ihr Ursprung ist transscendent; sie ist jenseits aller Kritik, alles Rechts auf Kritik; sie hat nur Wahrheit, falls Gott die Wahrheit ist, - sie steht und fällt mit dem Glauben an Gott. - Wenn thatsächlich die Engländer glauben, sie wüssten von sich aus, \"intuitiv\", was gut und böse ist, wenn sie folglich vermeinen, das Christenthum als Garantie der Moral nicht mehr nöthig zu haben, so ist dies selbst bloss die Folge der Herrschaft des christlichen Werthurtheils und ein Ausdruck von der Stärke und Tiefe dieser Herrschaft: so dass der Ursprung der englischen Moral vergessen worden ist, so dass das Sehr-Bedingte ihres Rechts auf Dasein nicht mehr empfunden wird. Für den Engländer ist die Moral noch kein Problem…\n\n[6] George Sand. - Ich las die ersten lettres d'un voyageur: wie Alles, was von Rousseau stammt, falsch, gemacht, Blasebalg, übertrieben. Ich halte diesen bunten Tapeten-Stil nicht aus; ebensowenig als die Pöbel-Ambition nach generösen Gefühlen. Das Schlimmste freilich bleibt die Weibskoketterie mit Männlichkeiten, mit Manieren ungezogener Jungen. - Wie kalt muss sie bei alledem gewesen sein, diese unausstehliche Künstlerin! Sie zog sich auf wie eine Uhr - und schrieb… Kalt, wie Hugo wie Balzac, wie alle Romantiker, sobald sie dichteten! Und wie selbstgefällig sie dabei dagelegen haben mag, diese fruchtbare Schreibe-Kuh, die etwas Deutsches im schlimmen Sinne an sich hatte, gleich Rousseau selbst, ihrem Meister, und jedenfalls erst beim Niedergang des französischen Geschmacks möglich war! - Aber Renan verehrt sie…\n\n[7] Moral für Psychologen. - Keine Colportage-Psychologie treiben! Nie beobachten, um zu beobachten! Das giebt eine falsche Optik, ein Schielen, etwas Erzwungenes und Übertreibendes. Erleben als Erleben-Wollen - das geräth nicht. Man darf nicht im Erlebniss nach sich hinblicken, jeder Blick wird da zum \"bösen Blick\". Ein geborner Psycholog hütet sich aus Instinkt, zu sehn, um zu sehn; dasselbe gilt vom gebornen Maler. Er arbeitet nie \"nach der Natur\", - er überlässt seinem Instinkte, seiner camera obscura das Durchsieben und Ausdrücken des \"Falls\", der \"Natur\", des \"Erlebten\"… Das Allgemeine erst kommt ihm zum Bewusstsein, der Schluss, das Ergebniss: er kennt jenes willkürliche Abstrahiren vom einzelnen Falle nicht. - Was wird daraus, wenn man es anders macht? Zum Beispiel nach Art der Pariser romanciers gross und klein Colportage-Psychologie treibt? Das lauert gleichsam der Wirklichkeit auf, das bringt jeden Abend eine Handvoll Curiositäten mit nach Hause… Aber man sehe nur, was zuletzt herauskommt - ein Haufen von Klecksen, ein Mosaik besten Falls, in jedem Falle etwas Zusammen-Addirtes, Unruhiges, Farbenschreiendes. Das Schlimmste darin erreichen die Goncourt: sie setzen nicht drei Sätze zusammen, die nicht dem Auge, dem Psychologen-Auge einfach weh thun. - Die Natur, künstlerisch abgeschätzt, ist kein Modell. Sie übertreibt, sie verzerrt, sie lässt Lücken. Die Natur ist der Zufall. Das Studium \"nach der Natur\" scheint mir ein schlechtes Zeichen: es verräth Unterwerfung, Schwäche, Fatalismus, - dies Im-Staube-Liegen vor petits faits ist eines ganzen Künstlers unwürdig. Sehen, was ist - das gehört einer andern Gattung von Geistern. zu, den antiartistischen, den Thatsächlichen. Man muss wissen, wer man ist…\n\n[8] Zur Psychologie des Künstlers. - Damit es Kunst giebt, damit es irgend ein ästhetisches Thun und Schauen giebt, dazu ist eine physiologische Vorbedingung unumgänglich: der Rausch. Der Rausch muss erst die Erregbarkeit der ganzen Maschine gesteigert haben: eher kommt es zu keiner Kunst. Alle noch so verschieden bedingten Arten des Rausches haben dazu die Kraft: vor Allem der Rausch der Geschlechtserregung, diese älteste und ursprünglichste Form des Rausches. Insgleichen der Rausch, der im Gefolge aller grossen Begierden, aller starken Affekte kommt; der Rausch des Festes, des Wettkampfs, des Bravourstücks, des Siegs, aller extremen Bewegung; der Rausch der Grausamkeit; der Rausch in der Zerstörung; der Rausch unter gewissen meteorologischen Einflüssen, zum Beispiel der Frühlingsrausch; oder unter dem Einfluss der Narcotica; endlich der Rausch des Willens, der Rausch eines überhäuften und geschwellten Willens. - Das Wesentliche am Rausch ist das Gefühl der Kraftsteigerung und Fülle. Aus diesem Gefühle giebt man an die Dinge ab, man zwingt sie von uns zu nehmen, man vergewaltigt sie, - man heisst diesen Vorgang Idealisiren. Machen wir uns hier von einem Vorurtheil los: das Idealisiren besteht nicht, wie gemeinhin geglaubt wird, in einem Abziehn oder Abrechnen des Kleinen, des Nebensächlichen. Ein ungeheures Heraustreibender Hauptzüge ist vielmehr das Entscheidende, so dass die andern darüber verschwinden.\n\n[9] Man bereichert in diesem Zustande Alles aus seiner eignen Fülle: was man sieht, was man will, man sieht es geschwellt, gedrängt, stark, überladen mit Kraft. Der Mensch dieses Zustandes verwandelt die Dinge, bis sie seine Macht wiederspiegeln, - bis sie Reflexe seiner Vollkommenheit sind. Dies Verwandeln müssen in's Vollkommne ist - Kunst. Alles selbst, was er nicht ist, wird trotzdem ihm zur Lust an sich; in der Kunst geniesst sich der Mensch als Vollkommenheit. - Es wäre erlaubt, sich einen gegensätzlichen Zustand auszudenken, ein spezifisches Antikünstlerthum des Instinks, - eine Art zu sein, welche alle Dinge verarmte, verdünnte, schwindsüchtig machte. Und in der That, die Geschichte ist reich an solchen Anti-Artisten, an solchen Ausgehungerten des Lebens: welche mit Nothwendigkeit die Dinge noch an sich nehmen, sie auszehren, sie magerer machen müssen. Dies ist zum Beispiel der Fall des echten Christen, Pascal's zum Beispiel: ein Christ, der zugleich Künstler wäre, kommt nicht vor… Man sei nicht kindlich und wende mir Raffael ein oder irgend welche homöopathische Christen des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts: Raffael sagte Ja, Raffael machte Ja, folglich war Raffael kein Christ…\n\n[10] Was bedeutet der von mir in die Ästhetik eingeführte Gegensatz-Begriff apollinisch und dionysisch, beide als Arten des Rausches begriffen? - Der apollinische Rausch hält vor Allem das Auge erregt, so dass es die Kraft der Vision bekommt. Der Maler, der Plastiker, der Epiker sind Visionäre par excellence. Im dionysischen Zustande ist dagegen das gesammte Affekt-System erregt und gesteigert: so dass es alle seine Mittel des Ausdrucks mit einem Male entladet und die Kraft des Darstellens, Nachbildens, Transfigurirens, Verwandelns, alle Art Mimik und Schauspielerei zugleich heraustreibt. Das Wesentliche bleibt die Leichtigkeit der Metamorphose, die Unfähigkeit, nicht zu reagiren (- ähnlich wie bei gewissen Hysterischen, die auch auf jeden Wink hin in je de Rolle eintreten). Es ist dem dionysischen Menschen unmöglich, irgend eine Suggestion nicht zu verstehn, er übersieht kein Zeichen des Affekts, er hat den höchsten Grad des verstehenden und errathenden Instinkts, wie er den höchsten Grad von Mittheilungs-Kunst besitzt. Er geht in jede Haut, in jeden Affekt ein: er verwandelt sich beständig. - Musik, wie wir sie heute verstehn, ist gleichfalls eine Gesammt-Erregung und -Entladung der Affekte, aber dennoch nur das Überbleibsel von einer viel volleren Ausdrucks-Welt des Affekts, ein blosses residuum des dionysischen Histrionismus. Man hat, zur Ermöglichung der Musik als Sonderkunst, eine Anzahl Sinne, vor Allem den Muskelsinn still gestellt (relativ wenigstens: denn in einem gewissen Grade redet noch aller Rhythmus zu unsern Muskeln): so dass der Mensch nicht mehr Alles, was er fühlt, sofort leibhaft nachahmt und darstellt. Trotzdem ist Das der eigentlich dionysische Normalzustand, jedenfalls der Urzustand; die Musik ist die langsam erreichte Spezifikation desselben auf Unkosten der nächstverwandten Vermögen.\n\n[11] Der Schauspieler, der Mime, der Tänzer, der Musiker, der Lyriker sind in ihren Instinkten grundverwandt und an sich Eins, aber allmählich spezialisirt und von einander abgetrennt - bis selbst zum Widerspruch. Der Lyriker blieb am längsten mit dem Musiker geeint; der Schauspieler mit dem Tänzer. - Der Architekt stellt weder einen dionysischen, noch einen apollinischen Zustand dar: hier ist es der grosse Willensakt, der Wille, der Berge versetzt, der Rausch des grossen Willens, der zur Kunst verlangt. Die mächtigsten Menschen haben immer die Architekten inspirirt; der Architekt war stets unter der Suggestion der Macht. Im Bauwerk soll sich der Stolz, der Sieg über die Schwere, der Wille zur Macht versichtbaren; Architektur ist eine Art Macht-Beredsamkeit in Formen, bald überredend, selbst schmeichelnd, bald bloss befehlend. Das höchste Gefühl von Macht und Sicherheit kommt in dem zum Ausdruck, was grossen Stil hat. Die Macht, die keinen Beweis mehr nöthig hat; die es verschmäht, zu gefallen; die schwer antwortet; die keinen Zeugen um sich fühlt; die ohne Bewusstsein davon lebt, dass es Widerspruch gegen sie giebt; die in sich ruht, fatalistisch, ein Gesetz unter Gesetzen: Das redet als grosser Stil von sich. -\n\n[12] Ich las das Leben Thomas Carlyle's, diese farce wider Wissen und Willen, diese heroisch-moralische Interpretation dyspeptischer Zustände. - Carlyle, ein Mann der starken Worte und Attitüden, ein Rhetor aus Noth, den beständig das Verlangen nach einem starken Glauben agaçirt und das Gefühl der Unfähigkeit dazu (- darin ein typischer Romantiker!). Das Verlangen nach einem starken Glauben ist nicht der Beweis eines starken Glaubens, vielmehr das Gegentheil. Hat man ihn, so darf man sich den schönen Luxus der Skepsis gestatten: man ist sicher genug, fest genug, gebunden genug dazu. Carlyle betäubt Etwas in sich durch das fortissimo seiner Verehrung für Menschen starken Glaubens und durch seine Wuth gegen die weniger Einfältigen: er bedarf des Lärms. Eine beständige leidenschaftliche Unredlichkeit gegen sich - das ist sein proprium, damit ist und bleibt er interessant. - Freilich, in England wird er gerade wegen seiner Redlichkeit bewundert… Nun, das ist englisch; und in Anbetracht, dass die Engländer das Volk des vollkommnen cant sind, sogar billig, und nicht nur, begreiflich. Im Grunde ist Carlyle ein englischer Atheist, der seine Ehre darin sucht, es nicht zu sein.\n\n[13] Emerson. - Viel aufgeklärter, schweifender, vielfacher, raffinirter als Carlyle, vor Allem glücklicher… Ein Solcher, der sich instinktiv bloss von Ambrosia nährt, der das Unverdauliche in den Dingen zurücklässt. Gegen Carlyle gehalten ein Mann des Geschmacks. - Carlyle, der ihn sehr liebte, sagte trotzdem von ihm: \"er giebt uns nicht genug zu beissen\": was mit Recht gesagt sein mag, aber nicht zu Ungunsten Emerson's. - Emerson hat jene gütige und geistreiche Heiterkeit, welche allen Ernst entmuthigt; er weiss es schlechterdings nicht, wie alt er schon ist und wie jung er noch sein wird, - er könnte von sich mit einem Wort Lope de Vega's sagen: \"yo me sucedo a mi mismo\". Sein Geist findet immer Gründe, zufrieden und selbst dankbar zu sein; und bisweilen streift er die heitere Transscendenz jenes Biedermanns, der von einem verliebten Stelldichein tamquam re bene gesta zurückkam. \"Ut desint vires, sprach er dankbar, tamen est laudanda voluptas.\" -\n\n[14] Anti-Darwin. - Was den berühmten Kampf um's Leben betrifft, so scheint er mir einstweilen mehr behauptet als bewiesen. Er kommt vor, aber als Ausnahme; der Gesammt-Aspekt des Lebens ist nicht die Nothlage, die Hungerlage, vielmehr der Reichthum, die Üppigkeit, selbst die absurde Verschwendung, - wo gekämpft wird, kämpft man um Macht… Man soll nicht Malthus mit der Natur verwechseln. - Gesetzt aber, es giebt diesen Kampf - und in der That, er kommt vor -, so läuft er leider umgekehrt aus als die Schule Darwin's wünscht, als man vielleicht mit ihr wünschen dürfte: nämlich zu Ungunsten der Starken, der Bevorrechtigten, der glücklichen Ausnahmen. Die Gattungen wachsen nicht in der Vollkommenheit: die Schwachen werden immer wieder über die Starken Herr, - das macht, sie sind die grosse Zahl, sie sind auch klüger… Darwin hat den Geist vergessen (- das ist englisch!), die Schwachen haben mehr Geist… Man muss Geist nöthig haben, um Geist zu bekommen, - man verliert ihn, wenn man ihn nicht mehr nöthig hat. Wer die Stärke hat, entschlägt sich des Geistes (- \"lass fahren dahin! denkt man heute in Deutschland - das Reich muss uns doch bleiben\"…). Ich verstehe unter Geist, wie man sieht, die Vorsicht, die Geduld, die List, die Verstellung, die grosse Selbstbeherrschung und Alles, was mimicry ist (zu letzterem gehört ein grosser Theil der sogenannten Tugend).\n\n[15] Psychologen-Casuistik. - Das ist ein Menschenkenner: wozu studirt er eigentlich die Menschen? Er will kleine Vortheile über sie erschnappen, oder auch grosse, - er ist ein Politikus!… Jener da ist auch ein Menschenkenner: und ihr sagt, der wolle Nichts damit für sich, das sei ein grosser \"Unpersönlicher\". Seht schärfer zu! Vielleicht will er sogar noch einen schlimmeren Vortheil: sich den Menschen überlegen fühlen, auf sie herabsehn dürfen, sich nicht mehr mit ihnen verwechseln. Dieser \"Unpersönliche\" ist ein Menschen-Verächter: und jener Erstere ist die humanere Species, was auch der Augenschein sagen mag. Er stellt sich wenigstens gleich, er stellt sich hinein…\n\n[16] Der psychologische Takt der Deutschen scheint mir durch eine ganze Reihe von Fällen in Frage gestellt, deren Verzeichniss vorzulegen mich meine Bescheidenheit hindert. In Einem Falle wird es mir nicht an einem grossen Anlasse fehlen, meine These zu begründen: ich trage es den Deutschen nach, sich über Kant und seine \"Philosophie der Hinterthüren\", wie ich sie nenne, vergriffen zu haben, - das war nicht der Typus der intellektuellen Rechtschaffenheit. - Das Andre, was ich nicht hören mag, ist ein berüchtigtes \"und\": die Deutschen sagen, \"Goethe und Schiller\", - ich fürchte, sie sagen \"Schiller und Goethe\"… Kennt man noch nicht diesen Schiller? - Es giebt noch schlimmere \"und\"; ich habe mit meinen eigenen Ohren, allerdings nur unter Universitäts-Professoren, gehört \"Schopenhauer und Hartmann\"\n\n[17] Die geistigsten Menschen, vorausgesetzt, dass sie die muthigsten sind, erleben auch bei weitem die schmerzhaftesten Tragödien: aber eben deshalb ehren sie das Leben, weil es ihnen seine grösste Gegnerschaft entgegenstellt.\n\n[18] Zum \"intellektuellen Gewissen\". - Nichts scheint mir heute seltner als die echte Heuchelei. Mein Verdacht ist gross, dass diesem Gewächs die sanfte Luft unsrer Cultur nicht zuträglich ist. Die Heuchelei gehört in die Zeitalter des starken Glaubens: wo man selbst nicht bei der Nöthigung, einen andern Glauben zur Schau zu tragen, von dem Glauben losliess, den man hatte. Heute lässt man ihn los; oder, was noch gewöhnlicher, man legt sich noch einen zweiten Glauben zu, - ehrlich bleibt man in jedem Falle. Ohne Zweifel ist heute eine sehr viel grössere Anzahl von Überzeugungen möglich als ehemals: möglich, das heisst erlaubt, das heisst unschädlich. Daraus entsteht die Toleranz gegen sich selbst. - Die Toleranz gegen sich selbst gestattet mehrere Überzeugungen: diese selbst leben verträglich beisammen, - sie hüten sich, wie alle Welt heute, sich zu compromittiren. Womit compromittirt man sich heute? Wenn man Consequenz hat. Wenn man in gerader Linie geht. Wenn man weniger als fünfdeutig ist. Wenn man echt ist… Meine Furcht ist gross, dass der moderne Mensch für einige Laster einfach zu bequem ist: so dass diese geradezu aussterben. Alles Böse, das vom starken Willen bedingt ist - und vielleicht giebt es nichts Böses ohne Willensstärke - entartet, in unsrer lauen Luft, zur Tugend… Die wenigen Heuchler, die ich kennen lernte, machten die Heuchelei nach: sie waren, wie heutzutage fast jeder zehnte Mensch, Schauspieler. -\n\n[19] Schön und hässlich. - Nichts ist bedingter, sagen wir beschränkter, als unser Gefühl des Schönen. Wer es losgelöst von der Lust des Menschen am Menschen denken wollte, verlöre sofort Grund und Boden unter den Füssen. Das \"Schöne an sich\" ist bloss ein Wort, nicht einmal ein Begriff. Im Schönen setzt sich der Mensch als Maass der Vollkommenheit; in. ausgesuchten Fällen betet er sich darin an. Eine Gattung kann gar nicht anders als dergestalt zu sich allein ja sagen. Ihr unterster Instinkt, der der Selbsterhaltung und Selbsterweiterung, strahlt noch in solchen Sublimitäten aus. Der Mensch glaubt die Welt selbst mit Schönheit überhäuft, - er vergisst sich als deren Ursache. Er allein hat sie mit Schönheit beschenkt, ach! nur mit einer sehr menschlich-allzumenschlichen Schönheit…. Im Grunde spiegelt sich der Mensch in den Dingen, er hält Alles für schön, was ihm sein Bild zurückwirft: das Urtheil \"schön\" ist seine Gattungs-Eitelkeit…. Dem Skeptiker nämlich darf ein kleiner Argwohn die Frage in's Ohr flüstern: ist wirklich damit die Welt verschönt, dass gerade der Mensch sie für schön nimmt? Er hat sie vermenschlicht: das ist Alles. Aber Nichts, gar Nichts verbürgt uns, dass gerade der Mensch das Modell des Schönen abgäbe. Wer weiss, wie er sich in den Augen eines höheren Geschmacksrichters ausnimmt? Vielleicht gewagt? vielleicht selbst erheiternd? vielleicht ein wenig arbiträr?… \"Oh Dionysos, Göttlicher, warum ziehst du mich an den Ohren?\" fragte Ariadne einmal bei einem jener berühmten Zwiegespräche auf Naxos ihren philosophischen Liebhaber. \"Ich finde eine Art Humor in deinen Ohren, Ariadne: warum sind sie nicht noch länger?\"\n\n[20] Nichts ist schön, nur der Mensch ist schön: auf dieser Naivetät ruht alle Ästhetik, sie ist deren erste Wahrheit. Fügen wir sofort noch deren zweite hinzu: Nichts ist hässlich als der entartende Mensch, - damit ist das Reich des ästhetischen Urtheils umgrenzt. - Physiologisch nachgerechnet, schwächt und betrübt alles Hässliche den Menschen. Es erinnert ihn an Verfall, Gefahr, Ohnmacht; er büsst thatsächlich dabei Kraft ein. Man kann die Wirkung des Hässlichen mit dem Dynamometer messen. Wo der Mensch überhaupt niedergedrückt wird, da wittert er die Nähe von etwas \"Hässlichem\". Sein Gefühl der Macht, sein Wille zur Macht, sein Muth, sein Stolz - das fällt mit dem Hässlichen, das steigt mit dem Schönen… Im einen wie im andern Falle machen wir einen Schluss: die Prämissen dazu sind in ungeheurer Fülle im Instinkte aufgehäuft. Das Hässliche wird verstanden als ein Wink und Symptom der Degenerescenz: was im Entferntesten an Degenerescenz erinnert, das wirkt in uns das Urtheil \"hässlich\". Jedes Anzeichen von Erschöpfung, von Schwere, von Alter, von Müdigkeit, jede Art Unfreiheit, als Krampf, als Lähmung, vor Allem der Geruch, die Farbe, die Form der Auflösung, der Verwesung, und sei es auch in der letzten Verdünnung zum Symbol - das Alles ruft die gleiche Reaktion hervor, das Werthurtheil \"hässlich\". Ein Hass springt da hervor: wen hasst da der Mensch? Aber es ist kein Zweifel: den Niedergang seines Typus. Er hasst da aus dem tiefsten Instinkte der Gattung heraus; in diesem Hass ist Schauder, Vorsicht, Tiefe, Fernblick, - es ist der tiefste Hass, den es giebt. Um seinetwillen ist die Kunst tief…\n\n[21] Schopenhauer. Schopenhauer, der letzte Deutsche, der in Betracht kommt (der ein europäisches Ereigniss gleich Goethe, gleich Hegel, gleich Heinrich Heine ist, und nicht bloss ein lokales, ein \"nationales\"), ist für einen Psychologen ein Fall ersten Ranges: nämlich als bösartig genialer Versuch, zu Gunsten einer nihilistischen Gesammt-Abwerthung des Lebens gerade die Gegen-Instanzen, die grossen Selbstbejahungen des \"Willens zum Leben\", die Exuberanz-Formen des Lebens in's Feld zu führen. Er hat, der Reihe nach, die Kunst, den Heroismus, das Genie, die Schönheit, das grosse Mitgefühl, die Erkenntniss, den Willen zur Wahrheit, die Tragödie als Folgeerscheinungen der \"Verneinung\" oder der Verneinungs-Bedürftigkeit des \"Willens\" interpretirt - die grösste psychologische Falschmünzerei, die es, das Christenthum abgerechnet, in der Geschichte giebt. Genauer zugesehn ist er darin bloss der Erbe der christlichen Interpretation: nur dass er auch das vom Christenthum Abgelehnte, die grossen Cultur-Thatsachen der Menschheit noch in einem christlichen, das heisst nihilistischen Sinne gut zu heissen wusste (- nämlich als Wege zur \"Erlösung\", als Vorformen der \"Erlösung\", als Stimulantia des Bedürfnisses nach \"Erlösung\"… )\n\n[22] Ich nehme einen einzelnen Fall. Schopenhauer spricht von der Schönheit mit einer schwermüthigen Gluth, - warum letzten Grundes? Weil er in ihr eine Brücke sieht, auf der man weiter gelangt, oder Durst bekommt, weiter zu gelangen… Sie ist ihm die Erlösung vom \"Willen\" auf Augenblicke - sie lockt zur Erlösung für immer… Insbesondere preist er sie als Erlöserin vom \"Brennpunkte des Willens\", von der Geschlechtlichkeit, - in der Schönheit sieht er den Zeugetrieb verneint… Wunderlicher Heiliger! Irgend Jemand widerspricht dir, ich fürchte, es ist die Natur. Wozu giebt es überhaupt Schönheit in Ton, Farbe, Duft, rhythmischer Bewegung in der Natur? Was treibt die Schönheit heraus?- Glücklicherweise widerspricht ihm auch ein Philosoph. Keine geringere Autorität als die des göttlichen Plato (- so nennt ihn Schopenhauer selbst) hält einen andern Satz aufrecht: dass alle Schönheit zur Zeugung reize, - dass dies gerade das proprium ihrer Wirkung sei, vom Sinnlichsten bis hinauf in's Geistigste…\n\n[23] Plato geht weiter. Er sagt mit einer Unschuld, zu der man Grieche sein muss und nicht \"Christ\", dass es gar keine platonische Philosophie geben würde, wenn es nicht so schöne Jünglinge in Athen gäbe: deren Anblick sei es erst, was die Seele des Philosophen in einen erotischen Taumel versetze und ihr keine Ruhe lasse, bis sie den Samen aller hohen Dinge in ein so schönes Erdreich hinabgesenkt habe. Auch ein wunderlicher Heiliger! - man traut seinen Ohren nicht, gesetzt selbst, dass man Plato traut. Zum Mindesten erräth man, dass in Athen anders philosophirt wurde, vor Allem öffentlich. Nichts ist weniger griechisch als die Begriffs-Spinneweberei eines Einsiedlers, amor intellectualis dei nach Art des Spinoza. Philosophie nach Art des Plato wäre eher als ein erotischer Wettbewerb zu definiren, als eine Fortbildung und Verinnerlichung der alten agonalen Gymnastik und deren Voraussetzungen… Was wuchs zuletzt aus dieser philosophischen Erotik Plato's heraus? Eine neue Kunstform des griechischen Agon, die Dialektik. - Ich erinnere noch, gegen Schopenhauer und zu Ehren Plato's, daran, dass auch die ganze höhere Cultur und Litteratur des klassischen Frankreichs auf dem Boden des geschlechtlichen Interesses aufgewachsen ist. Man darf überall bei ihr die Galanterie, die Sinne, den Geschlechts-Wettbewerb, das \"Weib\" suchen, - man wird nie umsonst suchen…\n\n[24] L'art pour l'art. - Der Kampf gegen den Zweck in der Kunst ist immer der Kampf gegen die moralisirende Tendenz in der Kunst, gegen ihre Unterordnung unter die Moral. L'art pour l'art heisst: \"der Teufel hole die Moral!\" - Aber selbst noch diese Feindschaft verräth die Übergewalt des Vorurtheils. Wenn man den Zweck des Moralpredigens und Menschen-Verbesserns von der Kunst ausgeschlossen hat, so folgt daraus noch lange nicht, dass die Kunst überhaupt zwecklos, ziellos, sinnlos, kurz l'art pour l'art - ein Wurm, der sich in den Schwanz beisst - ist. \"Lieber gar keinen Zweck als einen moralischen Zweck!\" - so redet die blosse Leidenschaft. Ein Psycholog fragt dagegen: was thut alle Kunst? lobt sie nicht? verherrlicht sie nicht? wählt sie nicht aus? zieht sie nicht hervor? Mit dem Allen stärkt oder schwächt sie gewisse Werthschätzungen… Ist dies nur ein Nebenbei? ein Zufall? Etwas, bei dem der Instinkt des Künstlers gar nicht betheiligt wäre? Oder aber: ist es nicht die Voraussetzung dazu, dass der Künstler kann…? Geht dessen unterster Instinkt auf die Kunst oder nicht vielmehr auf den Sinn der Kunst, das Leben? auf eine Wünschbarkeit von Leben?- Die Kunst ist das grosse Stimulans zum Leben: wie könnte man sie als zwecklos, als ziellos, als l'art pour l'art verstehn? - Eine Frage bleibt zurück: die Kunst bringt auch vieles Hässliche, Harte, Fragwürdige des Lebens zur Erscheinung, - scheint sie nicht damit vom Leben zu entleiden? - Und in der That, es gab Philosophen, die ihr diesen Sinn liehn: \"loskommen vom Willen\" lehrte Schopenhauer als Gesammt-Absicht der Kunst, \"zur Resignation stimmen\" verehrte er als die grosse Nützlichkeit der Tragödie. - Aber dies - ich gab es schon zu verstehn - ist Pessimisten-Optik und \"böser Blick\" -: man muss an die Künstler selbst appelliren. Was theilt der tragische Künstler von sich mit? Ist es nicht gerade der Zustand ohne Furcht vor dem Furchtbaren und Fragwürdigen, das er zeigt? - Dieser Zustand selbst ist eine hohe Wünschbarkeit; wer ihn kennt, ehrt ihn mit den höchsten Ehren. Er theilt ihn mit, er muss ihn mittheilen, vorausgesetzt, dass er ein Künstler ist, ein Genie der Mittheilung. Die Tapferkeit und Freiheit des Gefühls vor einem mächtigen Feinde, vor einem erhabenen Ungemach, vor einem Problem, das Grauen erweckt - dieser siegreiche Zustand ist es, den der tragische Künstler auswählt, den er verherrlicht. Vor der Tragödie feiert das Kriegerische in unserer Seele seine Saturnalien; wer Leid gewohnt ist, wer Leid aufsucht, der heroische Mensch preist mit der Tragödie sein Dasein, - ihm allein kredenzt der Tragiker den Trunk dieser süssesten Grausamkeit. -\n\n[25] Mit Menschen fürlieb nehmen, mit seinem Herzen offen Haus halten, das ist liberal, das ist aber bloss liberal. Man erkennt die Herzen, die der vornehmen Gastfreundschaft fähig sind, an den vielen verhängten Fenstern und geschlossenen Läden: ihre besten Räume halten sie leer. Warum doch? - Weil sie Gäste erwarten, mit denen man nicht \"fürlieb nimmt\"\n\n[26] Wir schätzen uns nicht genug mehr, wenn wir uns mittheilen. Unsre eigentlichen Erlebnisse sind ganz und gar nicht geschwätzig. Sie könnten sich selbst nicht mittheilen, wenn sie wollten. Das macht, es fehlt ihnen das Wort. Wofür wir Worte haben, darüber sind wir auch schon hinaus. In allem Reden liegt ein Gran Verachtung. Die Sprache, scheint es, ist nur für Durchschnittliches, Mittleres, Mittheilsames erfunden. Mit der Sprache vulgarisirt sich bereits der Sprechende. - Aus einer Moral für Taubstumme und andere Philosophen.\n\n[27] \"Dies Bildniss ist bezaubernd schön!\"… Das Litteratur-Weib, unbefriedigt, aufgeregt, öde in Herz und Eingeweide, mit schmerzhafter Neugierde jederzeit auf den Imperativ hinhorchend, der aus den Tiefen seiner Organisation \"aut liberi aut libri\" flüstert: das Litteratur-Weib, gebildet genug, die Stimme der Natur zu verstehn, selbst wenn sie Latein redet und andrerseits eitel und Gans genug, um im Geheimen auch noch französisch mit sich zu sprechen \"je me verrai, je me lirai, je m'extasierai et je dirai: Possible, que j'aie eu tant d'esprit?\"\n\n[28] Die \"Unpersönlichen\" kommen zu Wort. - \"Nichts fällt uns leichter, als weise, geduldig, überlegen zu sein. Wir triefen vom Öl der Nachsicht und des Mitgefühls, wir sind auf eine absurde Weise gerecht, wir verzeihen Alles. Eben darum sollten wir uns etwas strenger halten; eben darum sollten wir uns, von Zeit zu Zeit, einen kleinen Affekt, ein kleines Laster von Affect züchten. Es mag uns sauer angehn; und unter uns lachen wir vielleicht über den Aspekt, den wir damit geben. Aber was hilft es! Wir haben keine andre Art mehr übrig von Selbstüberwindung: dies ist unsre Asketik, unser Büsserthum\"… Persönlich werden - die Tugend des \"Unpersönlichen\"…\n\n[29] Aus einer Doctor-Promotion. - \"Was ist die Aufgabe alles höheren Schulwesens?\" - Aus dem Menschen eine Maschine zu machen. - \"Was ist das Mittel dazu?\" - Er muss lernen, sich langweilen. - \"Wie erreicht man das?\" - Durch den Begriff der Pflicht. - \"Wer ist sein Vorbild dafür?\" - Der Philolog: der lehrt ochsen. - \"Wer ist der vollkommene Mensch?\" - Der Staats-Beamte. - \"Welche Philosophie giebt die höchste Formel für den Staats-Beamten?\" - Die Kant's: der Staats-Beamte als Ding an sich zum Richter gesetzt über den Staats-Beamten als Erscheinung. -\n\n[30] Das Recht auf Dummheit. - Der ermüdete und langsam athmende Arbeiter, der gutmüthig blickt, der die Dinge gehen lässt, wie sie gehn: diese typische Figur, der man jetzt, im Zeitalter der Arbeit (und des \"Reichs\"! -) in allen Klassen der Gesellschaft begegnet, nimmt heute gerade die Kunst für sich in Anspruch, eingerechnet das Buch, vor Allem das Journal, - um wie viel mehr die schöne Natur, Italien… Der Mensch des Abends, mit den \"entschlafenen wilden Trieben\", von denen Faust redet, bedarf der Sommerfrische, des Seebads, der Gletscher, Bayreuth's… In solchen Zeitaltern hat die Kunst ein Recht auf reine Thorheit, - als eine Art Ferien für Geist, Witz und Gemüth. Das verstand Wagner. Die reine Thorheit stellt wieder her…\n\n[31] Noch ein Problem der Diät. - Die Mittel, mit denen Julius Cäsar sich gegen Kränklichkeiten und Kopfschmerz vertheidigte: ungeheure Märsche, einfachste Lebensweise, ununterbrochner Aufenthalt im Freien, beständige Strapazen - das sind, in's Grosse gerechnet, die Erhaltungs- und Schutz-Maassregeln überhaupt gegen die extreme Verletzlichkeit jener subtilen und unter höchstem Druck arbeitenden Maschine, welche Genie heisst. -\n\n[32] Der Immoralist redet. - Einem Philosophen geht Nichts mehr wider den Geschmack als der Mensch, sofern er wünscht… Sieht er den Menschen nur in seinem Thun, sieht er dieses tapferste, listigste, ausdauerndste Thier verirrt selbst in labyrinthische Nothlagen, wie bewunderungswürdig erscheint ihm der Mensch! Er spricht ihm noch zu… Aber der Philosoph verachtet den wünschenden Menschen, auch den \"wünschbaren\" Menschen - und überhaupt alle Wünschbarkeiten, alle Ideale des Menschen. Wenn ein Philosoph Nihilist sein könnte, so würde er es sein, weil er das Nichts hinter allen Idealen des Menschen findet. Oder noch nicht einmal das Nichts, - sondern nur das Nichtswürdige, das Absurde, das Kranke, das Feige, das Müde, alle Art Hefen aus dem ausgetrunkenen Becher seines Lebens… Der Mensch, der als Realität so verehrungswürdig ist, wie kommt es, dass er keine Achtung verdient, sofern er wünscht? Muss er es büssen, so tüchtig als Realität zu sein? Muss er sein Thun, die Kopf- und Willensanspannung in allem Thun, mit einem Gliederstrecken im Imaginären und Absurden ausgleichen? - Die Geschichte seiner Wünschbarkeiten war bisher die partie honteuse des Menschen: man soll sich hüten, zu lange in ihr zu lesen. Was den Menschen rechtfertigt, ist seine Realität, - sie wird ihn ewig rechtfertigen. Um wie viel mehr werth ist der wirkliche Mensch, verglichen mit irgend einem bloss gewünschten, erträumten, erstunkenen und erlogenen Menschen? mit irgend einem idealen Menschen?… Und nur der ideale Mensch geht dem Philosophen wider den Geschmack.\n\n[33] Naturwerth des Egoismus. - Die Selbstsucht ist so viel werth, als Der physiologisch werth ist, der sie hat: sie kann sehr viel werth sein, sie kann nichtswürdig und verächtlich sein. Jeder Einzelne darf darauf hin angesehen werden, ob er die aufsteigende oder die absteigende Linie des Lebens darstellt. Mit einer Entscheidung darüber hat man auch einen Kanon dafür, was seine Selbstsucht werth ist. Stellt er das Aufsteigen der Linie dar, so ist in der That sein Werth ausserordentlich, - und um des Gesammt-Lebens willen, das mit ihm einen Schritt weiter thut, darf die Sorge um Erhaltung, um Schaffung seines optimum von Bedingungen selbst extrem sein. Der Einzelne, das \"Individuum\", wie Volk und Philosoph das bisher verstand, ist ja ein Irrthum: er ist nichts für sich, kein Atom, kein \"Ring der Kette\", nichts bloss Vererbtes von Ehedem, - er ist die ganze Eine Linie Mensch bis zu ihm hin selber noch… Stellt er die absteigende Entwicklung, den Verfall, die chronische Entartung, Erkrankung dar (- Krankheiten sind, in's Grosse gerechnet, bereits Folgeerscheinungen des Verfalls, nicht dessen Ursachen), so kommt ihm wenig Werth zu, und die erste Billigkeit will, dass er den Wohlgerathenen so wenig als möglich wegnimmt. Er ist bloss noch deren Parasit…\n\n[34] Christ und Anarchist. - Wenn der Anarchist, als Mundstück niedergehender Schichten der Gesellschaft, mit einer schönen Entrüstung \"Recht\", \"Gerechtigkeit\", \"gleiche Rechte\" verlangt, so steht er damit nur unter dem Drucke seiner Unkultur, welche nicht zu begreifen weiss, warum er eigentlich leidet, - woran er arm ist, an Leben… Ein Ursachen-Trieb ist in ihm mächtig: Jemand muss schuld daran sein, dass er sich schlecht befindet… Auch thut ihm die \"schöne Entrüstung\" selber schon wohl, es ist ein Vergnügen für alle armen Teufel, zu schimpfen, - es giebt einen kleinen Rausch von Macht. Schon die Klage, das Sich-Beklagen, kann dem Leben einen Reiz geben, um dessentwillen man es aushält: eine feinere Dosis Rache ist in jeder Klage, man wirft sein Schlechtbefinden, unter Umständen selbst seine Schlechtigkeit Denen, die anders sind, wie ein Unrecht, wie ein unerlaubtes Vorrecht vor. \"Bin ich eine canaille, so solltest du es auch sein\": auf diese Logik hin macht man Revolution. - Das Sich-Beklagen taugt in keinem Falle etwas: es stammt aus der Schwäche. Ob man sein Schlecht-Befinden Andern oder sich selber zu misst -. Ersteres thut der Socialist, Letzteres zum Beispiel der Christ -, macht keinen eigentlichen Unterschied. Das Gemeinsame, sagen wir auch das Unwürdige daran ist, dass jemand schuld daran sein soll, dass man leidet - kurz, dass der Leidende sich gegen sein Leiden den Honig der Rache verordnet. Die Objekte dieses Rach-Bedürfnisses als eines Lust-Bedürfnisses sind Gelegenheits-Ursachen: der Leidende findet überall Ursachen, seine kleine Rache zu kühlen, - ist er Christ, nochmals gesagt, so findet er sie in sich… Der Christ und der Anarchist - Beide sind décadents. - Aber auch wenn der Christ die \"Welt\" verurtheilt, verleumdet, beschmutzt, so thut er es aus dem gleichen Instinkte, aus dem der socialistische Arbeiter die Gesellschaft verurtheilt, verleumdet, beschmutzt: das \"jüngste Gericht\" selbst ist noch der süsse Trost der Rache - die Revolution, wie sie auch der socialistische Arbeiter erwartet, nur etwas ferner gedacht… Das \"Jenseits\" selbst - wozu ein Jenseits, wenn es nicht ein Mittel wäre, das Diesseits zu beschmutzen?…\n\n[35] Kritik der Décadence-Moral. Eine \"altruistische\" Moral, eine Moral, bei der die Selbstsucht verkümmert -, bleibt unter allen Umständen ein schlechtes Anzeichen. Dies gilt vom Einzelnen, dies gilt namentlich von Völkern. Es fehlt am Besten, wenn es an der Selbstsucht zu fehlen beginnt. Instinktiv das Sich-Schädliche wählen, Gelockt-werden durch \"uninteressirte\" Motive giebt beinahe die Formel ab für décadence. \"Nicht seinen Nutzen suchen\" - das ist bloss das moralische Feigenblatt für eine ganz andere, nämlich physiologische Thatsächlichkeit: \"ich weiss meinen Nutzen nicht mehr zu finden\" Disgregation der Instinkte! - Es ist zu Ende mit ihm, wenn der Mensch altruistisch wird. - Statt naiv zu sagen, \"ich bin nichts mehr werth\", sagt die Moral Lüge im Munde des décadent: \"Nichts ist etwas werth, - das Leben ist nichts werth\"… Ein solches Urtheil bleibt zuletzt eine grosse Gefahr, es wirkt ansteckend, - auf dem ganzen morbiden Boden der Gesellschaft wuchert es bald zu tropischer Begriffs-Vegetation empor, bald als Religion (Christenthum), bald als Philosophie (Schopenhauerei). Unter Umständen vergiftet eine solche aus Fäulniss gewachsene Giftbaum-Vegetation mit ihrem Dunste weithin, auf Jahrtausende hin das Leben…\n\n[36] Moral für Ärzte. - Der Kranke ist ein Parasit der Gesellschaft. In einem gewissen Zustande ist es unanständig, noch länger zu leben. Das Fortvegetiren in feiger Abhängigkeit von Ärzten und Praktiken, nachdem der Sinn vom Leben, das Recht zum Leben verloren gegangen ist, sollte bei der Gesellschaft eine tiefe Verachtung nach sich ziehn. Die Ärzte wiederum hätten die Vermittler dieser Verachtung zu sein, - nicht Recepte, sondern jeden Tag eine neue Dosis Ekel vor ihrem Patienten… Eine neue Verantwortlichkeit schaffen, die des Arztes, für alle Fälle, wo das höchste Interesse des Lebens, des aufsteigenden Lebens, das rücksichtsloseste Nieder- und Beiseite-Drängen des entartenden Lebens verlangt - zum Beispiel für das Recht auf Zeugung, für das Recht, geboren zu werden, für das Recht, zu leben… Auf eine stolze Art sterben, wenn es nicht mehr möglich ist, auf eine stolze Art zu leben. Der Tod, aus freien Stücken gewählt, der Tod zur rechten Zeit, mit Helle und Freudigkeit, inmitten von Kindern und Zeugen vollzogen: so dass ein wirkliches Abschiednehmen noch möglich ist, wo Der noch da ist, der sich verabschiedet, insgleichen ein wirkliches Abschätzen des Erreichten und Gewollten, eine Summirung des Lebens - Alles im Gegensatz zu der erbärmlichen und schauderhaften Komödie, die das Christenthum mit der Sterbestunde getrieben hat. Man soll es dem Christenthume nie vergessen, dass es die Schwäche des Sterbenden zu Gewissens-Nothzucht, dass es die Art des Todes selbst zu Werth-Urtheilen über Mensch und Vergangenheit gemissbraucht hat! - Hier gilt es, allen Feigheiten des Vorurtheils zum Trotz, vor Allem die richtige, das heisst physiologische Würdigung des sogenannten natürlichen Todes herzustellen: der zuletzt auch nur ein \"unnatürlicher\", ein Selbstmord ist. Man geht nie durch jemand Anderes zu Grunde, als durch sich selbst. Nur ist es der Tod unter den verächtlichsten Bedingungen, ein unfreier Tod, ein Tod zur unrechten Zeit, ein Feiglings Tod. Man sollte, aus Liebe zum Leben -, den Tod anders wollen, frei, bewusst, ohne Zufall, ohne Überfall… Endlich ein Rath für die Herrn Pessimisten und andere décadents. Wir haben es nicht in der Hand, zu verhindern, geboren zu werden: aber wir können diesen Fehler - denn bisweilen ist es ein Fehler - wieder gut machen. Wenn man sich abschafft, thut man die achtungswürdigste Sache, die es giebt: man verdient beinahe damit, zu leben… Die Gesellschaft, was sage ich! Das Leben selber hat mehr Vortheil davon, als durch irgend welches \"Leben\" in Entsagung, Bleichsucht und andrer Tugend -, man hat die Andern von seinem Anblick befreit, man hat das Leben von einem Einwand befreit… Der Pessimismus, pur, vert, beweist sich erst durch die Selbst-Widerlegung der Herrn Pessimisten: man muss einen Schritt weiter gehn in seiner Logik, nicht bloss mit \"Wille und Vorstellung\", wie Schopenhauer es that, das Leben verneinen -, man muss Schopenhauern zuerst verneinen… Der Pessimismus, anbei gesagt, so ansteckend er ist, vermehrt trotzdem nicht die Krankhaftigkeit einer Zeit, eines Geschlechts im Ganzen: er ist deren Ausdruck. Man verfällt ihm, wie man der Cholera verfällt: man muss morbid genug dazu schon angelegt sein. Der Pessimismus selbst macht keinen einzigen décadent mehr; ich erinnere an das Ergebniss der Statistik, dass die Jahre, in denen die Cholera wüthet, sich in der Gesammt-Ziffer der Sterbefälle nicht von andern Jahrgängen unterscheiden.\n\n[37] Ob wir moralischer geworden sind. - Gegen meinen Begriff \"jenseits von Gut und Böse\" hat sich, wie zu erwarten stand, die ganze Ferocität der moralischen Verdummung, die bekanntlich in Deutschland als die Moral selber gilt -, in's Zeug geworfen: ich hätte artige Geschichten davon zu erzählen. Vor Allem gab man mir die \"unleugbare Überlegenheit\" unsrer Zeit im sittlichen Urtheil zu überdenken, unsern wirklich hier gemachten Fortschritt: ein Cesare Borgia sei, im Vergleich mit uns, durchaus nicht als ein \"höherer Mensch\", als eine Art Übermensch, wie ich es thue, aufzustellen… Ein Schweizer Redakteur, vom \"Bund\", gieng so weit, nicht ohne seine Achtung vor dem Muth zu solchem Wagniss auszudrücken, den Sinn meines Werks dahin zu \"verstehn\", dass ich mit demselben die Abschaffung aller anständigen Gefühle beantragte. Sehr verbunden! - Ich erlaube mir, als Antwort, die Frage aufzuwerfen, ob wir wirklich moralischer geworden sind. Dass alle Welt das glaubt, ist bereits ein Einwand dagegen… Wir modernen Menschen, sehr zart, sehr verletzlich und hundert Rücksichten gebend und nehmend, bilden uns in der That ein, diese zärtliche Menschlichkeit, die wir darstellen, diese erreichte Einmüthigkeit in der Schonung, in der Hülfsbereitschaft, im gegenseitigen Vertrauen sei ein positiver Fortschritt, damit seien wir weit über die Menschen der Renaissance hinaus. Aber so denkt jede Zeit, so muss sie denken. Gewiss ist, dass wir uns nicht in Renaissance-Zustände hineinstellen dürften, nicht einmal hineindenken: unsre Nerven hielten jene Wirklichkeit nicht aus, nicht zu reden von unsern Muskeln. Mit diesem Unvermögen ist aber kein Fortschritt bewiesen, sondern nur eine andre, eine spätere Beschaffenheit, eine schwächere, zärtlichere, verletzlichere, aus der sich nothwendig eine rücksichtenreiche Moral erzeugt. Denken wir unsre Zartheit und Spätheit, unsre physiologische Alterung weg, so verlöre auch unsre Moral der \"Vermenschlichung\" sofort ihren Werth - an sich hat keine Moral Werth -: sie würde uns selbst Geringschätzung machen. Zweifeln wir andrerseits nicht daran, dass wir Modernen mit unsrer dick wattirten Humanität, die durchaus an keinen Stein sich stossen Will, den Zeitgenossen Cesare Borgia's eine Komödie zum Todtlachen abgeben würden. In der That, wir sind über die Maassen unfreiwillig spasshaft, mit unsren modernen \"Tugenden\"… Die Abnahme der feindseligen und misstrauenweckenden Instinkte - und das wäre ja unser \"Fortschritt\" - stellt nur eine der Folgen in der allgemeinen Abnahme der Vitalität dar: es kostet hundert Mal mehr Mühe, mehr Vorsicht, ein so bedingtes, so spätes Dasein durchzusetzen. Da hilft man sich gegenseitig, da ist Jeder bis zu einem gewissen Grade Kranker und Jeder Krankenwärter. Das heisst dann \"Tugend\" -: unter Menschen, die das Leben noch anders kannten, voller, verschwenderischer, überströmender, hätte man's anders genannt, \"Feigheit\" vielleicht, \"Erbärmlichkeit\", \"Altweiber-Moral\"… Unsre Milderung der Sitten - das ist mein Satz, das ist, wenn man will, meine Neuerung - ist eine Folge des Niedergangs; die Härte und Schrecklichkeit der Sitte kann umgekehrt eine Folge des Überschusses von Leben sein: dann nämlich darf auch Viel gewagt, Viel herausgefordert, Viel auch vergeudet werden. Was Würze ehedem des Lebens war, für uns wäre es Gift… Indifferent zu sein - auch das ist eine Form der Stärke - dazu sind wir gleichfalls zu alt, zu spät: unsre Mitgefühls-Moral, vor der ich als der Erste gewarnt habe, Das, was man l'impressionisme morale nennen könnte, ist ein Ausdruck mehr der physiologischen Überreizbarkeit, die Allem, was décadent ist, eignet. Jene Bewegung, die mit der Mitleids-Moral Schopenhauer's versucht hat, sich wissenschaftlich vorzuführen - ein sehr unglücklicher Versuch! - ist die eigentliche décadence-Bewegung in der Moral, sie ist als solche tief verwandt mit der christlichen Moral. Die starken Zeiten, die vornehmen Culturen sehen im Mitleiden, in der \"Nächstenliebe\", im Mangel an Selbst und Selbstgefühl etwas Verächtliches. - Die Zeiten sind zu messen nach ihren positiven Kräften - und dabei ergiebt sich jene so verschwenderische und verhängnissreiche Zeit der Renaissance als die letzte grosse Zeit, und wir, wir Modernen mit unsrer ängstlichen Selbst-Fürsorge und Nächstenliebe, mit unsren Tugenden der Arbeit, der Anspruchslosigkeit, der Rechtlichkeit, der Wissenschaftlichkeit - sammelnd, ökonomisch, machinal - als eine schwache Zeit… Unsre Tugenden sind bedingt, sind herausgefordert durch unsre Schwäche… Die \"Gleichheit\", eine gewisse thatsächliche Anähnlichung, die sich in der Theorie von \"gleichen Rechten\" nur zum Ausdruck bringt, gehört wesentlich zum Niedergang: die Kluft zwischen Mensch und Mensch, Stand und Stand, die Vielheit der Typen, der Wille, selbst zu sein, sich abzuheben, Das, was ich Pathos der Distanz nenne, ist jeder starken Zeit zu eigen. Die Spannkraft, die Spannweite zwischen den Extremen wird heute immer kleiner, - die Extreme selbst verwischen sich endlich bis zur Ähnlichkeit… Alle unsre politischen Theorien und Staats-Verfassungen, das \"deutsche Reich\" durchaus nicht ausgenommen, sind Folgerungen, Folge-Nothwendigkeiten des Niedergangs; die unbewusste Wirkung der décadence ist bis in die Ideale einzelner Wissenschaften hinein Herr geworden. Mein Einwand gegen die ganze Sociologie in England und Frankreich bleibt, dass sie nur die Verfalls-Gebilde der Societät aus Erfahrung kennt und vollkommen unschuldig die eigenen Verfalls-Instinkte als Norm des sociologischen Werthurteils nimmt. Das niedergehende Leben, die Abnahme aller organisirenden, das heisst trennenden, Klüfte aufreissenden, unter- und überordnenden Kraft formulirt sich in der Sociologie von heute zum Ideal… Unsre Socialisten sind décadents, aber auch Herr Herbert Spencer ist ein décadent, - er sieht im Sieg des Altruismus etwas Wünschenswerthes!…\n\n[38] Mein Begriff von Freiheit. - Der Werth einer Sache liegt mitunter nicht in dem, was man mit ihr erreicht, sondern in dem, was man für sie bezahlt, - was sie uns kostet. Ich gebe ein Beispiel. Die liberalen Institutionen hören alsbald auf, liberal zu sein, sobald sie erreicht sind: es giebt später keine ärgeren und gründlicheren Schädiger der Freiheit, als liberale Institutionen. Man weiss ja, was sie zu Wege bringen: sie unterminiren den Willen zur Macht, sie sind die zur Moral erhobene Nivellirung von Berg und Tal, sie machen klein, feige und genüsslich, - mit ihnen triumphirt jedesmal das Heerdenthier. Liberalismus: auf deutsch Heerden-Verthierung… Dieselben Institutionen bringen, so lange sie noch erkämpft werden, ganz andere Wirkungen hervor; sie fördern dann in der That die Freiheit auf eine mächtige Weise. Genauer zugesehn, ist es der Krieg, der diese Wirkungen hervorbringt, der Krieg um liberale Institutionen, der als Krieg die illiberalen Instinkte dauern lässt. Und der Krieg erzieht zur Freiheit. Denn was ist Freiheit! Dass man den Willen zur Selbstverantwortlichkeit hat. Dass man die Distanz, die uns abtrennt, festhält. Dass man gegen Mühsal, Härte, Entbehrung, selbst gegen das Leben gleichgültiger wird. Dass man bereit ist, seiner Sache Menschen zu opfern, sich selber nicht abgerechnet. Freiheit bedeutet, dass die männlichen, die kriegs- und siegsfrohen Instinkte die Herrschaft haben über andre Instinkte, zum Beispiel über die des \"Glücks\". Der freigewordne Mensch, um wie viel mehr der freigewordne Geist, tritt mit Füssen auf die verächtliche Art von Wohlbefinden, von dem Krämer, Christen, Kühe, Weiber, Engländer und andre Demokraten träumen. Der freie Mensch ist Krieger. - Wonach misst sich die Freiheit, bei Einzelnen, wie bei Völkern? Nach dem Widerstand, der überwunden werden muss, nach der Mühe, die es kostet, oben zu bleiben. Den höchsten Typus freier Menschen hätte man dort zu suchen, wo beständig der höchste Widerstand überwunden wird: fünf Schritt weit von der Tyrannei, dicht an der Schwelle der Gefahr der Knechtschaft. Dies ist psychologisch wahr, wenn man hier unter den \"Tyrannen\" unerbittliche und furchtbare Instinkte begreift, die das Maximum von Autorität und Zucht gegen sich herausfordern - schönster Typus Julius Caesar -; dies ist auch politisch wahr, man mache nur seinen Gang durch die Geschichte. Die Völker, die Etwas werth waren, werth wurden, wurden dies nie unter liberalen Institutionen: die grosse Gefahr machte Etwas aus ihnen, das Ehrfurcht verdient, die Gefahr, die uns unsre Hülfsmittel, unsre Tugenden, unsre Wehr und Waffen, unsern Geist erst kennen lehrt, - die uns zwingt, stark zu sein… Erster Grundsatz: man muss es nöthig haben, stark zu sein: sonst wird man's nie. - Jene grossen Treibhäuser für starke, für die stärkste Art Mensch, die es bisher gegeben hat, die aristokratischen Gemeinwesen in der Art von Rom und Venedig verstanden Freiheit genau in dem Sinne, wie ich das Wort Freiheit verstehe: als Etwas, das man hat und nicht hat, das man will, das man erobert…\n\n[39] Kritik der Modernität. - Unsre Institutionen taugen nichts mehr: darüber ist man einmüthig. Aber das liegt nicht an ihnen, sondern an uns. Nachdem uns alle Instinkte abhanden gekommen sind, aus denen Institutionen wachsen, kommen uns Institutionen überhaupt abhanden, weil wir nicht mehr zu ihnen taugen. Demokratismus war jeder Zeit die Niedergangs-Form der organisirenden Kraft: ich habe schon in \"Menschliches, Allzumenschliches\" 1, 318 die moderne Demokratie sammt ihren Halbheiten, wie \"deutsches Reich\", als Verfallsform des Staats gekennzeichnet. Damit es Institutionen giebt, muss es eine Art Wille, Instinkt, Imperativ geben, antiliberal bis zur Bosheit: den Willen zur Tradition, zur Autorität, zur Verantwortlichkeit auf Jahrhunderte hinaus, zur Solidarität von Geschlechter-Ketten vorwärts und rückwärts in infinitum. Ist dieser Wille da, so gründet sich Etwas wie das imperium Romanum: oder wie Russland, die einzige Macht, die heute Dauer im Leibe hat, die warten kann, die Etwas noch versprechen kann, - Russland der Gegensatz-Begriff zu der erbärmlichen europäischen Kleinstaaterei und Nervosität, die mit der Gründung des deutschen Reichs in einen kritischen Zustand eingetreten ist… Der ganze Westen hat jene Instinkte nicht mehr, aus denen Institutionen wachsen, aus denen Zukunft wächst: seinem \"modernen Geiste\" geht vielleicht Nichts so sehr wider den Strich. Man lebt für heute, man lebt sehr geschwind, - man lebt sehr unverantwortlich: dies gerade nennt man \"Freiheit\". Was aus Institutionen Institutionen macht, wird verachtet, gehasst, abgelehnt: man glaubt sich in der Gefahr einer neuen Sklaverei, wo das Wort \"Autorität\" auch nur laut wird. So weit geht die décadence im Werth-Instinkte unsrer Politiker, unsrer politischen Parteien: sie ziehn instinktiv vor, was auflöst, was das Ende beschleunigt… Zeugniss die moderne Ehe. Aus der modernen Ehe ist ersichtlich alle Vernunft abhanden gekommen: das giebt aber keinen Einwand gegen die Ehe ab, sondern gegen die Modernität. Die Vernunft der Ehe - sie lag in der juristischen Alleinverantwortlichkeit des Mannes: damit hatte die Ehe Schwergewicht, während sie heute auf beiden Beinen hinkt. Die Vernunft der Ehe - sie lag in ihrer principiellen Unlösbarkeit: damit bekam sie einen Accent, der, dem Zufall von Gefühl, Leidenschaft und Augenblick gegenüber, sich Gehör zu schaffen wusste. Sie lag insgleichen in der Verantwortlichkeit der Familien für die Auswahl der Gatten. Man hat mit der wachsenden Indulgenz zu Gunsten der Liebes-Heirath geradezu die Grundlage der Ehe, Das, was erst aus ihr eine Institution macht, eliminirt. Man gründet eine Institution nie und nimmermehr auf eine Idiosynkrasie, man gründet die Ehe nicht, wie gesagt, auf die \"Liebe\", - man gründet sie auf den Geschlechtstrieb, auf den Eigenthumstrieb (Weib und Kind als Eigenthum), auf den Herrschafts-Trieb, der sich beständig das kleinste Gebilde der Herrschaft, die Familie, organisirt, der Kinder und Erben braucht, um ein erreichtes Maass von Macht, Einfluss, Reichthum auch physiologisch festzuhalten, um lange Aufgaben, um Instinkt-Solidarität zwischen Jahrhunderten vorzubereiten. Die Ehe als Institution begreift bereits die Bejahung der grössten, der dauerhaftesten Organisationsform in sich: wenn die Gesellschaft selbst nicht als Ganzes für sich gutsagen kann bis in die fernsten Geschlechter hinaus, so hat die Ehe überhaupt keinen Sinn. - Die moderne Ehe verlor ihren Sinn, - folglich schafft man sie ab. -\n\n[40] Die Arbeiter-Frage. - Die Dummheit, im Grunde die Instinkt-Entartung, welche heute die Ursache aller Dummheiten ist, liegt darin, dass es eine Arbeiter-Frage giebt. Über gewisse Dinge fragt man nicht: erster Imperativ des Instinktes. - Ich sehe durchaus nicht ab, was man mit dem europäischen Arbeiter machen will, nachdem man erst eine Frage aus ihm gemacht hat. Er befindet sich viel zu gut, um nicht Schritt für Schritt mehr zu fragen, unbescheidner zu fragen. Er hat zuletzt die grosse Zahl für sich. Die Hoffnung ist vollkommen vorüber, dass hier sich eine bescheidene und selbstgenügsame Art Mensch, ein Typus Chinese zum Stande herausbilde: und dies hätte Vernunft gehabt, dies wäre geradezu eine Nothwendigkeit gewesen. Was hat man gethan? - Alles, um auch die Voraussetzung dazu im Keime zu vernichten, - man hat die Instinkte, vermöge deren ein Arbeiter als Stand möglich, sich selber möglich wird, durch die unverantwortlichste Gedankenlosigkeit in Grund und Boden zerstört. Man hat den Arbeiter militärtüchtig gemacht, man hat ihm das Coalitions-Recht, das politische Stimmrecht gegeben: was Wunder, wenn der Arbeiter seine Existenz heute bereits als Nothstand (moralisch ausgedrückt als Unrecht -) empfindet? Aber was will man? nochmals gefragt. Will man einen Zweck, muss man auch die Mittel wollen: will man Sklaven, so ist man ein Narr, wenn man sie zu Herrn erzieht. -\n\n[41] \"Freiheit, die ich nicht meine…\" In solchen Zeiten, wie heute, seinen Instinkten überlassen sein, ist ein Verhängniss mehr. Diese Instinkte widersprechen, stören sich, zerstören sich unter einander; ich definirte das Moderne bereits als den physiologischen Selbst-Widerspruch. Die Vernunft der Erziehung würde wollen, dass unter einem eisernen Drucke wenigstens Eins dieser Instinkt-Systeme paralysirt würde, um einem andren zu erlauben, zu Kräften zu kommen, stark zu werden, Herr zu werden. Heute müsste man das Individuum erst möglich machen, indem man dasselbe beschneidet: möglich, das heisst ganz… Das Umgekehrte geschieht: der Anspruch auf Unabhängigkeit, auf freie Entwicklung, auf laisser aller wird gerade von Denen am hitzigsten gemacht, für die kein Zügel zu streng wäre - dies gilt in politicis, dies gilt in der Kunst. Aber das ist ein Symptom der décadence: unser moderner Begriff \"Freiheit\" ist ein Beweis von Instinkt-Entartung mehr. -\n\n[42] Wo Glaube noth thut. - Nichts ist seltner unter Moralisten und Heiligen als Rechtschaffenheit; vielleicht sagen sie das Gegentheil, vielleicht glauben sie es selbst. Wenn nämlich ein Glaube nützlicher, wirkungsvoller, überzeugender ist, als die bewusste Heuchelei, so wird, aus Instinkt, die Heuchelei alsbald zur Unschuld: erster Satz zum Verständniss grosser Heiliger. Auch bei den Philosophen, einer andren Art von Heiligen, bringt es das ganze Handwerk mit sich, dass sie nur gewisse Wahrheiten zulassen: nämlich solche, auf die hin ihr Handwerk die öffentliche Sanktion hat, - Kantisch geredet, Wahrheiten der praktischen Vernunft. Sie wissen, was sie beweisen müssen, darin sind sie praktisch, - sie erkennen sich unter einander daran, dass sie über \"die Wahrheiten\" übereinstimmen. - \"Du sollst nicht lügen\" - auf deutsch: hüten Sie sich, mein Herr Philosoph, die Wahrheit zu sagen…\n\n[43] Den Conservativen in's Ohr gesagt. - Was man früher nicht wusste, was man heute weiss, wissen könnte -, eine Rückbildung, eine Umkehr in irgend welchem Sinn und Grade ist gar nicht möglich. Wir Physiologen wenigstens wissen das. Aber alle Priester und Moralisten haben daran geglaubt, - sie wollten die Menschheit auf ein früheres Maass von Tugend zurückbringen, zurückschrauben. Moral war immer ein Prokrustes-Bett. Selbst die Politiker haben es darin den Tugendpredigern nachgemacht: es giebt auch heute noch Parteien, die als Ziel den Krebsgang aller Dinge träumen. Aber es steht Niemandem frei, Krebs zu sein. Es hilft nichts: man muss vorwärts, will sagen Schritt für Schritt weiter in der décadence (- dies meine Definition des modernen \"Fortschritts\"… ). Man kann diese Entwicklung hemmen und, durch Hemmung, die Entartung selber stauen, aufsammeln, vehementer und plötzlicher machen: mehr kann man nicht. -\n\n[44] Mein Begriff vom Genie. - Grosse Männer sind wie grosse Zeiten Explosiv-Stoffe, in denen eine ungeheure Kraft aufgehäuft ist; ihre Voraussetzung ist immer, historisch und physiologisch, dass lange auf sie hin gesammelt, gehäuft, gespart und bewahrt worden ist, - dass lange keine Explosion stattfand. Ist die Spannung in der Masse zu gross geworden, so genügt der zufälligste Reiz, das \"Genie\", die \"That\", das grosse Schicksal in die Welt zu rufen. Was liegt dann an Umgebung, an Zeitalter, an \"Zeitgeist\", an \"öffentlicher Meinung\"! - Man nehme den Fall Napoleon's. Das Frankreich der Revolution, und noch mehr das der Vorrevolution, würde aus sich den entgegengesetzten Typus, als der Napoleon's ist, hervorgebracht haben: es hat ihn auch hervorgebracht. Und weil Napoleon anders war, Erbe einer stärkeren, längeren, älteren Civilisation als die, welche in Frankreich in Dampf und Stücke gieng, wurde er hier Herr, war er allein hier Herr. Die grossen Menschen sind nothwendig, die Zeit, in der sie erscheinen, ist zufällig; dass sie fast immer über dieselbe Herr werden, liegt nur darin, dass sie stärker, dass sie älter sind, dass länger auf sie hin gesammelt worden ist. Zwischen einem Genie und seiner Zeit besteht ein Verhältniss, wie zwischen stark und schwach, auch wie zwischen alt und jung: die Zeit ist relativ immer viel jünger, dünner, unmündiger, unsicherer, kindischer. - Dass man hierüber in Frankreich heute sehr anders denkt (in Deutschland auch: aber daran liegt nichts), dass dort die Theorie vom milieu, eine wahre Neurotiker-Theorie, sakrosankt und beinahe wissenschaftlich geworden ist und bis unter die Physiologen Glauben findet, das \"riecht nicht gut\", das macht Einem traurige Gedanken. - Man versteht es auch in England nicht anders, doch darüber wird sich kein Mensch betrüben. Dem Engländer stehen nur zwei Wege offen, sich mit dem Genie und \"grossen Manne\" abzufinden: entweder demokratisch in der Art Buckle's oder religiös in der Art Carlyle's. - Die Gefahr, die in grossen Menschen und Zeiten liegt, ist ausser ordentlich; die Erschöpfung jeder Art, die Sterilität folgt ihnen auf dem Fusse. Der grosse Mensch ist ein Ende; die grosse Zeit, die Renaissance zum Beispiel, ist ein Ende. Das Genie - in Werk, in That - ist nothwendig ein Verschwender: dass es sich ausgiebt, ist seine Grösse… Der Instinkt der Selbsterhaltung ist gleichsam ausgehängt; der übergewaltige Druck der ausströmenden Kräfte verbietet ihm jede solche Obhut und Vorsicht. Man nennt das \"Aufopferung\"; man rühmt seinen \"Heroismus\" darin, seine Gleichgültigkeit gegen das eigne Wohl, seine Hingebung für eine Idee, eine grosse Sache, ein Vaterland: Alles Missverständnisse… Er strömt aus, er strömt über, er verbraucht sich, er schont sich nicht, - mit Fatalität, verhängnissvoll, unfreiwillig, wie das Ausbrechen eines Flusses über seine Ufer unfreiwillig ist. Aber weil man solchen Explosiven viel verdankt, hat man ihnen auch viel dagegen geschenkt, zum Beispiel eine Art höherer Moral… Das ist ja die Art der menschlichen Dankbarkeit: sie missversteht ihre Wohlthäter.-\n\n[45] Der Verbrecher und was ihm verwandt ist. - Der Verbrecher-Typus, das ist der Typus des starken Menschen unter ungünstigen Bedingungen, ein krank gemachter starker Mensch. Ihm fehlt die Wildniss, eine gewisse freiere und gefährlichere Natur und Daseinsform, in der Alles, was Waffe und Wehr im Instinkt des starken Menschen ist, zu Recht besteht. Seine Tugenden sind von der Gesellschaft in Bann gethan; seine lebhaftesten Triebe, die er mitgebracht hat, verwachsen alsbald mit den niederdrückenden Affekten, mit dem Verdacht, der Furcht, der Unehre. Aber dies ist beinahe das Recept zur physiologischen Entartung. Wer Das, was er am besten kann, am liebsten thäte, heimlich thun muss, mit langer Spannung, Vorsicht, Schlauheit, wird anämisch; und weil er immer nur Gefahr, Verfolgung, Verhängniss von seinen Instinkten her erntet, verkehrt sich auch sein Gefühl gegen diese Instinkte - er fühlt sie fatalistisch. Die Gesellschaft ist es, unsre zahme, mittelmässige, verschnittene Gesellschaft, in der ein naturwüchsiger Mensch, der vom Gebirge her oder aus den Abenteuern des Meeres kommt, nothwendig zum Verbrecher entartet. Oder beinahe nothwendig: denn es giebt Fälle, wo ein solcher Mensch sich stärker erweist als die Gesellschaft: der Corse Napoleon ist der berühmteste Fall. Für das Problem, das hier vorliegt, ist das Zeugniss Dostoiewsky's von Belang - Dostoiewsky's, des einzigen Psychologen, anbei gesagt, von dem ich Etwas zu lernen hatte: er gehört zu den schönsten Glücksfällen meines Lebens, mehr selbst noch als die Entdeckung Stendhal's. Dieser tiefe Mensch, der zehn Mal Recht hatte, die oberflächlichen Deutschen gering zu schätzen, hat die sibirischen Zuchthäusler, in deren Mitte er lange lebte, lauter schwere Verbrecher, für die es keinen Rückweg zur Gesellschaft mehr gab, sehr anders empfunden als er selbst erwartete - ungefähr als aus dem besten, härtesten und werthvollsten Holze geschnitzt, das auf russischer Erde überhaupt wächst. Verallgemeinern wir den Fall des Verbrechers: denken wir uns Naturen, denen, aus irgend einem Grunde, die öffentliche Zustimmung fehlt, die wissen, dass sie nicht als wohlthätig, als nützlich empfunden werden, - jenes Tschandala-Gefühl, dass man nicht als gleich gilt, sondern als ausgestossen, unwürdig, verunreinigend. Alle solche Naturen haben die Farbe des Unterirdischen auf Gedanken und Handlungen; an ihnen wird Jegliches bleicher als an Solchen, auf deren Dasein das Tageslicht ruht. Aber fast alle Existenzformen, die wir heute auszeichnen, haben ehemals unter dieser halben Grabesluft gelebt: der wissenschaftliche Charakter, der Artist, das Genie, der freie Geist, der Schauspieler, der Kaufmann, der grosse Entdecker… So lange der Priester als oberster Typus galt, war jede werthvolle Art Mensch entwerthet… Die Zeit kommt - ich verspreche das - wo er als der niedrigste gelten wird, als unser Tschandala, als die verlogenste, als die unanständigste Art Mensch… Ich richte die Aufmerksamkeit darauf, wie noch jetzt, unter dem mildesten Regiment der Sitte, das je auf Erden, zum Mindesten in Europa, geherrscht hat, jede Abseitigkeit, jedes lange, allzulange Unterhalb, jede ungewöhnliche, undurchsichtige Daseinsform jenem Typus nahe bringt, den der Verbrecher vollendet. Alle Neuerer des Geistes haben eine Zeit das fahle und fatalistische Zeichen des Tschandala auf der Stirn: nicht, weil sie so empfunden würden, sondern weil sie selbst die furchtbare Kluft fühlen, die sie von allem Herkömmlichen und in Ehren Stehenden trennt. Fast jedes Genie kennt als eine seiner Entwicklungen die \"catilinarische Existenz\", ein Hass-, Rache- und Aufstands-Gefühl gegen Alles, was schon ist, was nicht mehr wird… Catilina - die Präexistenz-Form jedes Caesar. -\n\n[46] Hier ist die Aussicht frei. - Es kann Höhe der Seele sein, wenn ein Philosoph schweigt; es kann Liebe sein, wenn er sich widerspricht; es ist eine Höflichkeit des Erkennenden möglich, welche lügt. Man hat nicht ohne Feinheit gesagt: il est indigne des grands coeurs de répandre le trouble, qu'ils ressentent: nur muss man hinzufügen, dass vor dem Unwürdigsten sich nicht zu fürchten ebenfalls Grösse der Seele sein kann. Ein Weib, das liebt, opfert seine Ehre; ein Erkennender, welcher \"liebt\", opfert vielleicht seine Menschlichkeit; ein Gott, welcher liebte, ward Jude…\n\n[47] Die Schönheit kein Zufall. - Auch die Schönheit einer Rasse oder Familie, ihre Anmuth und Güte in allen Gebärden wird erarbeitet: sie ist, gleich dem Genie, das Schlussergebniss der accumulirten Arbeit von Geschlechtern. Man muss dem guten Geschmacke grosse Opfer gebracht haben, man muss um seinetwillen Vieles gethan, Vieles gelassen haben - das siebzehnte Jahrhundert Frankreichs ist bewunderungswürdig in Beidem -, man muss in ihm ein Princip der Wahl, für Gesellschaft, Ort, Kleidung, Geschlechtsbefriedigung gehabt haben, man muss Schönheit dem Vortheil, der Gewohnheit, der Meinung, der Trägheit vorgezogen haben. Oberste Richtschnur: man muss sich auch vor sich selber nicht \"gehen lassen\". - Die guten Dinge sind über die Maassen kostspielig: und immer gilt das Gesetz, dass wer sie hat, ein Andrer ist, als wer sie erwirbt. Alles Gute ist Erbschaft: was nicht ererbt ist, ist unvollkommen, ist Anfang… In Athen waren zur Zeit Cicero's, der darüber seine Überraschung ausdrückt, die Männer und Jünglinge bei weitem den Frauen an Schönheit überlegen: aber welche Arbeit und Anstrengung im Dienste der Schönheit hatte daselbst das männliche Geschlecht seit Jahrhunderten von sich verlangt! - Man soll sich nämlich über die Methodik hier nicht vergreifen: eine blosse Zucht von Gefühlen und Gedanken ist beinahe Null (- hier liegt das grosse Missverständniss der deutschen Bildung, die ganz illusorisch ist): man muss den Leib zuerst überreden. Die strenge Aufrechterhaltung bedeutender und gewählter Gebärden, eine Verbindlichkeit, nur mit Menschen zu leben, die sich nicht \"gehen lassen\", genügt vollkommen, um bedeutend und gewählt zu werden: in zwei, drei Geschlechtern ist bereits Alles verinnerlicht. Es ist entscheidend über das Loos von Volk und Menschheit, dass man die Cultur an der rechten Stelle beginnt - nicht an der \"Seele\" (wie es der verhängnissvolle Aberglaube der Priester und Halb-Priester war): die rechte Stelle ist der Leib, die Gebärde, die Diät, die Physiologie, der Rest folgt daraus… Die Griechen bleiben deshalb das erste Cultur-Ereigniss der Geschichte - sie wussten, sie thaten, was Noth that; das Christenthum, das den Leib verachtete, war bisher das grösste Unglück der Menschheit. -\n\n[48] Fortschritt in meinem Sinne. - Auch ich rede von \"Rückkehr zur Natur\", obwohl es eigentlich nicht ein Zurückgehn, sondern ein Hinaufkommen ist - hinauf in die hohe, freie, selbst furchtbare Natur und Natürlichkeit, eine solche, die mit grossen Aufgaben spielt, spielen darf.. Um es im Gleichniss zu sagen: Napoleon war ein Stück \"Rückkehr zur Natur\", so wie ich sie verstehe (zum Beispiel in rebus tacticis, noch mehr, wie die Militärs wissen, im Strategischen). - Aber Rousseau - wohin wollte der eigentlich zurück? Rousseau, dieser erste moderne Mensch, Idealist und canaille in Einer Person; der die moralische \"Würde\" nöthig hatte, um seinen eignen Aspekt auszuhalten; krank vor zügelloser Eitelkeit und zügelloser Selbstverachtung. Auch diese Missgeburt, welche sich an die Schwelle der neuen Zeit gelagert hat, wollte \"Rückkehr zur Natur\" - wohin, nochmals gefragt, wollte Rousseau zurück? - Ich hasse Rousseau noch in der Revolution: sie ist der welthistorische Ausdruck für diese Doppelheit von Idealist und canaille. Die blutige farce, mit der sich diese Revolution abspielte, ihre \"Immoralität\", geht mich wenig an: was ich hasse, ist ihre Rousseau'sche Moralität - die sogenannten \"Wahrheiten\" der Revolution, mit denen sie immer noch wirkt und alles Flache und Mittelmässige zu sich überredet. Die Lehre von der Gleichheit!… Aber es giebt gar kein giftigeres Gift: denn sie scheint von der Gerechtigkeit selbst gepredigt, während sie das Ende der Gerechtigkeit ist… \"Den Gleichen Gleiches, den Ungleichen Ungleiches - das wäre die wahre Rede der Gerechtigkeit: und, was daraus folgt, Ungleiches niemals gleich machen.\" - Dass es um jene Lehre von der Gleichheit herum so schauerlich und blutig zu gieng, hat dieser \"modernen Idee\" par excellence eine Art Glorie und Feuerschein gegeben, so dass die Revolution als Schauspiel auch die edelsten Geister verführt hat. Das ist zuletzt kein Grund, sie mehr zu achten. - Ich sehe nur Einen, der sie empfand, wie sie empfunden werden muss, mit Ekel - Goethe…\n\n[49] Goethe - kein deutsches Ereigniss, sondern ein europäisches: ein grossartiger Versuch, das achtzehnte Jahrhundert zu überwinden durch eine Rückkehr zur Natur, durch ein Hinaufkommen zur Natürlichkeit der Renaissance, eine Art Selbstüberwindung von Seiten dieses Jahrhunderts. - Er trug dessen stärkste Instinkte in sich: die Gefühlsamkeit, die Natur-Idolatrie, das Antihistorische, das Idealistische, das Unreale und Revolutionäre (- letzteres ist nur eine Form des Unrealen). Er nahm die Historie, die Naturwissenschaft, die Antike, insgleichen Spinoza zu Hülfe, vor Allem die praktische Thätigkeit; er umstellte sich mit lauter geschlossenen Horizonten; er löste sich nicht vom Leben ab, er stellte sich hinein; er war nicht verzagt und nahm so viel als möglich auf sich, über sich, in sich. Was er Wollte, das war Totalität; er bekämpfte das Auseinander von Vernunft, Sinnlichkeit, Gefühl, Wille (- in abschreckendster Scholastik durch Kant gepredigt, den Antipoden Goethe's), er disciplinirte sich zur Ganzheit, er schuf sich… Goethe war, inmitten eines unreal gesinnten Zeitalters, ein überzeugter Realist: er sagte ja zu Allem, was ihm hierin verwandt war, - er hatte kein grösseres Erlebniss als jenes ens realissimum, genannt Napoleon. Goethe concipirte einen starken, hochgebildeten, in aller Leiblichkeiten geschickten, sich selbst im Zaume habenden, vor sich selber ehrfürchtigen Menschen, der sich den ganzen Umfang und Reichthum der Natürlichkeit zu gönnen wagen darf, der stark genug zu dieser Freiheit ist; den Menschen der Toleranz, nicht aus Schwäche, sondern aus Stärke, weil er Das, woran die durchschnittliche Natur zu Grunde gehn würde, noch zu seinem Vortheile zu brauchen weiss; den Menschen, für den es nichts Verbotenes mehr giebt, es sei denn die Schwäche, heisse sie nun Laster oder Tugend… Ein solcher freigewordner Geist steht mit einem freudigen und vertrauenden Fatalismus mitten im All, im Glauben, dass nur das Einzelne verwerflich ist, dass im Ganzen sich Alles erlöst und bejaht - er verneint nicht mehr… Aber ein solcher Glaube ist der höchste aller möglichen Glauben: ich habe ihn auf den Namen des Dionysos getauft. -\n\n[50] Man könnte sagen, dass in gewissem Sinne das neunzehnte Jahrhundert Das alles auch erstrebt hat, was Goethe als Person erstrebte: eine Universalität im Verstehn, im Gutheissen, ein Ansich-heran-kommen-lassen von Jedwedem, einen verwegnen Realismus, eine Ehrfurcht vor allem Thatsächlichen. Wie kommt es, dass das Gesammt-Ergebniss kein Goethe, sondern ein Chaos ist, ein nihilistisches Seufzen, ein Nicht-wissen-wo-aus-noch-ein, ein Instinkt von Ermüdung, der in praxi fortwährend dazu treibt, zum achtzehnten Jahrhundert zurückzugreifen? (- zum Beispiel als Gefühls-Romantik, als Altruismus und Hyper-Sentimentalität, als Femininismus im Geschmack, als Socialismus in der Politik.) Ist nicht das neunzehnte Jahrhundert, zumal in seinem Ausgange, bloss ein verstärktes verrohtes achtzehntes Jahrhundert, das heisst ein décadence-Jahrhundert? So dass Goethe nicht bloss für Deutschland, sondern für ganz Europa bloss ein Zwischenfall, ein schönes Umsonst gewesen wäre? - Aber man missversteht grosse Menschen, wenn man sie aus der armseligen Perspektive eines öffentlichen Nutzens ansieht. Dass man keinen Nutzen aus ihnen zu ziehn weiss, das gehört selbst vielleicht zur Grösse…\n\n[51] Goethe ist der letzte Deutsche, vor dem ich Ehrfurcht habe: er hätte drei Dinge empfunden, die ich empfinde, - auch verstehen wir uns über das \"Kreuz\"… Man fragt mich öfter, wozu ich eigentlich deutsch schriebe: nirgendswo würde ich schlechter gelesen, als im Vaterlande. Aber wer weiss zuletzt, ob ich auch nur wünsche, heute gelesen zu werden? - Dinge schaffen, an denen umsonst die Zeit ihre Zähne versucht; der Form nach, der Substanz nach um eine kleine Unsterblichkeit bemüht sein - ich war noch nie bescheiden genug, weniger von mir zu verlangen. Der Aphorismus, die Sentenz, in denen ich als der Erste unter Deutschen Meister bin, sind die Formen der \"Ewigkeit\"; mein Ehrgeiz ist, in zehn Sätzen zu sagen, was jeder Andre in einem Buche sagt, - was jeder Andre in einem Buche nicht sagt…\n\nIch habe der Menschheit das tiefste Buch gegeben, das sie besitzt, meinen Zarathustra: ich gebe ihr über kurzem das unabhängigste. -\n\n### What I Owe the Ancients\n\n[1] Zum Schluss ein Wort über jene Welt, zu der ich Zugänge gesucht, zu der ich vielleicht einen neuen Zugang gefunden habe - die alte Welt. Mein Geschmack, der der Gegensatz eines duldsamen Geschmacks sein mag, ist auch hier fern davon, in Bausch und Bogen ja zu sagen: er sagt überhaupt nicht gern ja, lieber noch Nein, am allerliebsten gar nichts… Das gilt von ganzen Culturen, das gilt von Büchern, - es gilt auch von Orten und Landschaften. Im Grunde ist es eine ganz kleine Anzahl antiker Bücher, die in meinem Leben mitzählen; die berühmtesten sind nicht darunter. Mein Sinn für Stil, für das Epigramm als Stil erwachte fast augenblicklich bei der Berührung mit Sallust. Ich habe das Erstaunen meines verehrten Lehrers Corssen nicht vergessen, als er seinem schlechtesten Lateiner die allererste Censur geben musste -, ich war mit Einem Schlage fertig. Gedrängt, streng, mit so viel Substanz als möglich auf dem Grunde, eine kalte Bosheit gegen das \"schöne Wort\", auch das \"schöne Gefühl\" - daran errieth ich mich. Man wird, bis in meinen Zarathustra hinein, eine sehr ernsthafte Ambition nach römischem Stil, nach dem \"aere perennius\" im Stil bei mir wiedererkennen. - Nicht anders ergieng es mir bei der ersten Berührung mit Horaz. Bis heute habe ich an keinem Dichter dasselbe artistische Entzücken gehabt, das mir von Anfang an eine Horazische Ode gab. In gewissen Sprachen ist Das, was hier erreicht ist, nicht einmal zu wollen. Dies Mosaik von Worten, wo jedes Wort als Klang, als Ort, als Begriff, nach rechts und links und über das Ganze hin seine Kraft ausströmt, dies minimum in Umfang und Zahl der Zeichen, dies damit erzielte maximum in der Energie der Zeichen - das Alles ist römisch und, wenn man mir glauben will, vornehm par excellence. Der ganze Rest von Poesie wird dagegen etwas zu Populäres, - eine blosse Gefühls-Geschwätzigkeit…\n\n[2] Den Griechen verdanke ich durchaus keine verwandt starken Eindrücke; und, um es geradezu herauszusagen, sie können uns nicht sein, was die Römer sind. Man lernt nicht von den Griechen - ihre Art ist zu fremd, sie ist auch zu flüssig, um imperativisch, um \"klassisch\" zu wirken. Wer hätte je an einem Griechen schreiben gelernt! Wer hätte es je ohne die Römer gelernt!… Man wende mir ja nicht Plato ein. Im Verhältniss zu Plato bin ich ein gründlicher Skeptiker und war stets ausser Stande, in die Bewunderung des Artisten Plato, die unter Gelehrten herkömmlich ist, einzustimmen. Zuletzt habe ich hier die raffinirtesten Geschmacksrichter unter den Alten selbst auf meiner Seite. Plato wirft, wie mir scheint, alle Formen des Stils durcheinander, er ist damit ein erster décadent des Stils: er hat etwas Ähnliches auf dem Gewissen, wie die Cyniker, die die satura Menippea erfanden. Dass der Platonische Dialog, diese entsetzlich selbstgefällige und kindliche Art Dialektik, als Reiz wirken könne, dazu muss man nie gute Franzosen gelesen haben, - Fontenelle zum Beispiel. Plato ist langweilig. - Zuletzt geht mein Misstrauen bei Plato in die Tiefe: ich finde ihn so abgeirrt von allen Grundinstinkten der Hellenen, so vermoralisirt, so präexistent-christlich - er hat bereits den Begriff \"gut\" als obersten Begriff -, dass ich von dem ganzen Phänomen Plato eher das harte Wort \"höherer Schwindel\" oder, wenn man's lieber hört, Idealismus - als irgend ein andres gebrauchen möchte. Man hat theuer dafür bezahlt, dass dieser Athener bei den Ägyptern in die Schule gieng (- oder bei den Juden in Agypten?…) Im grossen Verhängniss des Christenthums ist Plato jene \"Ideal\" genannte Zweideutigkeit und Fascination, die den edleren Naturen des Alterthums es möglich machte, sich selbst misszuverstehn und die Brücke zu betreten, die zum \"Kreuz\" führte… Und wie viel Plato ist noch im Begriff \"Kirche\", in Bau, System, Praxis der Kirche! - Meine Erholung, meine Vorliebe, meine Kur von allem Platonismus war zu jeder Zeit Thukydides. Thukydides und, vielleicht, der principe Machiavell's sind mir selber am meisten verwandt durch den unbedingten Willen, sich Nichts vorzumachen und die Vernunft in der Realität zu sehn, - nicht in der \"Vernunft\", noch weniger in der \"Moral\"… Von der jämmerlichen Schönfärberei der Griechen in's Ideal, die der \"klassisch gebildete\" Jüngling als Lohn für seine Gymnasial-Dressur in's Leben davonträgt, kurirt Nichts so gründlich als Thukydides. Man muss ihn Zeile für Zeile umwenden und seine Hintergedanken so deutlich ablesen wie seine Worte: es giebt wenige so hintergedankenreiche Denker. In ihm kommt die Sophisten-Cultur, will sagen die Realisten-Cultur, zu ihrem vollendeten Ausdruck: diese unschätzbare Bewegung inmitten des eben allerwärts losbrechenden Moral- und Ideal-Schwindels der sokratischen Schulen. Die griechische Philosophie als die décadence des griechischen Instinkts; Thukydides als die grosse Summe, die letzte Offenbarung jener starken, strengen, harten Thatsächlichkeit, die dem älteren Hellenen im Instinkte lag. Der Muth vor der Realität unterscheidet zuletzt solche Naturen wie Thukydides und Plato: Plato ist ein Feigling vor der Realität, - folglich flüchtet er in's Ideal; Thukydides hat sich in der Gewalt, folglich behält er auch die Dinge in der Gewalt…\n\n[3] In den Griechen \"schöne Seelen\", \"goldene Mitten\" und andre Vollkommenheiten auszuwittern, etwa an ihnen die Ruhe in der Grösse, die ideale Gesinnung, die hohe Einfalt bewundern - vor dieser \"hohen Einfalt\", einer niaiserie allemande zu guterletzt, war ich durch den Psychologen behütet, den ich in mir trug. Ich sah ihren stärksten Instinkt, den Willen zur Macht, ich sah sie zittern vor der unbändigen Gewalt dieses Triebs, - ich sah alle ihre Institutionen wachsen aus Schutzmaassregeln, um sich vor einander gegen ihren inwendigen Explosivstoff sicher zu stellen. Die ungeheure Spannung im Innern entlud sich dann in furchtbarer und rücksichtsloser Feindschaft nach Aussen: die Stadtgemeinden zerfleischten sich unter einander, damit die Stadtbürger jeder einzelnen vor sich selber Ruhe fänden. Man hatte es nöthig, stark zu sein: die Gefahr war in der Nähe -, sie lauerte überall. Die prachtvoll geschmeidige Leiblichkeit, der verwegene Realismus und Immoralismus, der dem Hellenen eignet, ist eine Noth, nicht eine \"Natur\" gewesen. Er folgte erst, er war nicht von Anfang an da. Und mit Festen und Künsten wollte man auch nichts Andres als sich obenauf fühlen, sich obenauf zeigen: es sind Mittel, sich selber zu verherrlichen, unter Umständen vor sich Furcht zu machen… Die Griechen auf deutsche Manier nach ihren Philosophen beurtheilen, etwa die Biedermännerei der sokratischen Schulen zu Aufschlüssen darüber benutzen, was im Grunde hellenisch sei!… Die Philosophen sind ja die décadents des Griechenthums, die Gegenbewegung gegen den alten, den vornehmen Geschmack (- gegen den agonalen Instinkt, gegen die Polis, gegen den Werth der Rasse, gegen die Autorität des Herkommens). Die sokratischen Tugenden wurden gepredigt, weil sie den Griechen abhanden gekommen waren: reizbar, furchtsam, unbeständig, Komödianten allesammt, hatten sie ein paar Gründe zu viel, sich Moral predigen zu lassen. Nicht, dass es Etwas geholfen hätte: aber grosse Worte und Attitüden stehen décadents so gut…\n\n[4] Ich war der erste, der, zum Verständniss des älteren, des noch reichen und selbst überströmenden hellenischen Instinkts, jenes wundervolle Phänomen ernst nahm, das den Namen des Dionysos trägt: es ist einzig erklärbar aus einem Zuviel von Kraft. Wer den Griechen nachgeht, wie jener tiefste Kenner ihrer Cultur, der heute lebt, wie Jakob Burckhardt in Basel, der wusste sofort, dass damit Etwas gethan sei: Burckhardt fügte seiner \"Cultur der Griechen\" einen eignen Abschnitt über das genannte Phänomen ein. Will man den Gegensatz, so sehe man die beinahe erheiternde Instinkt-Armuth der deutschen Philologen, wenn sie in die Nähe des Dionysischen kommen. Der berühmte Lobeck zumal, der mit der ehrwürdigen Sicherheit eines zwischen Büchern ausgetrockneten Wurms in diese Welt geheimnissvoller Zustände hineinkroch und sich überredete, damit wissenschaftlich zu sein, dass er bis zum Ekel leichtfertig und kindisch war, - Lobeck hat mit allem Aufwande von Gelehrsamkeit zu verstehn gegeben, eigentlich habe es mit allen diesen Curiositäten Nichts auf sich. In der That möchten die Priester den Theilhabern an solchen Orgien einiges nicht Werthlose mitgetheilt haben, zum Beispiel, dass der Wein zur Lust anrege, dass der Mensch unter Umständen von Früchten lebe, dass die Pflanzen im Frühjahr aufblühn, im Herbst verwelken. Was jenen so befremdlichen Reichthum an Riten, Symbolen und Mythen orgiastischen Ursprungs angeht, von dem die antike Welt ganz wörtlich überwuchert ist, so findet Lobeck an ihm einen Anlass, noch um einen Grad geistreicher zu werden. \"Die Griechen, sagt er Aglaophamus I, 672, hatten sie nichts Anderes zu thun, so lachten, sprangen, rasten sie umher, oder, da der Mensch mitunter auch dazu Lust hat, so sassen sie nieder, weinten und jammerten. Andere kamen dann später hinzu und suchten doch irgend einen Grund für das auffallende Wesen; und so entstanden zur Erklärung jener Gebräuche jene zahllosen Festsagen und Mythen. Auf der andren Seite glaubte man, jenes possirliche Treiben, welches nun einmal an den Festtagen stattfand, gehöre auch nothwendig zur Festfeier, und hielt es als einen unentbehrlichen Theil des Gottesdienstes fest.\" - Das ist verächtliches Geschwätz, man wird einen Lobeck nicht einen Augenblick ernst nehmen. Ganz anders berührt es uns, wenn wir den Begriff \"griechisch\" prüfen, den Winckelmann und Goethe sich gebildet haben, und ihn unverträglich mit jenem Elemente finden, aus dem die dionysische Kunst wächst, - mit dem Orgiasmus. Ich zweifle in der That nicht daran, dass Goethe etwas Derartiges grundsätzlich aus den Möglichkeiten der griechischen Seele ausgeschlossen hätte. Folglich verstand Goethe die Griechen nicht. Denn erst in den dionysischen Mysterien, in der Psychologie des dionysischen Zustands spricht sich die Grundthatsache des hellenischen Instinkts aus - sein \"Wille zum Leben\". Was verbürgte sich der Hellene mit diesen Mysterien? Das ewige Leben, die ewige Wiederkehr des Lebens; die Zukunft in der Vergangenheit verheissen und geweiht; das triumphirende Ja zum Leben über Tod und Wandel hinaus; das wahre Leben als das Gesammt-Fortleben durch die Zeugung, durch die Mysterien der Geschlechtlichkeit. Den Griechen war deshalb das geschlechtliche Symbol das ehrwürdige Symbol an sich, der eigentliche Tiefsinn innerhalb der ganzen antiken Frömmigkeit. Alles Einzelne im Akte der Zeugung, der Schwangerschaft, der Geburt erweckte die höchsten und feierlichsten Gefühle. In der Mysterienlehre ist der Schmerz heilig gesprochen: die \"Wehen der Gebärerin\" heiligen den Schmerz überhaupt, - alles Werden und Wachsen, alles Zukunft-Verbürgende bedingt den Schmerz… Damit es die Lust des Schaffens giebt, damit der Wille zum Leben sich ewig selbst bejaht, muss es auch ewig die \"Qual der Gebärerin\" geben… Dies Alles bedeutet das Wort Dionysos: ich kenne keine höhere Symbolik als diese griechische Symbolik, die der Dionysien. In ihr ist der tiefste Instinkt des Lebens, der zur Zukunft des Lebens, zur Ewigkeit des Lebens, religiös empfunden, - der Weg selbst zum Leben, die Zeugung, als der heilige Weg… Erst das Christenthum, mit seinem Ressentiment gegen das Leben auf dem Grunde, hat aus der Geschlechtlichkeit etwas Unreines gemacht: es warf Koth auf den Anfang, auf die Voraussetzung unseres Lebens…\n\n[5] Die Psychologie des Orgiasmus als eines überströmenden Lebens- und Kraftgefühls, innerhalb dessen selbst der Schmerz noch als Stimulans wirkt, gab mir den Schlüssel zum Begriff des tragischen Gefühls, das sowohl von Aristoteles als in Sonderheit von unsern Pessimisten missverstanden worden ist. Die Tragödie ist so fern davon, Etwas für den Pessimismus der Hellenen im Sinne Schopenhauer's zu beweisen, dass sie vielmehr als dessen entscheidende Ablehnung und Gegen-Instanz zu gelten hat. Das ja sagen zum Leben selbst noch in seinen fremdesten und härtesten Problemen; der Wille zum Leben, im Opfer seiner höchsten Typen der eignen Unerschöpflichkeit frohwerdend - das nannte ich dionysisch, das errieth ich als die Brücke zur Psychologie des tragischen Dichters. Nicht um von Schrecken und Mitleiden loszukommen, nicht um sich von einem gefährlichen Affekt durch dessen vehemente Entladung zu reinigen - so verstand es Aristoteles -: sondern um, über Schrecken und Mitleid hinaus, die ewige Lust des Werdens selbst zu sein, - jene Lust, die auch noch die Lust am Vernichten in sich schliesst… Und damit berühre ich wieder die Stelle, von der ich einstmals ausgieng - die \"Geburt der Tragödie\" war meine erste Umwerthung aller Werthe: damit stelle ich mich wieder auf den Boden zurück, aus dem mein Wollen, mein Können wächst - ich, der letzte Jünger des Philosophen Dionysos, - ich, der Lehrer der ewigen Wiederkunft…\n\n### The Hammer Speaks\n\nAlso sprach Zarathustra - 3, 90.\n\n\"Warum so hart! - sprach zum Diamanten einst die Küchen-Kohle: sind wir denn nicht Nah-Verwandte?\"\n\nWarum so weich? Oh meine Brüder, also frage ich euch: seid ihr denn nicht - meine Brüder?\n\nWarum so weich, so weichend und nachgebend? Warum ist so viel\nLeugnung, Verleugnung in eurem Herzen? so wenig Schicksal in eurem\nBlicke?\n\nUnd wollt ihr nicht Schicksale sein und Unerbittliche: wie könntet ihr einst mit mir - siegen?\n\nUnd wenn eure Härte nicht blitzen und schneiden und zerschneiden will: wie könntet ihr einst mit mir - schaffen?\n\nAlle Schaffenden nämlich sind hart. Und Seligkeit muss es euch dünken, eure Hand auf Jahrtausende zu drücken wie auf Wachs, -\n\n- Seligkeit, auf dem Willen von Jahrtausenden zu schreiben wie auf\nErz, - härter als Erz, edler als Erz. Ganz hart allein ist das\nEdelste.\n\nDiese neue Tafel, oh meine Brüder, stelle ich über euch: werdet hart! - -","download_url":"https://mouseia.org/api/works/twilight-of-the-idols/original.txt"},"translations":[{"id":"trn_twilight_of_the_idols_mouseia","translator":"Mouseia","kind":"curated","note":"A complete machine-assisted Musean translation, made directly from the German in independent chapter tasks. Includes all 44 Maxims and Arrows and The Hammer Speaks.","text":"### Preface\n\nTwilight of the Idols\n\nor\n\nHow to Philosophize with a Hammer.\n\nTo keep your cheerfulness in the midst of a dark and immeasurably responsible undertaking is no small feat of artistry—and yet what could be more necessary than cheerfulness? Nothing succeeds unless high spirits play their part. Only an excess of strength is proof of strength.—A revaluation of all values, this question mark so black, so immense that it casts a shadow over the one who sets it down—a task that is a destiny like this forces you, at every moment, to run into the sun, to shake off a seriousness that has grown heavy, all too heavy. Every means is welcome; every “case” is a stroke of luck. Above all, war. War has always been the great resourcefulness of all spirits who have grown too inward, too deep; even a wound still holds healing power. A saying whose origin I withhold from scholarly curiosity has long been my motto:\n\nSpirits rise; courage grows strong through a wound.\n\nAnother way to recover, in certain circumstances even more welcome to me, is to sound out idols… There are more idols than realities in the world: that is my “evil eye” for this world, and my “evil ear” as well… To put questions here with a hammer for once, and perhaps hear in reply that famous hollow note that speaks of bloated entrails—what a delight for someone who has ears even behind his ears—for me, an old psychologist and rat-catcher, before whom precisely what would like to keep quiet must speak out…\n\nThis book too—its title betrays it—is above all a recreation, a patch of sunlight, a sidestep into a psychologist’s idleness. Perhaps a new war as well? And are new idols being sounded out?… This little book is a great declaration of war; and as for sounding out idols, this time they are not idols of the age but eternal idols that are touched here with a hammer as with a tuning fork—there are no older idols anywhere, none more assured of themselves, none more inflated… None more hollow, either… That does not keep them from being the ones most believed in; nor, especially in the most exalted case, does anyone call them idols at all…\n\nTurin, September 30, 1888,\non the day when the book of the Revaluation\nof All Values was completed.\n\nFRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE.\n\n### Maxims and Arrows\n\n[1] Idleness is the beginning of all psychology. What? Could psychology be a—vice?\n\n[2] Even the bravest among us rarely has the courage to face what he actually knows…\n\n[3] To live alone, you must be an animal or a god—says Aristotle. The third case is missing: you must be both—a philosopher…\n\n[4] “All truth is simple.”—Isn’t that a lie twice over?—\n\n[5] There is much I want, once and for all, not to know.—Wisdom sets limits even to knowledge.\n\n[6] In your wild nature you recover best from your unnaturalness, from your intellectuality…\n\n[7] What? Is humanity merely a blunder of God’s? Or God merely a blunder of humanity’s?—\n\n[8] From life’s school of war.—What does not kill me makes me stronger.\n\n[9] Help yourself: then everyone else will help you too. The principle of loving your neighbor.\n\n[10] No cowardice toward your own actions! No abandoning them after the fact!—Remorse is indecent.\n\n[11] Can a donkey be tragic?—Perishing beneath a burden you can neither carry nor throw off?… The philosopher’s predicament.\n\n[12] Once you have your why of life, you can bear almost any how.—Human beings do not strive for happiness; only the English do that.\n\n[13] Man created woman—but out of what? Out of a rib of his God—his “ideal”…\n\n[14] What? You are searching? You would like to multiply yourself tenfold, a hundredfold? You are looking for followers?—Look for zeros.\n\n[15] Posthumous people—I, for example—are understood less well than timely ones, but heard better. More strictly: we are never understood—and that is the source of our authority…\n\n[16] Among women.—“The truth? Oh, you do not know the truth! Isn’t it an assault on all our modesties?”—\n\n[17] Here is an artist of the kind I love, modest in his needs: he really wants only two things, his bread and his art—bread and Circe…\n\n[18] Whoever does not know how to put his will into things at least puts a meaning into them: that is, he believes a will is already there (the principle of “faith”).\n\n[19] What? You chose virtue and a proudly swelling chest, yet cast envious glances at the advantages of the unscrupulous?—But with virtue you renounce “advantages”… (For an anti-Semite’s front door.)\n\n[20] The perfect woman commits literature as she commits a little sin: as an experiment, in passing, looking around to see whether anyone notices and to make sure someone does…\n\n[21] To put yourself only in situations where sham virtues are out of the question, where instead, like a tightrope walker on his rope, you either fall or stand—or get away…\n\n[22] “Evil people have no songs.”—How is it, then, that the Russians have songs?\n\n[23] “German spirit”: for eighteen years now, a contradiction in terms.\n\n[24] When you search for beginnings, you become a crab. The historian looks backward; at last he believes backward too.\n\n[25] Contentment even protects against catching cold. Has a woman who knew she was well dressed ever caught cold?—I am supposing she was barely dressed at all.\n\n[26] I distrust all system-builders and keep out of their way. The will to a system is a lack of integrity.\n\n[27] Woman is considered deep—why? Because no one ever gets to the bottom of her. Woman is not even shallow yet.\n\n[28] When a woman has masculine virtues, she makes you want to run away; when she has no masculine virtues, she runs away herself.\n\n[29] “How much did the conscience once have to bite into! What good teeth it had!—And today? What is it lacking?”—A dentist’s question.\n\n[30] We rarely commit just one rash act. In the first, we always do too much. That is precisely why we usually commit a second—and now we do too little…\n\n[31] A worm that has been stepped on curls up. That is wise. It thereby reduces the chance of being stepped on again. In the language of morality: humility.—\n\n[32] There is a hatred of lies and dissimulation born of a touchy sense of honor; there is the same hatred born of cowardice, insofar as a divine commandment forbids lying. Too cowardly to lie…\n\n[33] How little it takes to be happy! The sound of a bagpipe.—Without music, life would be a mistake. The German imagines even God singing songs.\n\n[34] One can think and write only while sitting (G. Flaubert).—Now I have you, nihilist! Sitting power is precisely the sin against the Holy Spirit. Only thoughts reached by walking have value.\n\n[35] There are times when we psychologists are like horses and grow restless: we see our own shadow swaying up and down ahead of us. The psychologist must look away from himself to see at all.\n\n[36] Do we immoralists harm virtue?—No more than anarchists harm princes. Only since people began shooting at them have they sat firmly on their thrones again. Moral: one must shoot at morality.\n\n[37] You run ahead?—Do you do so as a shepherd? Or as an exception? A third case would be the runaway… First question of conscience.\n\n[38] Are you genuine? Or merely an actor? A representative? Or the very thing represented?—In the end you may even be only an imitation actor… Second question of conscience.\n\n[39] The disillusioned man speaks.—I searched for great human beings; I always found only the apes of their ideal.\n\n[40] Are you someone who watches? Or lends a hand?—Or looks away, steps aside?… Third question of conscience.\n\n[41] Do you want to go along? Or go ahead? Or go your own way?… You must know what you want and that you want. Fourth question of conscience.\n\n[42] Those were steps for me; I climbed up over them—to do that, I had to pass over them. But they thought I wanted to settle down on them…\n\n[43] What does it matter if I am proved right! I am right too often.—And whoever laughs best today will also laugh last.\n\n[44] Formula for my happiness: a Yes, a No, a straight line, a goal…\n\n### The Problem of Socrates\n\n[1] In every age the wisest have judged life alike: it is worthless… Always and everywhere one has heard the same note from their lips—a note full of doubt, full of melancholy, full of weariness with life, full of resistance to life. Even Socrates said, as he died: “To live—that means to be sick for a long time: I owe a rooster to the savior Asclepius.” Even Socrates had had enough.—What does that prove? What does it point to?—Once one would have said (—oh, it has been said, and loudly enough, our pessimists leading the way!): “Here at any rate something must be true! The consensus sapientium proves the truth.”—Shall we still talk that way today? May we? “Here at any rate something must be sick”—that is our answer: these wisest of all ages, one should first look at them from close up! Were they perhaps, every one of them, no longer steady on their legs? late? shaky? décadents? Might wisdom appear on earth as a raven, inspired by a faint smell of carrion?…\n\n[2] This irreverent insight, that the great sages are types of decline, first dawned on me in precisely the case where scholarly and unscholarly prejudice stands most firmly against it: I recognized Socrates and Plato as symptoms of decay, as instruments of Greek dissolution, as pseudo-Greek, as anti-Greek (“The Birth of Tragedy,” 1872). That consensus sapientium—I grasped this better and better—proves least of all that they were right about what they agreed on: it proves instead that they themselves, these wisest men, agreed in some physiological respect, so as to take the same negative stance toward life—to have to take it. Judgments, value judgments about life, for or against, can in the end never be true: they have value only as symptoms, they come into consideration only as symptoms—in themselves such judgments are stupidities. One must by all means stretch out one’s fingers and try to grasp this astonishing finesse, that the value of life cannot be assessed. Not by a living person, because he is a party to the dispute, indeed its very object, and not a judge; not by a dead one, for a different reason.—For a philosopher to see a problem in the value of life thus remains even an objection to him, a question mark against his wisdom, an unwisdom.—What? And all these great sages—they were not merely décadents, they were not even wise?—But I return to the problem of Socrates.\n\n[3] Socrates came, by origin, from the lowest of the people: Socrates was rabble. One knows, one can still see, how ugly he was. But ugliness, in itself an objection, is among the Greeks almost a refutation. Was Socrates a Greek at all? Ugliness is often enough the expression of a development that has been crossed, stunted by crossing. In the other case it appears as a development in decline.\n\nThe anthropologists among the criminologists tell us that the typical criminal is ugly: monstrum in fronte, monstrum in animo. But the criminal is a décadent. Was Socrates a typical criminal?—At least the famous physiognomist’s verdict, which sounded so offensive to Socrates’ friends, would not contradict it. A foreigner who knew faces, passing through Athens, told Socrates to his face that he was a monstrum—that he harbored every vile vice and appetite within him. And Socrates answered merely: “You know me, sir!”—\n\n[4] Not only the dissoluteness and anarchy in his instincts, which he admitted himself, point to décadence in Socrates: the superfetation of the logical and that spite of the rickets-sufferer which marks him out point the same way. Nor let us forget those auditory hallucinations which, as the “daimonion of Socrates,” have been interpreted religiously. Everything about him is exaggerated, buffo, caricature; everything is at once concealed, full of ulterior motive, subterranean.—I am trying to grasp out of what idiosyncrasy that Socratic equation of reason = virtue = happiness derives: that most bizarre of all equations, which in particular has all the instincts of the older Hellenes against it.\n\n[5] With Socrates Greek taste swings round in favor of dialectic: what is really happening there? Above all, a noble taste is thereby defeated; with dialectic the rabble comes out on top. Before Socrates, dialectical manners were rejected in good society: they were considered bad manners, they exposed a man. The young were warned against them. And all such displaying of one’s reasons was distrusted. Respectable things, like respectable people, do not carry their reasons in their hands like that. It is indecent to show all five fingers. What first has to be proved is worth little. Wherever authority still belongs to good custom, where one does not “give reasons” but commands, the dialectician is a kind of clown: people laugh at him, they do not take him seriously.—Socrates was the clown who got himself taken seriously: what really happened there?—\n\n[6] One chooses dialectic only when one has no other means. One knows that it arouses mistrust, that it persuades little. Nothing is easier to wipe away than the effect of a dialectician: the experience of every assembly where speeches are made proves it. It can only be self-defense, in the hands of those who have no other weapons left. One must have to extort one’s rights: before that, one makes no use of it. That is why the Jews were dialecticians; Reynard the Fox was one: what? and Socrates was one too?—\n\n[7] —Is the irony of Socrates an expression of revolt? of rabble resentment? Does he, as one oppressed, relish his own ferocity in the knife-thrusts of the syllogism? Is he taking revenge on the noble whom he fascinates?—As a dialectician one has a merciless instrument in hand; with it one can play the tyrant; one exposes by winning. The dialectician leaves it to his opponent to prove that he is not an idiot: he makes him furious, and helpless at the same time. The dialectician strips his opponent’s intellect of its power.—What? Is dialectic in Socrates only a form of revenge?\n\n[8] I have indicated what could repel in Socrates: all the more remains to be explained how he fascinated.—That he discovered a new kind of agon, that he was the first fencing master of it for the noble circles of Athens, is one point. He fascinated by touching the agonistic drive of the Hellenes—he introduced a variation into the wrestling bouts between young men and youths. Socrates was also a great erotic.\n\n[9] But Socrates divined more still. He saw behind his noble Athenians; he grasped that his case, his idiosyncratic case, was already no exceptional case. The same kind of degeneration was quietly preparing itself everywhere: old Athens was coming to an end.—And Socrates understood that all the world needed him—his remedy, his cure, his personal artifice of self-preservation… Everywhere the instincts were in anarchy; everywhere one was five steps from excess: the monstrum in animo was the general danger. “The drives want to play the tyrant; one must invent a counter-tyrant who is stronger”… When that physiognomist had revealed to Socrates who he was, a cave of every vile appetite, the great ironist let fall one more remark, which gives the key to him. “That is true,” he said, “but I became master over them all.” How did Socrates become master of himself?—His case was at bottom only the extreme case, only the most conspicuous instance of what was then beginning to become the general distress: that no one was master of himself any longer, that the instincts turned against one another. He fascinated as this extreme case—his fear-inspiring ugliness announced it to every eye: he fascinated, as goes without saying, still more as the answer, as the solution, as the semblance of a cure for this case.—\n\n[10] When one needs to make a tyrant of reason, as Socrates did, the danger cannot be small that something else will play the tyrant. Rationality was divined at that time as a rescuer; it was not up to Socrates, or to his “patients,” whether to be rational—it was de rigueur, it was their last resort. The fanaticism with which all Greek thinking throws itself at rationality betrays a state of emergency: they were in danger, they had only one choice: either to perish or—to be absurdly rational… The moralism of the Greek philosophers from Plato on is pathologically conditioned; so is their esteem for dialectic. Reason = virtue = happiness means merely: one must imitate Socrates and set up, against the dark appetites, a permanent daylight—the daylight of reason. One must be clever, clear, bright at any price: every concession to the instincts, to the unconscious, leads downward…\n\n[11] I have indicated by what means Socrates fascinated: he seemed to be a physician, a savior. Is it necessary to point out, in addition, the error that lay in his faith in “rationality at any price”?—It is a self-deception on the part of philosophers and moralists to think that by waging war on décadence they are already stepping out of it. Stepping out lies beyond their strength: what they choose as a means, as a rescue, is itself only another expression of décadence—they change its expression, they do not abolish it. Socrates was a misunderstanding; the whole morality of improvement, the Christian too, was a misunderstanding… The most glaring daylight, rationality at any price, life bright, cold, cautious, conscious, without instinct, in resistance to the instincts—this was itself only a sickness, another sickness—and by no means a way back to “virtue,” to “health,” to happiness… Having to fight the instincts—that is the formula for décadence: so long as life is ascending, happiness is equal to instinct.—\n\n[12] —Did he himself still grasp that, this cleverest of all self-outwitters? Did he tell himself so in the end, in the wisdom of his courage toward death?… Socrates wanted to die:—not Athens, he himself took the cup of poison, he forced Athens to hand it to him… “Socrates is no physician,” he said softly to himself; “death alone is the physician here… Socrates himself has only been sick for a long time…”\n\n### \"Reason\" in Philosophy\n\n[1] You ask me just what in philosophers is idiosyncrasy?… Their lack of historical sense, for example, their hatred of the very idea of becoming, their Egyptianism. They believe they are doing a thing honor when they dehistoricize it, sub specie aeterni—when they make a mummy of it. Everything philosophers have handled for millennia consisted of concept-mummies; nothing real came living out of their hands. They kill, they stuff, these gentlemen idolaters of concepts, when they worship—they become a mortal danger to everything when they worship. Death, change, age, just as much as procreation and growth, are for them objections—even refutations. What is, does not become; what becomes, is not… Now they all believe, even in despair, in what is. But since they cannot get hold of it, they look for reasons why it is being withheld from them. “There must be an illusion, a deception, behind our failure to perceive what is: where does the deceiver hide?”—“We have him,” they cry blissfully, “it is sensuality! These senses, which are so immoral in other respects too, deceive us about the true world. Moral: get free of the deception of the senses, of becoming, of history, of the lie—history is nothing but belief in the senses, belief in the lie. Moral: say No to everything that gives credence to the senses, to all the rest of humanity: that is all ‘the people.’ Be a philosopher, be a mummy, act out monotono-theism with a gravedigger’s pantomime!—And away above all with the body, this pitiable idée fixe of the senses! afflicted with every fault of logic there is, refuted, impossible even, though it is impudent enough to behave as if it were real!”…\n\n[2] I set aside, with the highest reverence, the name of Heraclitus. When the rest of the philosophic folk rejected the testimony of the senses because they showed multiplicity and change, he rejected their testimony because they showed things as though they had duration and unity. Heraclitus too did the senses an injustice. They lie neither in the way the Eleatics believe nor in the way he believed—they do not lie at all. What we make of their testimony is what first puts the lie into it, for example the lie of unity, the lie of thinghood, of substance, of duration… “Reason” is the cause of our falsifying the testimony of the senses. Insofar as the senses show becoming, passing away, change, they do not lie… But Heraclitus will be right forever in this, that being is an empty fiction. The “apparent” world is the only one: the “true world” is merely a lie added to it…\n\n[3] —And what fine instruments of observation we have in our senses! This nose, for example, of which no philosopher has yet spoken with reverence and gratitude, is for the present actually the most delicate instrument at our disposal: it can still detect minimal differences of motion that even the spectroscope does not detect. We possess science today exactly to the extent that we have resolved to accept the testimony of the senses—to the extent that we have further learned to sharpen them, to arm them, to think them through to the end. The rest is monstrosity and not-yet-science: I mean metaphysics, theology, psychology, epistemology. Or formal science, the doctrine of signs: such as logic and that applied logic, mathematics. In them reality does not occur at all, not even as a problem; just as little as the question of what value such a convention of signs as logic has in the first place.—\n\n[4] The other idiosyncrasy of philosophers is no less dangerous: it consists in confusing the last with the first. They place what comes at the end—unfortunately! for it should not come at all!—the “highest concepts,” that is, the most general, the emptiest concepts, the last smoke of evaporating reality, at the beginning, as the beginning. This is again merely the expression of their way of revering: the higher may not grow out of the lower, may not have grown at all… Moral: everything of the first rank must be causa sui. Origin in something else counts as an objection, as a casting of doubt on value. All the supreme values are of the first rank, all the highest concepts, being, the unconditioned, the good, the true, the perfect—all of that cannot have become, and must consequently be causa sui. But all of that also cannot differ from itself, cannot contradict itself… With that they have their stupendous concept “God”… The last, thinnest, emptiest thing is posited as the first, as cause in itself, as ens realissimum… That humanity has had to take seriously the brain disorders of sick cobweb-weavers!—And it has paid dearly for it!…\n\n[5] —Let us finally set against this the different ways in which we (—I say “we” out of politeness…) take up the problem of error and appearance. Formerly people took change, alteration, becoming in general as proof of appearance, as a sign that there must be something that leads us astray. Today, conversely, we see that precisely to the extent that the prejudice of reason forces us to posit unity, identity, duration, substance, cause, thinghood, being, we are in a manner entangled in error, compelled to error; although we are quite certain, on the strength of a strict recalculation, that this is where the error lies. It is no different here than with the motions of the great star: in their case error has our eye as its constant advocate, here it has our language. Language belongs by its origin to the age of the most rudimentary form of psychology: we enter a crude fetishism when we bring to consciousness the fundamental presuppositions of the metaphysics of language—in plain speech: of reason. This sees doer and doing everywhere: this believes in will as cause in general; this believes in the “I,” in the I as being, in the I as substance, and projects the belief in I-substance onto all things—it creates the concept “thing” only thereby… Being is everywhere thought in, slipped underneath, as cause; from the conception “I” there follows, as derived, the concept “being”… At the beginning stands the great calamity of error, that the will is something that works—that will is a faculty… Today we know it is merely a word… Much later, in a world a thousand times more enlightened, the sureness, the subjective certainty in the handling of the categories of reason came to the philosophers’ consciousness with surprise: they concluded that these could not come from experience—all experience, after all, stood in contradiction to them. Where do they come from, then?—And in India as in Greece the same blunder was made: “we must once have been at home in a higher world (—instead of a much lower one: which would have been the truth!), we must have been divine, for we have reason!”… Indeed, nothing so far has had a more naive power of persuasion than the error of being, as it was formulated by the Eleatics, for example: it has, after all, every word in its favor, every sentence we speak!—Even the opponents of the Eleatics still succumbed to the seduction of their concept of being: Democritus among others, when he invented his atom… “Reason” in language: oh, what an old deceitful female! I fear we are not getting rid of God because we still believe in grammar…\n\n[6] People will be grateful to me if I compress an insight so essential, so new, into four propositions: thereby I make it easier to understand, thereby I provoke contradiction.\n\nFirst proposition. The grounds on which “this” world has been called apparent establish rather its reality—another kind of reality is absolutely indemonstrable.\n\nSecond proposition. The marks that have been given to the “true being” of things are the marks of non-being, of nothingness—the “true world” has been constructed out of contradiction to the actual world: an apparent world in fact, insofar as it is merely a moral-optical illusion.\n\nThird proposition. To tell fables about an “other” world than this one makes no sense at all, provided an instinct of slander, belittlement, and suspicion of life is not powerful in us: in the latter case we take revenge on life with the phantasmagoria of an “other,” a “better” life.\n\nFourth proposition. To divide the world into a “true” one and an “apparent” one, whether in the manner of Christianity or in the manner of Kant (a crafty Christian to the last), is only a suggestion of décadence—a symptom of declining life… That the artist values appearance more highly than reality is no objection to this proposition. For “appearance” here means reality once more, only in selection, intensification, correction… The tragic artist is no pessimist—he says Yes precisely to everything questionable and terrible itself, he is Dionysian…\n\n### How the \"True World\" Finally Became a Fable\n\nHistory of an Error.\n\n[1] The true world, attainable for the sage, the pious, the virtuous—he lives in it, he is it.\n\n(Oldest form of the idea, relatively clever, simple, convincing. A paraphrase of the sentence “I, Plato, am the truth.”)\n\n[2] The true world, unattainable for now, but promised to the sage, the pious, the virtuous (“to the sinner who repents”).\n\n(Progress of the idea: it becomes subtler, trickier, harder to grasp—it becomes a woman, it becomes Christian…)\n\n[3] The true world, unattainable, unprovable, unpromisable, but already as a thought a consolation, an obligation, an imperative.\n\n(The old sun at bottom, but seen through mist and skepticism; the idea grown sublime, pale, northern, Königsbergian.)\n\n[4] The true world—unattainable? At any rate unattained. And as unattained, also unknown. Consequently also not consoling, redeeming, obligating: how could something unknown obligate us?…\n\n(Gray morning. First yawn of reason. Cockcrow of positivism.)\n\n[5] The “true world”—an idea that is no longer good for anything, no longer even obligating—an idea grown useless, grown superfluous, consequently a refuted idea: let us abolish it!\n\n(Bright day; breakfast; return of bon sens and cheerfulness; Plato’s blush of shame; infernal racket of all free spirits.)\n\n[6] We have abolished the true world: what world remained? the apparent one, perhaps?… But no! with the true world we have also abolished the apparent one!\n\n(Noon; moment of the shortest shadow; end of the longest error; high point of humanity; Incipit Zarathustra.)\n\n### Morality as Anti-Nature\n\n[1] All passions have a time when they are merely disastrous, when they drag their victim down with the weight of stupidity—and a later one, a much later one, when they wed the spirit, when they “spiritualize” themselves. Formerly, because of the stupidity in passion, people made war on passion itself: they conspired for its annihilation—all the old moral monsters are unanimous that “il faut tuer les passions.” The most famous formula for this stands in the New Testament, in that Sermon on the Mount where, incidentally, things are by no means viewed from a height. There it is said, for example with an application to sexuality: “if your eye offends you, pluck it out”: fortunately no Christian acts on this prescription. To destroy the passions and desires merely to forestall their stupidity and the disagreeable consequences of that stupidity seems to us today itself merely an acute form of stupidity. We no longer admire the dentists who pull teeth so that they will no longer hurt… With some fairness, on the other hand, it must be conceded that on the soil out of which Christianity grew, the concept “spiritualization of passion” could not be conceived at all. The first church fought, as is well known, against the “intelligent” in favor of the “poor in spirit”: how could one expect an intelligent war against passion from it?—The church fights passion by cutting it out in every sense: its practice, its “cure,” is castratism. It never asks: “how does one spiritualize, beautify, deify a desire?”—at all times it has laid the emphasis of discipline on extirpation (of sensuality, of pride, of the lust to rule, of greed, of vindictiveness).—But to attack the passions at the root is to attack life at the root: the practice of the church is hostile to life…\n\n[2] The same means, castration, extirpation, is chosen instinctively in the struggle with a desire by those who are too weak-willed, too degenerate, to impose moderation on themselves: by those natures who need la Trappe, to speak figuratively (and without figure—), some final declaration of enmity, a chasm between themselves and a passion. Radical means are indispensable only to the degenerate; weakness of will, more precisely the incapacity not to react to a stimulus, is itself merely another form of degeneration. The radical enmity, the mortal enmity against sensuality remains a thought-provoking symptom: it entitles one to conjectures about the overall condition of someone so excessive.—That enmity, that hatred, moreover, reaches its peak only when such natures no longer have enough firmness even for the radical cure, for renouncing their “devil.” Survey the whole history of priests and philosophers, with the artists added: the most poisonous things said against the senses were not said by the impotent, nor by the ascetics, but by the impossible ascetics, by those who would have needed to be ascetics…\n\n[3] The spiritualization of sensuality is called love: it is a great triumph over Christianity. Another triumph is our spiritualization of enmity. It consists in profoundly grasping the value of having enemies: in short, in doing and concluding the reverse of what one formerly did and concluded. The church at all times wanted the destruction of its enemies: we, we immoralists and anti-Christians, see our advantage in the continued existence of the church… In politics too enmity has now become more spiritual—much cleverer, much more thoughtful, much more lenient. Almost every party sees its interest in self-preservation in the opposing party’s not losing its strength; the same holds for grand politics. A new creation especially, the new Reich for instance, has more need of enemies than of friends: only in opposition does it feel itself necessary, only in opposition does it become necessary… We conduct ourselves no differently toward the “inner enemy”: there too we have spiritualized enmity, there too we have grasped its value. One is fruitful only at the price of being rich in oppositions; one stays young only on condition that the soul does not stretch out at ease, does not long for peace… Nothing has grown more alien to us than that desirability of former times, the desirability of “peace of soul,” the Christian desirability; nothing makes us less envious than the moral cow and the fat happiness of a good conscience. One has renounced the great life when one has renounced war… In many cases, to be sure, “peace of soul” is merely a misunderstanding—something else that simply does not know how to name itself more honestly. A few cases, without circumlocution or prejudice. “Peace of soul” can be, for example, the gentle radiance of a rich animality into the moral (or religious) realm. Or the beginning of weariness, the first shadow that evening casts, any kind of evening. Or a sign that the air is damp, that south winds are approaching. Or unwitting gratitude for a good digestion (sometimes called “love of humanity”). Or the quieting of the convalescent, to whom all things taste new, and who waits… Or the state that follows a strong satisfaction of our ruling passion, the well-being of a rare satiety. Or the senile weakness of our will, our desires, our vices. Or laziness, persuaded by vanity to dress itself up morally. Or the arrival of a certainty, even a dreadful certainty, after long tension and torment by uncertainty. Or the expression of ripeness and mastery in the midst of doing, creating, working, willing, the calm breathing, the attained “freedom of the will”… Twilight of the Idols: who knows? perhaps also only a kind of “peace of soul”…\n\n[4] —I put a principle into a formula. Every naturalism in morality, that is, every healthy morality, is ruled by an instinct of life—some commandment of life is fulfilled with a definite canon of “shall” and “shall not,” some obstruction and hostility on life’s path is thereby cleared away. The anti-natural morality, that is, almost every morality that has so far been taught, revered, and preached, turns on the contrary precisely against the instincts of life—it is a condemnation of these instincts, now secret, now loud and brazen. By saying “God looks upon the heart,” it says No to the lowest and the highest desires of life and takes God as the enemy of life… The saint in whom God is well pleased is the ideal castrate… Life is at an end where the “kingdom of God” begins…\n\n[5] Suppose one has grasped the outrageousness of such a rebellion against life as has become almost sacrosanct in Christian morality; then one has also grasped, fortunately, something else: the futility, the specious character, the absurdity, the mendacity of such a rebellion. A condemnation of life by the living remains, in the end, only the symptom of a certain kind of life: the question whether rightly or wrongly is not even raised by it. One would have to have a position outside life, and on the other hand know it as well as one, as many, as all who have lived it, to be permitted even to touch the problem of the value of life: reasons enough to grasp that the problem is inaccessible to us. When we speak of values, we speak under the inspiration, under the optics of life: life itself forces us to posit values, life itself values through us when we posit values… From this it follows that even that anti-nature of a morality which conceives God as the counter-concept and condemnation of life is only a value judgment of life—of which life? Of what kind of life?—But I have already given the answer: of declining, weakened, weary, condemned life. Morality as it has so far been understood—as it was last formulated by Schopenhauer as “denial of the will to life”—is the instinct of décadence itself, making an imperative of itself: it says, “Perish!”—it is the judgment of the condemned…\n\n[6] Let us consider, finally, what naïveté it is to say at all “man should be thus and so!” Reality shows us a delightful wealth of types, the luxuriance of a lavish play and change of forms: and some wretched street-corner loafer of a moralist says to this: “No! man should be different”?… He even knows how he should be, this poor devil and bigot, he paints himself on the wall and says “ecce homo!”… But even when the moralist addresses himself only to the individual and says to him, “thus and so you should be!” he does not cease to make himself ridiculous. The individual is a piece of fatum, in front and behind, one law more, one necessity more for all that is to come and to be. To say to him “change yourself” is to demand that everything change, even backward… And indeed there were consistent moralists: they wanted man to be different, namely virtuous, they wanted him in their image, namely as a bigot: to that end they denied the world! No small madness! No modest kind of immodesty!… Morality, insofar as it condemns in itself, and not from the perspectives, considerations, and purposes of life, is a specific error, for which one should feel no pity, an idiosyncrasy of the degenerate that has done unspeakable harm!… We others, we immoralists, have on the contrary opened our hearts wide to every kind of understanding, comprehending, approving. We do not deny easily, we seek our honor in being affirmers. Our eyes have opened more and more to that economy which still has use for all that the priest’s holy folly, the sick reason in the priest, rejects—to that economy in the law of life which draws its advantage even from the repulsive species of the bigot, the priest, the virtuous man—what advantage?—But we ourselves, we immoralists, are the answer here…—\n\n### The Four Great Errors\n\n[1] The error of confusing cause and consequence.—There is no more dangerous error than mistaking the consequence for the cause: I call it the true corruption of reason. Yet this error belongs to humanity’s oldest and newest habits: among us it is even sacred, bearing the names “religion” and “morality.” Every proposition formulated by religion and morality contains it; priests and moral lawgivers are the authors of this corruption of reason.—Let me take an example: everyone knows the famous Cornaro’s book, in which he recommends his meager diet as the recipe for a long and happy life—a virtuous life as well. Few books have been so widely read; even now, many thousands of copies are printed every year in England. I do not doubt that scarcely any book—the Bible duly excepted—has done so much harm, shortened so many lives, as this well-intentioned curiosity. The reason: confusion of the consequence with the cause. The honest Italian saw his diet as the cause of his long life, whereas the precondition for a long life, the extraordinary slowness of his metabolism, his low expenditure, was the cause of his meager diet. He had no choice whether to eat little or much; his frugality was no “free will”: he became ill when he ate more. But anyone who is not a carp does not merely benefit from eating properly: he needs to. A scholar of our day, with his rapid consumption of nervous energy, would ruin himself on Cornaro’s regimen. Believe someone who knows.—\n\n[2] The most general formula underlying every religion and morality runs: “Do this and that, leave this and that undone—and you will be happy! Otherwise…” Every morality, every religion is this imperative—I call it the great original sin of reason, immortal unreason. In my mouth that formula becomes its opposite—the first example of my “revaluation of all values”: a well-constituted person, a “happy one,” must perform certain actions and instinctively shrinks from others; he carries the order he embodies physiologically into his relations with people and things. As a formula: his virtue is the consequence of his happiness… A long life and abundant offspring are not virtue’s reward; rather, virtue itself is that slowing of the metabolism which brings, among other things, a long life and abundant offspring—in short, Cornaro’s way—in its train.—Church and morality say: “A lineage, a people is ruined by vice and luxury.” My restored reason says: when a people is going to ruin, degenerating physiologically, vice and luxury follow from it—that is, the need for ever stronger and more frequent stimuli familiar to every exhausted nature. This young man grows pale and withered before his time. His friends say: this or that illness is to blame. I say: his falling ill, his failure to withstand the illness, was already the consequence of an impoverished life, an inherited exhaustion. The newspaper reader says: this party is ruining itself with a mistake like that. My higher politics says: a party that makes such mistakes is finished—it no longer has the surety of its instincts. Every error, in every sense, is the consequence of degenerate instincts, of a disintegration of the will: that almost defines what is bad. Everything good is instinct—and consequently easy, necessary, free. Toil is an objection; the god is characteristically distinct from the hero—in my language: light feet are the first attribute of divinity.\n\n[3] The error of a false causality.—People have always believed they knew what a cause is: but where did we get our knowledge—or, more precisely, our belief that we knew? From the realm of the famous “inner facts,” none of which has yet proved factual. We believed ourselves causal agents in the act of willing; here, at least, we thought we had caught causality in the act. Nor did anyone doubt that everything preceding an action, its causes, must be sought in consciousness, and would be found there if sought—as “motives”: otherwise one would not have been free to act, or responsible for the action. Finally, who would have disputed that a thought is caused? That the I causes the thought?… Of these three “inner facts” that seemed to guarantee causality, the first and most persuasive is the will as cause; the conception of consciousness (“mind”) as cause, and later still of the I (the “subject”) as cause, were merely later births, once causality had been established as given in the will, as an empirical fact… Meanwhile we have thought better of it. Today we no longer believe a word of all this. The “inner world” is full of deceptive images and misleading lights: the will is one of them. The will no longer moves anything, and consequently explains nothing either—it merely accompanies events, and may also be absent. The so-called “motive”: another error. Merely a surface phenomenon of consciousness, an accompaniment to the deed, more likely to conceal what precedes a deed than to display it. And the I above all! It has become a fable, a fiction, a play on words: it has altogether ceased to think, feel, or will!… What follows? There are no mental causes at all! All the alleged empirical evidence for them has gone to the devil! That is what follows!—And we had made a pretty misuse of that “evidence”: on its strength we had created the world as a world of causes, a world of wills, a world of minds. The oldest and longest-lived psychology was at work here, and did nothing else: to it, every event was a deed, every deed the consequence of a will; the world became a multitude of doers, a doer (a “subject”) was slipped beneath everything that happened. Human beings projected their three “inner facts,” what they believed in most firmly—the will, the mind, the I—out of themselves. Only from the concept of the I did they extract the concept of being; they posited “things” as existing after their own image, after their concept of the I as cause. What wonder that later they always found in things only what they had put into them?—The thing itself, to repeat, the concept of a thing: merely a reflection of belief in the I as cause… And even your atom, gentlemen mechanists and physicists—how much error, how much rudimentary psychology still lingers in your atom!—Not to mention the “thing in itself,” that horrifying, shameful thing of the metaphysicians! The error of mind as cause confused with reality! And made the measure of reality! And called God!—\n\n[4] The error of imaginary causes.—To begin with dreams: a particular sensation, arising for instance from a distant cannon shot, is retrospectively supplied with a cause—often an entire little novel in which the dreamer himself plays the leading role. Meanwhile the sensation persists, in a kind of resonance: it waits, as it were, until the drive to find causes allows it into the foreground—no longer as an accident, but as “meaning.” The cannon shot appears in a causal setting, in an apparent reversal of time. What comes later, the account of its motive, is experienced first, often with a hundred details flashing past; the shot follows… What has happened? The images produced by a certain condition have been mistaken for its cause.—In fact, we do the same when awake. Most of our general feelings—every kind of inhibition, pressure, tension, explosion in the interplay and opposition of our organs, and especially the state of the sympathetic nerve—arouse our drive to find causes: we want a reason for feeling as we do—for feeling ill or feeling well. Merely establishing the fact that we feel this way is never enough for us: we admit this fact—become conscious of it—only once we have given it some sort of motivation.—Memory, which becomes active in such cases without our knowing it, calls up earlier states of the same kind and the causal interpretations that have grown together with them—not their causality. To be sure, memory also calls up the belief that the images, the accompanying processes in consciousness, were the causes. Thus a habit of interpreting causes in a particular way develops, a habit that in truth obstructs and even excludes investigation of the cause.\n\n[5] The psychological explanation.—Reducing something unknown to something known brings relief, reassurance, satisfaction, and also a feeling of power. The unknown brings danger, unease, anxiety—the first instinct is to remove these painful states. First principle: any explanation is better than none. Since at bottom the sole concern is to get rid of oppressive images, we are not particularly scrupulous about the means of getting rid of them: the first idea that explains the unknown as known feels so good that we “take it for true.” Proof by pleasure (“by strength”) as a criterion of truth.—The drive to find causes is thus conditioned and aroused by the feeling of fear. If at all possible, the “Why?” is meant to provide not so much a cause for its own sake as a particular kind of cause—a reassuring, liberating, relieving cause. The first consequence of this need is to posit as cause something already known, experienced, inscribed in memory. The new, the unexperienced, the unfamiliar is ruled out as a cause.—What is sought as a cause, then, is not simply some kind of explanation, but a selected and preferred kind: those explanations that have most quickly and most frequently removed the feeling of something strange, new, unexperienced—the most habitual explanations.—The consequence: one way of positing causes increasingly predominates, concentrates itself into a system, and finally emerges as dominant—that is, simply excluding other causes and explanations.—The banker immediately thinks of “business,” the Christian of “sin,” the girl of her love.\n\n[6] The entire realm of morality and religion falls under this concept of imaginary causes.—“Explanation” of unpleasant general feelings. They are caused by beings hostile to us—evil spirits; the most famous case: mistaking hysterical women for witches. They are caused by actions that cannot be approved—the feeling of “sin,” of “sinfulness,” slipped beneath a physiological discomfort: reasons for being dissatisfied with oneself can always be found. They are caused as punishments, as payment for something we ought not to have done, ought not to have been—brazenly generalized by Schopenhauer into a proposition in which morality appears as what it is, the true poisoner and slanderer of life: “Every great pain, whether bodily or mental, declares what we deserve; for it could not come to us if we did not deserve it.” Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, 2, 666. They are caused as consequences of ill-considered actions that turn out badly—the emotions, the senses posited as cause, as “guilt”; physiological emergencies interpreted, with the help of other emergencies, as “deserved.”—“Explanation” of pleasant general feelings. They are caused by trust in God. They are caused by awareness of good actions—the so-called “good conscience,” a physiological state sometimes deceptively like good digestion. They are caused by the happy outcome of undertakings—a naive false inference: a successful undertaking produces no pleasant general feelings at all in a hypochondriac, or in a Pascal. They are caused by faith, love, hope—the Christian virtues.—In truth, all these supposed explanations are subsequent states, translations, as it were, of feelings of pleasure or displeasure into a false dialect: one is in a condition to hope because the underlying physiological feeling is strong and rich again; one trusts God because the feeling of fullness and strength gives one repose.—Morality and religion belong entirely to the psychology of error: in every single case cause and effect are confused; or truth is confused with the effect of what is believed true; or a state of consciousness is confused with the causality of that state.\n\n[7] The error of free will.—Today we have no sympathy left for the concept of “free will”: we know all too well what it is—the most disreputable trick theologians have, devised to make humanity “responsible” in their sense, that is, dependent on them… Here I give only the psychology of all imputation of responsibility.—Wherever responsibilities are sought, it is usually the instinct that wants to punish and judge that does the seeking. Becoming has been stripped of its innocence when any state of being is traced back to will, to intentions, to acts of responsibility: the doctrine of the will was essentially invented for the purpose of punishment, that is, of wanting to find someone guilty. The whole of the old psychology, the psychology of the will, has as its premise that its authors, the priests at the head of ancient communities, wished to create for themselves a right to impose punishments—or wished to create that right for God… Human beings were conceived as “free” so that they could be judged, so that they could be punished—so that they could become guilty: consequently every action had to be conceived as willed, the origin of every action as lying in consciousness—with which the most fundamental falsification in psychological matters had been made the principle of psychology itself… Today, when we have entered the opposite movement, when we immoralists in particular seek with all our strength to take the concepts of guilt and punishment out of the world again and cleanse psychology, history, nature, social institutions and sanctions of them, we see no more radical opposition than that of the theologians, who continue to infect the innocence of becoming with “punishment” and “guilt” through the concept of a “moral world order.” Christianity is a metaphysics of the executioner…\n\n[8] What alone can our teaching be?—That no one gives human beings their qualities: neither God, nor society, nor their parents and ancestors, nor they themselves—the absurdity of this last, rejected idea was taught as “intelligible freedom” by Kant, perhaps already by Plato. No one is responsible for being here at all, for being constituted in this or that way, for being in these circumstances, in this environment. The fatality of a person’s nature cannot be disentangled from the fatality of all that was and all that will be. A person is not the consequence of an intention of his own, of a will, of a purpose; no attempt is being made through him to attain an “ideal of humanity,” or an “ideal of happiness,” or an “ideal of morality”—it is absurd to try to shift his nature toward some purpose. We invented the concept of “purpose”: in reality, purpose is absent… We are necessary, we are a piece of fate, we belong to the whole, we are in the whole—there is nothing that could judge, measure, compare, condemn our being, for that would mean judging, measuring, comparing, condemning the whole… But there is nothing outside the whole!—That no one is held responsible any longer, that the manner of being must not be traced back to a first cause, that the world is not a unity either as a sensorium or as “mind”: this alone is the great liberation—only thus is the innocence of becoming restored… The concept “God” has until now been the greatest objection to existence… We deny God, we deny responsibility in God: only thus do we redeem the world.—\n\n### The \"Improvers\" of Humanity\n\n[1] My demand of the philosopher is familiar: to take a position beyond good and evil—to leave the illusion of moral judgment beneath him. This demand follows from an insight that I was the first to formulate: there are no moral facts at all. Moral judgment shares with religious judgment a belief in realities that are not realities. Morality is only an interpretation of certain phenomena—or, more precisely, a misinterpretation. Like religious judgment, moral judgment belongs to a stage of ignorance at which even the concept of the real, the distinction between the real and the imaginary, is still absent: so that “truth” at such a stage designates nothing but things we now call “imaginings.” In this sense moral judgment must never be taken literally: as such, it always contains only absurdity. But as a language of signs it remains invaluable: at least to the knowledgeable, it reveals the most valuable realities of cultures and inner lives that did not know enough to “understand” themselves. Morality is merely speech in signs, merely a study of symptoms: to profit from it, one must already know what is at issue.\n\n[2] A first, entirely preliminary example. In every age people have wanted to “improve” human beings: this above all was called morality. But under the same word the most diverse tendencies lie concealed. Both the taming of the human beast and the breeding of a particular kind of human being have been called “improvement”: only these zoological terms express realities—realities, to be sure, of which the typical “improver,” the priest, knows nothing—wants to know nothing… To call an animal’s taming its “improvement” sounds almost like a joke to our ears. Anyone who knows what happens in menageries doubts that the beast is “improved” there. It is weakened, made less dangerous; through the depressing emotion of fear, through pain, wounds, hunger, it becomes a sickly beast.—The case is no different with the tamed human being whom the priest has “improved.” In the early Middle Ages, when the Church was indeed above all a menagerie, the finest specimens of the “blond beast” were hunted everywhere—people “improved” the Germanic nobility, for example. But what did such an “improved” Germanic man, enticed into a monastery, look like afterward? Like a caricature of humanity, like a malformed creature: he had become a “sinner,” he sat in a cage, he had been locked among nothing but terrifying concepts… There he lay, sick, wretched, malicious toward himself; full of hatred for the impulses toward life, full of suspicion of everything still strong and happy. In short, a “Christian”… Physiologically speaking: in a struggle with the beast, making it sick may be the only means of making it weak. The Church understood this: it corrupted the human being, it weakened him—but claimed to have “improved” him…\n\n[3] Let us take the other case of so-called morality: the breeding of a particular race and kind. The grandest example is Indian morality, sanctioned as religion in the “Law of Manu.” Here the task is set of breeding no fewer than four races at once: a priestly race, a warrior race, a race of traders and farmers, and finally a servant race, the Shudras. Plainly we are no longer among animal tamers: a hundred times gentler and more rational a kind of person is needed even to conceive the plan of such breeding. One breathes freely on leaving Christianity’s atmosphere of sickroom and dungeon for this healthier, higher, more spacious world. How paltry the “New Testament” is beside Manu, how badly it smells!—But this organization, too, needed to be terrible—not this time in its struggle with the beast, but with the opposite concept, the unbred human being, the human mixture, the Chandala. And again it had no means of making him harmless, making him weak, except to make him sick—it was the struggle with the “great number.” Perhaps nothing is more repugnant to our feelings than these protective measures of Indian morality. The third edict, for example (Avadana-Sastra 1), “on impure vegetables,” orders that the only food permitted to the Chandalas shall be garlic and onions, considering that holy scripture forbids giving them grain, or fruits bearing seeds, or water or fire. The same edict stipulates that the water they need must not be taken from rivers, springs, or ponds, but only from approaches to swamps and from hollows made by animals’ footprints. They are likewise forbidden to wash their clothes or themselves, since the water granted them out of mercy may be used only to quench their thirst. Finally, Shudra women are forbidden to assist Chandala women in childbirth, and the latter are likewise forbidden to assist one another…—The results of such a sanitary police regime were not long in coming: murderous epidemics, hideous venereal diseases, and in their wake “the law of the knife,” ordering circumcision for male children and removal of the inner labia for female children.—Manu himself says: “The Chandalas are the fruit of adultery, incest, and crime—this is the necessary consequence of the concept of breeding. Their only clothes shall be rags from corpses, their vessels broken pots, their ornaments old iron, their worship only of evil spirits; they shall wander restlessly from place to place. They are forbidden to write from left to right and to use the right hand in writing: the use of the right hand and of writing from left to right is reserved solely for the virtuous, for people of race.”—\n\n[4] These provisions are instructive enough: in them, for once, we have Aryan humanity quite pure, quite original—we learn that the concept of “pure blood” is the opposite of a harmless concept. On the other hand, it becomes clear among which people hatred, Chandala hatred of this “humanity,” has perpetuated itself, where it has become religion, where it has become genius… From this perspective the Gospels are a document of the first rank; still more so the Book of Enoch.—Christianity, sprung from Jewish roots and intelligible only as a growth from that soil, represents the countermovement against every morality of breeding, race, privilege—it is the anti-Aryan religion above all: Christianity, the revaluation of all Aryan values, the victory of Chandala values, the Gospel preached to the poor and lowly, the general uprising of everything downtrodden, miserable, ill-formed, disadvantaged against “race”—immortal Chandala revenge as a religion of love…\n\n[5] The morality of breeding and the morality of taming are perfectly worthy of each other in the means they use to prevail: we may set down as the supreme proposition that to make morality one must possess the unconditional will to its opposite. This is the great, uncanny problem I have pursued longest: the psychology of humanity’s “improvers.” A small and fundamentally modest fact, that of the so-called pious fraud, gave me my first access to this problem: pious fraud, the inheritance of every philosopher and priest who “improved” humanity. Neither Manu, nor Plato, nor Confucius, nor the Jewish and Christian teachers ever doubted their right to lie. There were quite other rights they did not doubt… Put into a formula, one might say: all the means by which humanity has so far been meant to become moral were immoral to the core.—\n\n### What the Germans Lack\n\n[1] Among Germans today it is not enough to possess intellect: one must also claim it, take the liberty of being intellectual…\n\nPerhaps I know the Germans; perhaps I may even tell them a few truths. The new Germany represents a great quantity of inherited and schooled ability, enough to spend its accumulated store of strength lavishly for a time. What has come to power with it is no high culture, still less a delicate taste, an aristocratic “beauty” of the instincts; but virtues more manly than any other European country can show. Much good courage and self-respect, much reliability in dealings and reciprocal duties, much industry, much perseverance—and an inherited moderation that needs the spur rather than the brake. I add that here people still obey without being humiliated by obedience… And no one despises his opponent…\n\nYou see that I wish to do the Germans justice: I would not be untrue to myself in this—and so I must also raise my objection. Coming to power exacts a heavy price: power makes people stupid… The Germans—once called the nation of thinkers: do they still think at all today?—The Germans are now bored with intellect, the Germans now distrust intellect, politics devours all seriousness about truly intellectual things—“Germany, Germany above all,” I fear that was the end of German philosophy… “Are there German philosophers? Are there German poets? Are there good German books?” people abroad ask me. I blush, but with the courage I possess even in desperate cases, I answer: “Yes, Bismarck!”—Could I even confess what books are read today?… Accursed instinct for mediocrity!—\n\n[2] What German intellect might be—who has not had melancholy thoughts about that! But for almost a thousand years this nation has deliberately made itself stupid: nowhere have the two great European narcotics, alcohol and Christianity, been more viciously abused. Lately a third has even joined them, one sufficient by itself to finish off all subtle and daring agility of mind: music, our clogged and clogging German music.—How much tiresome heaviness, lameness, dampness, dressing gown, how much beer there is in the German intelligentsia! How is it possible that young men who dedicate their existence to the most intellectual aims do not feel within themselves the first instinct of intellectual life, the mind’s instinct for self-preservation—and drink beer?… The alcoholism of scholarly youth may not yet place a question mark over their scholarship—one can even be a great scholar without intellect—but in every other respect it remains a problem.—Where would one not find the gentle degeneration that beer produces in the mind! Once, in a case that became almost famous, I laid my finger on such degeneration: the degeneration of our foremost German freethinker, the clever David Strauss, into the author of a beer-bench gospel and a “new faith”… Not for nothing had he made his vow in verse to the “lovely brown one”—faithful until death…\n\n[3] I spoke of German intellect: of its growing coarseness, its becoming shallow. Is that enough?—At bottom it is something quite different that frightens me: the ever further decline of German seriousness, German depth, German passion in intellectual matters. The passionate feeling has changed, not merely the intellectual capacity.—Here and there I come into contact with German universities: what an atmosphere prevails among their scholars, what desolate intellectual life, grown contented and lukewarm! It would be a profound misunderstanding to confront me here with German scholarship—and proof, moreover, that one had not read a word of mine. For seventeen years I have never tired of exposing the deadening effect of our present scholarly enterprise upon the mind. The harsh servitude to which the enormous scope of the sciences now condemns each individual is a chief reason why natures of fuller, richer, deeper promise no longer find an education and educators suited to them. Nothing afflicts our culture more than the excess of presumptuous street-corner loungers and fragments of humanity; our universities are, against their will, the true hothouses of this stunting of the mind’s instincts. And all Europe already has some idea of it—great-power politics deceives no one… Germany is increasingly regarded as Europe’s flatland.—I am still looking for a German with whom I could be serious in my own way—how much more for one with whom I might be cheerful! Twilight of the Idols: ah, who today could understand the kind of seriousness from which a solitary takes his rest here!—Our cheerfulness is the most incomprehensible thing about us…\n\n[4] Take stock: not only is German culture’s decline obvious, there is no lack of sufficient reason for it. In the end no one can spend more than he possesses—this holds for individuals and for nations. If you spend yourself on power, on great-power politics, on the economy, world commerce, parliamentary government, military interests—if you give away in this direction the quantity of understanding, seriousness, will, self-overcoming that you are—then it is missing on the other side. Culture and the state—let us not deceive ourselves here—are antagonists: the “culture-state” is merely a modern idea. One lives off the other, one flourishes at the other’s expense. All great ages of culture are ages of political decline: what is great in the cultural sense was unpolitical, even antipolitical.—Goethe’s heart opened at the phenomenon of Napoleon—it closed at the “Wars of Liberation”… At the very moment Germany rises as a great power, France acquires a changed importance as a cultural power. Even now much new seriousness, much new passion of the intellect has moved to Paris; the question of pessimism, for instance, the Wagner question, almost all psychological and artistic questions are considered there with incomparably greater subtlety and thoroughness than in Germany—the Germans are themselves incapable of this kind of seriousness.—In the history of European culture, the rise of the “Reich” means one thing above all: a shift in the center of gravity. Everywhere people already know it: in what matters most—and that remains culture—the Germans no longer count. People ask: can you point to even one intellect who counts for Europe, as your Goethe, your Hegel, your Heinrich Heine, your Schopenhauer counted?—That there is no longer a single German philosopher is a source of endless astonishment.—\n\n[5] The whole system of higher education in Germany has lost what matters most: both the end and the means to the end. That education, cultivation, is itself the end—and not the “Reich”—that this end requires educators, not secondary-school teachers and university scholars: people have forgotten this… Educators are needed who are themselves educated, superior, noble minds, proved at every moment, proved through speech and silence, cultures grown mature and sweet—not the learned louts whom secondary school and university offer the young today as “higher nursemaids.” Educators, the first precondition of education, are missing, except for the rarest of exceptions: hence German culture’s decline.—One of those rarest exceptions is my venerable friend Jakob Burckhardt in Basel: to him above all Basel owes its preeminence in humane cultivation.—What Germany’s “higher schools” actually accomplish is brutal drilling, to make countless young men useful, exploitable for state service with the least possible loss of time. “Higher education” and countless numbers—that is a contradiction from the outset. Every higher education belongs only to the exception: one must be privileged to have a right to so high a privilege. All great things, all beautiful things, can never be common property: beauty belongs to the few.—What conditions German culture’s decline? That “higher education” is no longer a prerogative—the democratism of “universal” education, education that has become common… Nor should we forget that military privileges positively compel the overcrowding of higher schools, that is, their destruction.—In present-day Germany no one is any longer free to give his children an aristocratic education: our “higher” schools are all organized for the most dubious mediocrity—in their teachers, their curricula, their aims. And everywhere an indecent haste prevails, as though something had been missed if a young man at 23 were not yet “finished,” not yet able to answer the “main question”: what profession?—A higher kind of person, if you will permit me to say so, does not love “professions,” precisely because he knows himself to have a calling… He has time, he takes his time, he does not even think of becoming “finished”—at thirty, in the sense of high culture, one is a beginner, a child.—Our overcrowded secondary schools, our overburdened teachers made stupid by their burdens, are a scandal: there may be causes for defending these conditions, as the Heidelberg professors recently did—there are no reasons for it.\n\n[6] So as not to depart from my own nature, which says yes and deals with contradiction and criticism only indirectly, only unwillingly, I shall at once set down the three tasks for which educators are needed. One must learn to see, one must learn to think, one must learn to speak and write: in all three the goal is a noble culture.—Learning to see—accustoming the eye to calm, to patience, to letting things approach it; postponing judgment, learning to walk around and encompass the individual case from every side. This is the first preliminary schooling for intellectual life: not reacting immediately to a stimulus, but gaining command of the inhibiting, excluding instincts. Learning to see, as I understand it, is almost what unphilosophical speech calls a strong will: the essential thing is precisely being able not to “will,” to suspend the decision. All lack of intellect, all vulgarity rests on the inability to resist a stimulus—one must react, one follows every impulse. In many cases this compulsion is already sickness, decline, a symptom of exhaustion—almost everything unphilosophical crudeness calls “vice” is merely that physiological inability not to react.—One practical consequence of having learned to see: as a learner generally, one will have grown slow, distrustful, resistant. At first one will let everything strange and new approach with hostile calm—one will withdraw one’s hand from it. Standing with every door open, lying submissively on one’s belly before every little fact, being forever ready to leap into, plunge into other people and other things—in short, the famous modern “objectivity”—is bad taste, is ignoble above all.—\n\n[7] Learning to think: our schools no longer have any conception of it. Even at universities, even among the actual scholars of philosophy, logic as theory, as practice, as craft is beginning to die out. Read German books: no longer the remotest memory that thinking requires a technique, a course of instruction, a will to mastery—that thinking must be learned as dancing must be learned, as a kind of dancing… Who among Germans still knows from experience that subtle shudder which light feet in intellectual matters send flowing through every muscle!—The stiff clumsiness of intellectual gesture, the heavy hand in grasping—these are so German that abroad people mistake them for German character itself. The German has no fingers for nuances… That the Germans could even endure their philosophers, above all the most twisted conceptual cripple there ever was, the great Kant, gives no small idea of German grace.—For dancing in every form cannot be left out of a noble education: being able to dance with the feet, with concepts, with words; need I add that one must also be able to do it with the pen—that one must learn to write?—But at this point I would become a complete riddle to German readers…\n\n### Skirmishes of an Untimely Man\n\n[1] My impossible people.—Seneca: or virtue’s toreador.—Rousseau: or the return to nature in all its natural impurity.—Schiller: or the moral trumpeter of Säckingen.—Dante: or the hyena composing poetry among graves.—Kant: or cant as an intelligible character.—Victor Hugo: or the lighthouse on the sea of nonsense.—Liszt: or the school of dexterity—at chasing women.—George Sand: or milky abundance, in plain German: the dairy cow with a “beautiful style.”—Michelet: or enthusiasm taking off its coat… Carlyle: or pessimism as a lunch that will not go down.—John Stuart Mill: or offensive clarity.—The Goncourt brothers: or the two Ajaxes fighting Homer. Music by Offenbach.—Zola: or the joy of stinking.—\n\n[2] Renan.—Theology, or the corruption of reason through “original sin”—Christianity. Witness Renan, who, whenever he ventures a yes or no of any general scope, misses the mark with painful regularity. He would like, for example, to unite science and nobility: but science belongs to democracy—that is palpable enough. He wishes, with no small ambition, to embody an aristocracy of the intellect: yet at the same time he kneels before its counterdoctrine, the gospel of the humble—and does not merely kneel… What use are all his freethinking, modernity, mockery, and supple turncoat maneuvers if in his very entrails he has remained a Christian, a Catholic, even a priest! Renan, just like a Jesuit and confessor, exercises his inventiveness in seduction; his intellectual bearing does not lack the broad priestly smirk—like every priest, he becomes dangerous only when he loves. No one equals him at worshipping in a way that endangers life… This spirit of Renan’s, a spirit that unnerves, is one more calamity for poor, sick France, sick in its will.—\n\n[3] Sainte-Beuve.—Nothing of a man; full of petty rancor against every masculine mind. He wanders about, subtle, curious, bored, prying—at bottom a woman, with a woman’s vengefulness and sensuality. As a psychologist a genius of malicious gossip; inexhaustibly rich in its resources; no one knows better how to mix poison into praise. Plebeian in his deepest instincts and akin to Rousseau’s resentment: hence a Romantic—for beneath all Romanticism Rousseau’s instinct grunts and lusts for revenge. A revolutionary, but still kept tolerably in check by fear. Unfree before everything that has strength—public opinion, the Academy, the court, even Port-Royal. Embittered against everything great in people and things, against everything that believes in itself. Poet and half-woman enough still to feel greatness as power; perpetually curled up, like that famous worm, because he feels himself perpetually trodden on. As a critic without standard, footing, or backbone, with a cosmopolitan libertine’s taste for many things, yet without the courage even to acknowledge his libertinism. As a historian without philosophy, without the power of the philosophical eye—and so declining the task of judgment in every major matter, holding “objectivity” before him as a mask. His relation is different to everything over which a refined, worn-out taste is the highest court: here he truly has the courage to be himself, takes pleasure in himself—here he is a master.—In certain respects a precursor of Baudelaire.—\n\n[4] The Imitation of Christ is among the books I cannot hold without a physiological resistance: it breathes a perfume of the eternal feminine for which one must already be French—or a Wagnerian… This saint has a way of speaking about love that would make even the women of Paris curious.—I am told that that cleverest of Jesuits, A. Comte, who wished to lead his Frenchmen to Rome by the detour of science, drew inspiration from this book. I believe it: “the religion of the heart”…\n\n[5] G. Eliot.—They have got rid of the Christian God and now believe all the more that they must hold fast to Christian morality: that is English consistency; let us not hold it against little moral women in Eliot’s manner. In England, every small emancipation from theology has to be followed by a terrifying display of moral fanaticism to restore one’s respectability. That is the penance paid there.—For the rest of us, matters stand differently. Giving up Christian belief pulls the right to Christian morality from beneath one’s feet. This morality is by no means self-evident: despite the English shallow-pates, this point must be brought to light again and again. Christianity is a system, a connected and whole view of things. Break out one of its chief concepts, belief in God, and you break the whole as well: nothing necessary remains between your fingers. Christianity presupposes that human beings do not know, cannot know, what is good and what is evil for them: they believe in God, who alone knows. Christian morality is a command; its origin is transcendent; it stands beyond all criticism, all right to criticism; it has truth only if God is truth—it stands and falls with belief in God.—If the English really believe they know by themselves, “intuitively,” what is good and evil, and therefore imagine that they no longer need Christianity as morality’s guarantee, this itself is merely the consequence of Christian value judgment’s rule and an expression of that rule’s strength and depth: so that the origin of English morality has been forgotten, so that its highly conditional right to exist is no longer felt. For the Englishman, morality is not yet a problem…\n\n[6] George Sand.—I read the first Letters of a Traveler: like everything descended from Rousseau, false, manufactured, a bellows, inflated. I cannot endure this gaudy wallpaper style, any more than the plebeian ambition for generous feelings. The worst, of course, remains the feminine flirtation with masculinity, with the manners of ill-bred boys.—How cold she must have been through it all, this intolerable artist! She wound herself up like a clock—and wrote… Cold, like Hugo, like Balzac, like every Romantic as soon as they began to compose! And how complacently she must have lain there, this fertile writing-cow, who had something German about her in the bad sense, like Rousseau himself, her master, and who in any case became possible only with the decline of French taste!—But Renan worships her…\n\n[7] Morality for psychologists.—Do not practice peddlers’ psychology! Never observe for observation’s sake! That produces a false perspective, a squint, something forced and exaggerating. Experiencing as a will to experience does not succeed. One must not look toward oneself within the experience: every glance becomes an “evil eye.” A born psychologist instinctively takes care not to look in order to look; the same holds for the born painter. He never works “from nature”—he leaves the sifting and expressing of the “case,” of “nature,” of the “experience” to his instinct, his dark chamber… Only the general reaches his consciousness, the conclusion, the result: he knows nothing of that arbitrary abstraction from the individual case.—What happens if one proceeds otherwise? Practices peddlers’ psychology, for example, in the manner of Parisian novelists great and small? It lies in wait for reality, as it were, bringing home a handful of curiosities every evening… But just look at what emerges in the end—a heap of blotches, a mosaic at best, in every case something added together, restless, garish. The Goncourts achieve the worst in this: they cannot put three sentences together without simply hurting the eye, the psychologist’s eye.—Artistically assessed, nature is no model. It exaggerates, distorts, leaves gaps. Nature is chance. Studying “from nature” seems a bad sign to me: it betrays submission, weakness, fatalism—this groveling before little facts is unworthy of a complete artist. Seeing what is belongs to another kind of mind, the antiartistic, the factual. One must know who one is…\n\n[8] Toward a psychology of the artist.—For art to exist, for any aesthetic doing or seeing to exist, one physiological precondition is indispensable: intoxication. Intoxication must first have heightened the excitability of the whole machine: before that, no art occurs. Every kind of intoxication, however differently conditioned, has this power: above all the intoxication of sexual excitement, that oldest and most original form. Likewise the intoxication following all great desires, all strong emotions; the intoxication of the festival, the contest, the feat of daring, victory, every extreme movement; the intoxication of cruelty; intoxication in destruction; intoxication under certain meteorological influences, spring intoxication for example; or under the influence of narcotics; finally the intoxication of the will, of a will heaped up and swelling.—What matters in intoxication is the feeling of increased strength and fullness. Out of this feeling one gives to things, forces them to take from us, violates them—one calls this process idealizing. Let us free ourselves of a prejudice here: idealizing does not consist, as people generally believe, in subtracting or discounting what is small and incidental. Rather, the decisive thing is an immense driving-out of the principal features, so that the others disappear before them.\n\n[9] In this state one enriches everything out of one’s own fullness: whatever one sees, whatever one wills, one sees swollen, compacted, strong, overloaded with strength. A person in this state transforms things until they reflect his power—until they are reflections of his perfection. This having-to-transform into perfection is—art. Even everything he is not nevertheless becomes a pleasure in himself; in art the human being enjoys himself as perfection.—One might be permitted to imagine an opposite state, a specifically antiartistic instinct—a way of being that impoverished, thinned, made consumptive all things. And history is indeed rich in such antiartists, such starvelings of life: people who must necessarily take things to themselves too, drain them, make them leaner. This is the case, for example, with the genuine Christian, with Pascal, for instance: a Christian who was also an artist does not exist… Do not be childish and object with Raphael, or with some homeopathic Christians of the nineteenth century: Raphael said yes, Raphael made yes, and consequently Raphael was no Christian…\n\n[10] What is the meaning of the opposition I introduced into aesthetics between Apollonian and Dionysian, both conceived as kinds of intoxication?—Apollonian intoxication above all keeps the eye excited, giving it the power of vision. The painter, the sculptor, the epic poet are visionaries above all. In the Dionysian state, by contrast, the whole system of emotions is excited and heightened: so that it discharges all its expressive means at once, driving forth together the power to represent, imitate, transfigure, transform, every kind of mimicry and acting. What remains essential is the ease of metamorphosis, the inability not to react—as with certain hysterical people who enter any role at the slightest hint. It is impossible for the Dionysian person not to understand any suggestion; he overlooks no sign of emotion, possesses the highest degree of the instinct for understanding and divining, just as he possesses the highest degree of the art of communication. He enters every skin, every emotion: he is continually transforming himself.—Music, as we understand it today, is likewise an excitation and discharge of the emotions as a whole, yet only the remnant of a much fuller world of emotional expression, a mere residue of Dionysian theatricality. To make music possible as a separate art, a number of senses, above all the muscular sense, have been stilled—relatively at least, for to some degree all rhythm still speaks to our muscles—so that a person no longer immediately imitates and embodies everything he feels. Nevertheless that is the truly normal Dionysian state, at any rate the original state; music is its slowly attained specialization at the expense of the most closely related capacities.\n\n[11] The actor, the mime, the dancer, the musician, the lyric poet are fundamentally related in their instincts and in themselves one, but gradually specialized and separated from one another—even to the point of contradiction. The lyric poet remained united with the musician the longest; the actor with the dancer.—The architect represents neither a Dionysian nor an Apollonian state: here it is the great act of will, the will that moves mountains, the intoxication of the great will, that demands art. The mightiest human beings have always inspired the architects; the architect has always stood under the suggestion of power. In the building, pride, victory over gravity, the will to power should become visible; architecture is a kind of power-eloguence in forms, now persuading, even flattering, now simply commanding. The highest feeling of power and security comes to expression in what has great style. The power that no longer needs any proof; that disdains to please; that answers heavily; that feels no witness around it; that lives without being aware that there is contradiction against it; that rests in itself, fatalistic, a law among laws: that is what speaks of itself as great style.—\n\n[12] I read the life of Thomas Carlyle, that farce against knowledge and will, that heroic-moral interpretation of dyspeptic conditions.—Carlyle, a man of strong words and attitudes, a rhetorician from necessity, whom the craving for a strong faith and the feeling of being incapable of it constantly agitate (—in this a typical Romantic!). The craving for a strong faith is not the proof of a strong faith, but the opposite. If one has it, one may allow oneself the fine luxury of skepticism: one is sure enough, firm enough, bound enough for it. Carlyle deadens something in himself with the fortissimo of his veneration for people of strong faith and with his rage against the less simple-minded: he needs the noise. A constant passionate dishonesty toward himself—that is his proprium, and with it he is and remains interesting.—To be sure, in England he is admired precisely for his honesty… Well, that is English; and considering that the English are the people of perfect cant, it is even cheap, and not only comprehensible. At bottom Carlyle is an English atheist who seeks his honor in not being one.\n\n[13] Emerson.—Far more enlightened, more wandering, more manifold, more refined than Carlyle, above all happier… One of those who instinctively feed only on ambrosia, who leave behind whatever is indigestible in things. Set beside Carlyle, a man of taste.—Carlyle, who loved him very much, nevertheless said of him: “he does not give us enough to chew on”: which may be said with justice, but not to Emerson’s disadvantage.—Emerson has that kindly and ingenious cheerfulness which disheartens all seriousness; he simply does not know how old he already is and how young he will still be—he could say of himself, in a phrase of Lope de Vega’s: “yo me sucedo a mi mismo”. His spirit always finds grounds to be content, even grateful; and now and then it touches the serene transcendence of that good fellow who came back from a lovers’ rendezvous tamquam re bene gesta. “Ut desint vires,” he said gratefully, “tamen est laudanda voluptas.”—\n\n[14] Anti-Darwin.—As for the famous struggle for life, it seems to me for the present more asserted than proved. It does occur, but as an exception; the overall aspect of life is not the state of need, the state of hunger, but rather abundance, opulence, even absurd squandering—where there is struggle, one struggles for power… One should not confuse Malthus with nature.—Suppose, however, that this struggle exists—and indeed it does occur—then unfortunately it turns out the opposite way from what the school of Darwin wishes, from what one might perhaps wish along with it: namely to the disadvantage of the strong, the privileged, the happy exceptions. Species do not grow in perfection: the weak keep becoming masters over the strong again—that is because they are the great number, they are also cleverer… Darwin forgot the spirit (—that is English!), the weak have more spirit… One must need spirit in order to get spirit—one loses it when one no longer needs it. Whoever has strength dispenses with spirit (—“let it go! people think today in Germany—the Reich must remain ours nonetheless”…). By spirit, as one sees, I understand caution, patience, cunning, dissimulation, great self-mastery, and everything that is mimicry (a large part of so-called virtue belongs to the latter).\n\n[15] Casuistry of psychologists.—There is a connoisseur of human beings: what does he actually study human beings for? He wants to snap up small advantages over them, or great ones too—he is a politician!… That one there is also a connoisseur of human beings: and you say he wants nothing for himself by it, that he is a great “impersonal” one. Look more sharply! Perhaps he even wants a worse advantage: to feel himself superior to human beings, to be allowed to look down on them, to no longer confuse himself with them. This “impersonal” one is a despiser of human beings: and the former is the more humane species, whatever appearances may say. At least he puts himself on the same level, he puts himself inside…\n\n[16] The psychological tact of the Germans seems to me put in question by a whole series of cases whose list my modesty prevents me from presenting. In one case I shall not lack a great occasion to ground my thesis: I hold it against the Germans that they have laid hands on Kant and his “philosophy of back doors,” as I call it—that was not the type of intellectual honesty.—The other thing I do not like to hear is a notorious “and”: the Germans say “Goethe and Schiller”—I fear they say “Schiller and Goethe”… Is that Schiller still not known?—There are even worse “ands”; I have heard with my own ears, though only among university professors, “Schopenhauer and Hartmann”\n\n[17] The most spiritual human beings, assuming they are the most courageous, also experience by far the most painful tragedies: but precisely for that reason they honor life, because it sets its greatest opposition against them.\n\n[18] On “intellectual conscience.”—Nothing seems to me rarer today than genuine hypocrisy. My suspicion is great that this plant does not thrive in the mild air of our culture. Hypocrisy belongs to the ages of strong faith: when one did not let go of the faith one had even under the compulsion to display another faith. Today one lets it go; or, what is still more common, one acquires a second faith—one stays honest in every case. Without doubt a far greater number of convictions is possible today than formerly: possible, that is, permitted, that is, harmless. From this arises tolerance toward oneself.—Tolerance toward oneself permits several convictions: these themselves live peaceably together—they take care, like everyone today, not to compromise themselves. With what does one compromise oneself today? When one has consistency. When one walks in a straight line. When one is less than fivefold ambiguous. When one is genuine… My fear is great that modern man is simply too indolent for a few vices: so that these are dying out altogether. All evil that is conditioned by a strong will—and perhaps there is no evil without strength of will—degenerates, in our tepid air, into virtue… The few hypocrites I have known made a copy of hypocrisy: they were, as nearly every tenth person is nowadays, actors.—\n\n[19] Beautiful and ugly.—Nothing is more conditioned, let us say more limited, than our feeling for the beautiful. Anyone who wanted to think it detached from the human pleasure in human beings would instantly lose the ground under his feet. The “beautiful in itself” is merely a word, not even a concept. In the beautiful, the human being posits himself as the measure of perfection; in selected cases he worships himself in it. A species cannot do otherwise than say yes to itself in this way. Its lowest instinct, that of self-preservation and self-expansion, still radiates in such sublimities. The human being believes he has heaped beauty on the world itself—he forgets himself as its cause. He alone has endowed it with beauty, ah! only with a very human-all-too-human beauty… At bottom the human being mirrors himself in things, he holds everything to be beautiful that throws his image back to him: the judgment “beautiful” is his species-vanity… To the skeptic, indeed, a small suspicion may whisper the question in his ear: is the world really beautified by the fact that precisely the human being takes it for beautiful? He has humanized it: that is all. But nothing, absolutely nothing, guarantees us that precisely the human being is the model of the beautiful. Who knows how he looks in the eyes of a higher judge of taste? Perhaps daring? perhaps even amusing? perhaps a little arbitrary?… “Oh Dionysus, divine one, why are you pulling me by the ears?” Ariadne once asked her philosophical lover during one of those famous dialogues on Naxos. “I find a kind of humor in your ears, Ariadne: why are they not longer still?”\n\n[20] Nothing is beautiful, only the human being is beautiful: on this naiveté all aesthetics rests, it is its first truth. Let us immediately add its second: nothing is ugly but the degenerating human being—with that the realm of aesthetic judgment is circumscribed.—Reckoned physiologically, everything ugly weakens and saddens the human being. It reminds him of decay, danger, powerlessness; he actually loses strength in its presence. One can measure the effect of the ugly with a dynamometer. Wherever the human being is depressed at all, there he scents the nearness of something “ugly.” His feeling of power, his will to power, his courage, his pride—these fall with the ugly, these rise with the beautiful… In the one case as in the other we draw a conclusion: the premises for it are heaped up in the instinct in immense abundance. The ugly is understood as a hint and symptom of degeneration: whatever reminds one even remotely of degeneration produces in us the judgment “ugly.” Every sign of exhaustion, of heaviness, of age, of fatigue, every kind of unfreedom, as cramp, as paralysis, above all the smell, the color, the form of dissolution, of putrefaction, even in its last dilution into a symbol—all this calls forth the same reaction, the value judgment “ugly.” A hatred leaps up there: whom does the human being hate there? But there is no doubt: the decline of his type. He hates there out of the deepest instinct of the species; in this hatred there is dread, caution, depth, far-sightedness—it is the deepest hatred there is. For its sake art is deep…\n\n[21] Schopenhauer.—Schopenhauer, the last German who counts (who is a European event like Goethe, like Hegel, like Heinrich Heine, and not merely a local, a “national” one), is for a psychologist a case of the first rank: namely as a maliciously ingenious attempt to bring into the field, in favor of a nihilistic total devaluation of life, precisely the counter-instances, the great self-affirmations of the “will to life,” the exuberant forms of life. One after another he interpreted art, heroism, genius, beauty, great compassion, knowledge, the will to truth, tragedy as consequences of the “denial,” or of the need for denial, of the “will”—the greatest psychological counterfeiting, Christianity aside, that there is in history. Looked at more closely, he is in this merely the heir of the Christian interpretation: except that he also knew how to approve even what Christianity rejected, the great cultural facts of humanity, in a Christian, that is, a nihilistic sense (—namely as paths to “redemption,” as preliminary forms of “redemption,” as stimulantia of the need for “redemption”…).\n\n[22] I take a single case. Schopenhauer speaks of beauty with a melancholy glow—for what ultimate reason? Because he sees in it a bridge on which one gets further, or gets a thirst to get further… It is for him redemption from the “will” for moments—it lures to redemption forever… In particular he praises it as redeemer from the “focal point of the will,” from sexuality—in beauty he sees the procreative drive denied… Strange saint! Someone contradicts you, I fear it is nature. Why is there beauty at all in tone, color, scent, rhythmic movement in nature? What drives beauty out?—Fortunately a philosopher contradicts him too. No lesser authority than that of the divine Plato (—so Schopenhauer himself calls him) maintains another proposition: that all beauty incites to procreation—that this is precisely the proprium of its effect, from the most sensual up into the most spiritual…\n\n[23] Plato goes further. He says with an innocence for which one must be Greek and not “Christian” that there would be no Platonic philosophy at all if there were not such beautiful youths in Athens: it is the sight of them that first throws the philosopher’s soul into an erotic frenzy and leaves it no rest until it has sunk the seed of all high things into so beautiful a soil. Also a strange saint!—one does not trust one’s ears, even granting that one trusts Plato. At least one guesses that in Athens people philosophized differently, above all publicly. Nothing is less Greek than the concept-spinning of a hermit, amor intellectualis dei in the manner of Spinoza. Philosophy in Plato’s manner would better be defined as an erotic contest than as a further development and internalization of the old agonal gymnastics and its presuppositions… What grew in the end out of this philosophical eroticism of Plato’s? A new art form of the Greek agon, dialectic.—I recall, against Schopenhauer and in honor of Plato, that the whole higher culture and literature of classical France, too, grew on the soil of sexual interest. One may look everywhere in it for gallantry, the senses, sexual competition, “woman”—one will never look in vain…\n\n[24] L’art pour l’art.—The struggle against purpose in art is always the struggle against the moralizing tendency in art, against its subordination to morality. L’art pour l’art means: “to hell with morality!”—But even this enmity betrays the over-power of the prejudice. If one has excluded from art the purpose of moral preaching and human improvement, it by no means follows that art is altogether purposeless, aimless, senseless, in short l’art pour l’art—a worm that bites its own tail. “No purpose at all rather than a moral purpose!”—so speaks mere passion. A psychologist asks in reply: what does all art do? does it not praise? does it not glorify? does it not select? does it not bring out? With all this it strengthens or weakens certain value estimations… Is this only incidental? an accident? something in which the artist’s instinct would have no part? Or rather: is it not the presupposition for the artist being able to…? Does his lowest instinct aim at art, or not rather at the sense of art, at life? at a desirability of life?—Art is the great stimulant to life: how could one understand it as purposeless, as aimless, as l’art pour l’art?—One question remains: art also brings much that is ugly, hard, questionable in life to appearance—does it not thereby seem to sicken one of life?—And indeed there were philosophers who lent it this sense: “to get free of the will” Schopenhauer taught as the total intention of art, “to move to resignation” he revered as the great usefulness of tragedy.—But this—I have already given it to be understood—is pessimists’ optics and an “evil eye”—: one must appeal to the artists themselves. What does the tragic artist communicate of himself? Is it not precisely the state without fear before the fearful and questionable, which he shows?—This state itself is a high desirability; whoever knows it honors it with the highest honors. He communicates it, he must communicate it, provided he is an artist, a genius of communication. The courage and freedom of feeling before a mighty enemy, before a sublime calamity, before a problem that awakens horror—this victorious state is what the tragic artist selects, what he glorifies. Before tragedy, the warlike in our soul celebrates its Saturnalia; whoever is used to suffering, whoever seeks out suffering, the heroic human being praises his existence with tragedy—to him alone the tragedian offers the draught of this sweetest cruelty.—\n\n[25] To put up with people, to keep open house with one’s heart, that is liberal, but it is merely liberal. One recognizes the hearts capable of noble hospitality by the many curtained windows and closed shutters: their best rooms they keep empty. Why then?—Because they await guests with whom one does not “put up.”\n\n[26] We no longer value ourselves enough when we communicate ourselves. Our true experiences are not at all garrulous. They could not communicate themselves even if they wanted to. That is because they lack the word. Whatever we have words for, we have already got beyond. In all talk there is a grain of contempt. Language, it seems, was invented only for what is average, middling, communicable. With language the speaker already vulgarizes himself.—From a morality for the deaf and dumb and other philosophers.\n\n[27] “This portrait is enchantingly beautiful!”… The literary woman, unsatisfied, excited, desolate in heart and entrails, with painful curiosity forever listening for the imperative that whispers from the depths of her organization “aut liberi aut libri”: the literary woman, educated enough to understand the voice of nature even when it speaks Latin, and on the other hand vain and goose enough to speak French with herself in secret as well: “je me verrai, je me lirai, je m’extasierai et je dirai: Possible, que j’aie eu tant d’esprit?”\n\n[28] The “impersonal” ones come to speak.—“Nothing is easier for us than to be wise, patient, superior. We drip with the oil of forbearance and compassion, we are just in an absurd way, we forgive everything. Precisely for that reason we should hold ourselves a little more strictly; precisely for that reason we should, from time to time, cultivate a small affect, a small vice of affect. It may go hard with us; and among ourselves we perhaps laugh at the aspect we present thereby. But what does it help? We have no other kind of self-overcoming left: this is our ascetics, our penance”… To become personal—the virtue of the “impersonal”…\n\n[29] From a doctor’s promotion.—“What is the task of all higher schooling?”—To make a machine out of the human being.—“What is the means to it?”—He must learn to be bored.—“How does one achieve that?”—Through the concept of duty.—“Who is his model for that?”—The philologist: he teaches oxen.—“Who is the perfect human being?”—The civil servant.—“Which philosophy gives the highest formula for the civil servant?”—Kant’s: the civil servant as thing in itself set as judge over the civil servant as appearance.—\n\n[30] The right to stupidity.—The tired and slow-breathing worker, who looks good-natured, who lets things go as they go: this typical figure, whom one now meets in all classes of society, in the age of work (and of the “Reich”!—), today claims art for himself, including the book, above all the journal—how much more the beautiful nature, Italy… The evening human being, with the “wild drives fallen asleep” that Faust speaks of, needs the summer resort, the seaside, the glaciers, Bayreuth… In such ages art has a right to pure foolishness—as a kind of holiday for spirit, wit and feeling. Wagner understood this. Pure foolishness restores…\n\n[31] Another problem of diet.—The means by which Julius Caesar defended himself against sickliness and headache: enormous marches, the simplest way of life, uninterrupted stay in the open air, constant exertions—these are, reckoned on a large scale, the preserving and protective measures generally against the extreme vulnerability of that subtle machine working under the highest pressure, which is called genius.—\n\n[32] The immoralist speaks.—Nothing goes more against a philosopher’s taste than the human being insofar as he wishes… If he sees the human being only in his doing, if he sees this most courageous, most cunning, most enduring animal gone astray even in labyrinthine predicaments, how admirable the human being appears to him! He even encourages him… But the philosopher despises the wishing human being, also the “desirable” human being—and in general all desirabilities, all ideals of the human being. If a philosopher could be a nihilist, he would be one because he finds the nothing behind all ideals of the human being. Or not even the nothing—but only the worthless, the absurd, the sick, the cowardly, the tired, all kinds of dregs from the drained cup of his life… The human being, who as reality is so worthy of veneration, how is it that he deserves no respect insofar as he wishes? Must he atone for being so capable as reality? Must he balance his doing, the head- and will-strain in all doing, with a stretching of limbs in the imaginary and the absurd?—The history of his desirabilities has so far been the partie honteuse of the human being: one should beware of reading in it too long. What justifies the human being is his reality—it will justify him eternally. How much more worthy is the real human being compared with any merely wished, dreamed, stunk-up and lied-up human being? with any ideal human being?… And only the ideal human being goes against the philosopher’s taste.\n\n[33] Natural value of egoism.—Selfishness is worth as much as the person who has it is physiologically worth: it can be worth very much, it can be worthless and contemptible. Each individual may be examined as to whether he represents the ascending or the descending line of life. With a decision about that one also has a canon for what his selfishness is worth. If he represents the ascending of the line, then his value is in fact extraordinary—and for the sake of the total life that takes a step further with him, the care for preservation, for the creation of his optimum of conditions, may itself be extreme. The individual, the “individuum,” as people and philosophers have so far understood it, is indeed an error: he is nothing for himself, no atom, no “link in the chain,” nothing merely inherited from of old—he is the whole one line of humanity up to him still himself… If he represents the descending development, decline, chronic degeneration, sickening (—illnesses, reckoned on a large scale, are already consequences of decline, not its causes), then little value accrues to him, and the first fairness wants that he take as little as possible from the well-formed. He is merely their parasite still…\n\n[34] Christian and anarchist.—When the anarchist, as the mouthpiece of declining strata of society, demands “right,” “justice,” “equal rights” with a fine indignation, he stands thereby only under the pressure of his lack of culture, which does not know how to grasp why he actually suffers—what he is poor in, in life… A cause-drive is mighty in him: someone must be to blame that he feels bad… And the “fine indignation” itself already does him good, it is a pleasure for all poor devils to curse—there is a small intoxication of power. Even complaint, self-lamentation, can give life a charm for whose sake one endures it: a finer dose of revenge is in every complaint, one reproaches those who are different with one’s feeling bad, under circumstances even with one’s badness, as an injustice, as an impermissible privilege. “If I am a canaille, then you should be one too”: on this logic one makes revolution.—Self-lamentation is good for nothing in any case: it stems from weakness. Whether one imputes one’s feeling bad to others or to oneself—the former the socialist does, the latter, for example, the Christian—makes no real difference. What is common, let us say also the unworthy thing about it, is that someone should be to blame that one suffers—in short, that the sufferer prescribes for himself the honey of revenge against his suffering. The objects of this need for revenge as a need for pleasure are occasion-causes: the sufferer finds causes everywhere to cool his little revenge—if he is a Christian, as said again, he finds them in himself… The Christian and the anarchist—both are décadents.—But even when the Christian condemns, slanders, befouls the “world,” he does it out of the same instinct out of which the socialist worker condemns, slanders, befouls society: the “last judgment” itself is still the sweet consolation of revenge—the revolution, as the socialist worker also expects it, only thought somewhat more distant… The “beyond” itself—why a beyond, if it were not a means to befoul the here and now?…\n\n[35] Critique of the morality of decadence. An “altruistic” morality, a morality in which self-interest withers, remains a bad sign under all circumstances. This holds for individuals; it holds especially for peoples. The best is lacking when self-interest begins to fail. Instinctively choosing what harms oneself, being lured by “disinterested” motives, comes close to a formula for decadence. “Not to seek one’s own advantage”—that is merely the moral fig leaf for an entirely different, namely physiological, state of affairs: “I no longer know how to find my own advantage.” Disintegration of the instincts!—A human being is finished when he becomes altruistic.—Instead of saying honestly, “I am no longer worth anything,” the moral lie in the decadent’s mouth says: “Nothing is worth anything—life is worth nothing”… Such a judgment ultimately remains a great danger; it is contagious—across the whole diseased soil of society it soon sprouts into a tropical vegetation of concepts, now as religion (Christianity), now as philosophy (Schopenhauerism). Under certain circumstances, such a growth of poison trees, sprung from decay, poisons life with its exhalations far and wide, for millennia to come…\n\n[36] Morality for physicians.—The sick person is a parasite on society. In a certain condition, it is indecent to go on living. To keep vegetating in cowardly dependence on physicians and treatments, once the meaning of life, the right to life, has been lost, should bring profound contempt from society. Physicians, in turn, should be the agents of this contempt—not prescriptions, but a fresh daily dose of disgust at their patients… To create a new responsibility, that of the physician, for every case in which the highest interest of life, of ascending life, demands that degenerating life be thrust down and aside with the utmost ruthlessness—for example, regarding the right to procreate, the right to be born, the right to live… To die proudly when it is no longer possible to live proudly. Death freely chosen, death at the right time, carried out with clarity and joy, amid children and witnesses: so that a real farewell is still possible, with the person taking leave still present; likewise a real appraisal of what one has achieved and intended, a summing-up of life—all in contrast to the wretched and horrifying comedy Christianity has made of the hour of death. Christianity must never be forgiven for abusing the dying person’s weakness to rape his conscience, for abusing the very manner of his death to pass value judgments on the person and his past!—Here, in defiance of every cowardice of prejudice, the first task is to establish the correct—that is, physiological—assessment of so-called natural death: which is ultimately also only an “unnatural” death, a suicide. No one ever perishes through anyone but himself. Only this is death under the most contemptible conditions, an unfree death, a death at the wrong time, a coward’s death. Out of love for life, one should want death otherwise: free, conscious, without accident, without ambush… Finally, a word of advice for the gentlemen pessimists and other decadents. It is not in our power to prevent our being born: but we can make good this mistake—for sometimes it is a mistake. In doing away with oneself, one does the most respectable thing there is: one almost earns the right to live by doing so… Society—what am I saying!—life itself gains more from this than from any “life” of renunciation, anemia, and other virtues—one has freed others from the sight of oneself, freed life from an objection… Pessimism, pure and unadulterated, proves itself only through the gentlemen pessimists’ self-refutation: one must go a step further in one’s logic, not merely negate life with “will and representation,” as Schopenhauer did—one must first negate Schopenhauer… Pessimism, incidentally, however contagious it may be, nevertheless does not increase the overall morbidity of an age, of a generation: it is its expression. One succumbs to it as one succumbs to cholera: one must already be morbidly predisposed enough. Pessimism itself does not produce a single additional decadent; I recall the statistical finding that years in which cholera rages do not differ from other years in their total number of deaths.\n\n[37] Whether we have become more moral.—As was to be expected, the entire ferocity of moral stupefaction—which, as everyone knows, passes for morality itself in Germany—has thrown itself into battle against my concept “beyond good and evil”: I could tell some pretty stories about that. Above all, I was invited to consider the “undeniable superiority” of our age in moral judgment, the real progress we have made here: a Cesare Borgia, compared with us, was by no means to be presented as a “higher human being,” as a kind of overman, as I present him… A Swiss editor, from the “Bund,” went so far as to “understand” the meaning of my work as a proposal to abolish all decent feelings—not without expressing his respect for the courage of such a venture. Much obliged!—In reply, I take the liberty of raising the question whether we have really become more moral. That everyone believes it is already an objection to it… We modern people, very delicate, very vulnerable, showing and receiving consideration in a hundred ways, actually imagine that this tender humanity we represent, this achieved unanimity in sparing one another, in readiness to help, in mutual trust, is a positive advance, that we have thereby moved far beyond the people of the Renaissance. But every age thinks this way, must think this way. What is certain is that we could not put ourselves into Renaissance conditions, could not even think ourselves into them: our nerves could not stand that reality, not to mention our muscles. Yet this incapacity proves no progress, only a different, a later constitution, a weaker, more tender, more vulnerable one, which necessarily produces a morality full of consideration. Suppose we thought away our tenderness and lateness, our physiological aging: then our morality of “humanization” would instantly lose its value as well—no morality has value in itself—it would inspire contempt even in us. On the other hand, let us not doubt that we moderns, with our thickly padded humanity, determined not to bump against a single stone, would furnish Cesare Borgia’s contemporaries with a comedy to make them die laughing. Indeed, with our modern “virtues,” we are involuntarily funny beyond all measure… The decline of hostile instincts and instincts that arouse distrust—and this would be our “progress”—represents only one consequence of the general decline in vitality: it takes a hundred times more effort, more caution, to sustain so conditional, so belated an existence. People help one another here; everyone is to some degree a patient, and everyone a nurse. This is then called “virtue”—among people who still knew life differently, more fully, more lavishly, more abundantly, it would have been called something else, perhaps “cowardice,” “wretchedness,” “old women’s morality”… The softening of our customs—this is my proposition, this, if you like, is my innovation—is a consequence of decline; conversely, the harshness and dreadfulness of custom can be a consequence of a surplus of life: for then much may be risked, much challenged, much squandered as well. What once gave life its spice would be poison to us… To be indifferent—that, too, is a form of strength—for that, too, we are too old, too late: our morality of fellow feeling, against which I was the first to warn, what one might call moral impressionism, is one more expression of the physiological overexcitability characteristic of everything decadent. The movement that tried to present itself as scientific through Schopenhauer’s morality of pity—a very unfortunate attempt!—is the true movement of decadence in morality; as such, it is deeply akin to Christian morality. Strong ages, noble cultures, see something contemptible in pity, in “love of one’s neighbor,” in a lack of self and self-esteem.—Ages must be measured by their positive forces—and measured in this way, that so lavish and fateful age of the Renaissance emerges as the last great age, while we, we moderns, with our anxious concern for ourselves and love of our neighbors, with our virtues of work, modest demands, lawfulness, scientific method—collecting, economical, mechanical—emerge as a weak age… Our virtues are conditioned, are called forth, by our weakness… “Equality,” a certain actual process of becoming alike, which merely finds expression in the theory of “equal rights,” belongs essentially to decline: the gulf between one person and another, one rank and another, the multiplicity of types, the will to be oneself, to stand apart, what I call the pathos of distance, belongs to every strong age. The tensile strength, the span between the extremes, is growing ever smaller today—the extremes themselves finally blur into similarity… All our political theories and state constitutions, the “German Reich” by no means excepted, are consequences, necessary consequences of decline; the unconscious effect of decadence has gained mastery even over the ideals of individual sciences. My objection to the whole of sociology in England and France remains that it knows from experience only society’s forms of decay, and in all innocence takes its own instincts of decay as the norm of sociological value judgment. Declining life, the diminution of all organizing power—that is, power that separates, tears open gulfs, subordinates and superordinates—formulates itself as an ideal in today’s sociology… Our socialists are decadents, but Mr. Herbert Spencer is also a decadent—he sees something desirable in the triumph of altruism!…\n\n[38] My concept of freedom.—The value of a thing sometimes lies not in what one achieves with it, but in what one pays for it—what it costs us. I will give an example. Liberal institutions cease to be liberal as soon as they have been attained: afterward there are no worse or more thorough enemies of freedom than liberal institutions. We know what they bring about: they undermine the will to power; they are the leveling of mountain and valley exalted into morality; they make people small, cowardly, and pleasure-seeking—with them the herd animal triumphs every time. Liberalism: in plain language, turning people into herd animals… These same institutions produce quite different effects while they are still being fought for; then they do indeed promote freedom powerfully. Looked at more closely, it is war that produces these effects, the war for liberal institutions, which, as war, keeps the illiberal instincts alive. And war educates for freedom. For what is freedom! Having the will to take responsibility for oneself. Maintaining the distance that separates us. Becoming more indifferent to hardship, harshness, privation, even to life. Being ready to sacrifice human beings to one’s cause, oneself included. Freedom means that the masculine instincts, those that delight in war and victory, hold sway over other instincts, those of “happiness,” for example. The human being who has become free, and how much more the spirit who has become free, tramples underfoot the contemptible kind of well-being dreamed of by shopkeepers, Christians, cows, women, Englishmen, and other democrats. The free human being is a warrior.—How is freedom measured, in individuals as in peoples? By the resistance that must be overcome, by the effort it costs to remain on top. The highest type of free human beings would have to be sought where the greatest resistance is constantly overcome: five paces from tyranny, close to the threshold of the danger of enslavement. This is true psychologically, if by “tyrants” we understand relentless and terrible instincts that challenge one to bring the maximum of authority and discipline to bear against them—the finest type, Julius Caesar; it is also true politically: one need only make one’s way through history. The peoples who were worth something, who became worth something, never became so under liberal institutions: great danger made something of them that deserves reverence, the danger that first teaches us to know our resources, our virtues, our defenses and weapons, our spirit—that compels us to be strong… First principle: one must need to be strong; otherwise one never becomes strong.—Those great hothouses for strong human beings, for the strongest kind there has yet been, aristocratic commonwealths such as Rome and Venice, understood freedom in precisely the sense in which I understand the word freedom: as something one has and does not have, something one wants, something one conquers…\n\n[39] Critique of modernity.—Our institutions are no longer good for anything: on that we agree. But the fault lies not with them, but with us. Once we have lost all the instincts from which institutions grow, we lose institutions altogether, because we are no longer fit for them. Democracy has always been the declining form of organizing power: as early as “Human, All Too Human” 1, 318, I characterized modern democracy, together with its half measures such as the “German Reich,” as a form of the state’s decay. For institutions to exist, there must be a kind of will, instinct, imperative, antiliberal to the point of malice: the will to tradition, to authority, to responsibility for centuries to come, to solidarity among chains of generations stretching forward and backward to infinity. Where this will exists, something like the Roman Empire is founded: or like Russia, the only power today that has endurance in its body, that can wait, that can still promise something—Russia, the opposite concept to Europe’s wretched fragmentation into petty states and its nervousness, which entered a critical stage with the founding of the German Reich… The whole West no longer possesses those instincts from which institutions grow, from which a future grows: perhaps nothing runs more deeply against the grain of its “modern spirit.” People live for today, live very fast—live very irresponsibly: and this is precisely what they call “freedom.” What makes an institution an institution is despised, hated, rejected: people believe themselves in danger of a new slavery wherever the word “authority” is so much as uttered. This is how far decadence has gone in the valuing instinct of our politicians, our political parties: they instinctively prefer what dissolves, what hastens the end… Witness modern marriage. All reason has visibly departed from modern marriage: but that furnishes no objection to marriage, only to modernity. The reason in marriage lay in the husband’s sole legal responsibility: this gave marriage weight, whereas today it limps on both legs. The reason in marriage lay in its indissolubility as a matter of principle: this gave it an emphasis that knew how to make itself heard against the accidents of feeling, passion, and the moment. It lay equally in the families’ responsibility for choosing the spouses. With growing indulgence toward marriage for love, people have simply eliminated the foundation of marriage, what first makes it an institution. One never, ever founds an institution on an idiosyncrasy; one does not, as I have said, found marriage on “love”—one founds it on the sexual drive, on the drive to possess (wife and child as property), on the drive to rule, which continually organizes for itself the smallest structure of domination, the family, which needs children and heirs in order to secure, physiologically as well, an attained measure of power, influence, and wealth, to prepare for long tasks, for a solidarity of instincts across centuries. Marriage as an institution already contains the affirmation of the greatest, most enduring form of organization: if society itself, as a whole, cannot vouch for itself down to the most distant generations, marriage has no meaning at all.—Modern marriage has lost its meaning—consequently, people abolish it.—\n\n[40] The worker question.—The stupidity—at bottom, the degeneration of instinct that causes all stupidity today—lies in there being a worker question at all. About certain things one does not ask questions: the first imperative of instinct.—I simply cannot see what people intend to do with the European worker now that they have made a question of him. He is far too well off not to ask more and more questions, more immodest questions, step by step. Ultimately, he has numbers on his side. All hope is gone that a modest and self-sufficient kind of human being, a Chinese type, might here develop into a class: and that would have made sense, would indeed have been a necessity. What has been done?—Everything to destroy even the precondition for it in the bud—through the most irresponsible thoughtlessness, people have utterly destroyed the instincts through which a worker becomes possible as a class, possible to himself. They have made the worker fit for military service, given him the right to organize, the right to vote politically: is it any wonder if the worker already feels his existence today to be a state of distress (in moral terms, an injustice)? But what do people want? I ask again. If one wills an end, one must also will the means: if one wants slaves, one is a fool to educate them to be masters.—\n\n[41] “Freedom I do not mean…” In times like ours, being left to one’s instincts is one more calamity. These instincts contradict, disrupt, destroy one another; I have already defined the modern as physiological self-contradiction. Rational education would demand that at least one of these systems of instinct be paralyzed under iron pressure, to allow another to gather strength, become strong, become master. Today one would first have to make the individual possible by pruning him: possible, that is, whole… The opposite happens: the demand for independence, for free development, for letting things take their course, is pressed most heatedly by precisely those for whom no bridle would be too strict—this holds in politics, this holds in art. But that is a symptom of decadence: our modern concept of “freedom” is one more proof of the degeneration of instinct.—\n\n[42] Where faith is needed.—Nothing is rarer among moralists and saints than integrity; perhaps they say the opposite, perhaps they believe it themselves. For when a belief is more useful, more effective, more convincing than conscious hypocrisy, instinct soon turns hypocrisy into innocence: the first principle for understanding great saints. With philosophers, too, another kind of saint, the entire trade entails admitting only certain truths: namely, those on the strength of which their trade enjoys public sanction—in Kant’s language, truths of practical reason. They know what they must prove; in that they are practical—they recognize one another by their agreement about “the truths.”—“You shall not lie”—in plain language: take care, my dear philosopher, not to tell the truth…\n\n[43] A whisper in the conservatives’ ear.—What was not known before, what is known today, could be known: regression, a reversal in any sense or degree, is simply impossible. We physiologists, at least, know this. But all priests and moralists have believed in it—they wanted to bring humanity back, screw it back, to an earlier measure of virtue. Morality has always been a Procrustean bed. Even politicians have copied the preachers of virtue in this: even today there are parties whose dream and goal is for everything to move backward like a crab. But no one is free to be a crab. There is no help for it: one must go forward, which is to say, step by step further into decadence (—my definition of modern “progress”…). One can check this development and, by checking it, dam up degeneration itself, accumulate it, make it more violent and sudden: that is all one can do.—\n\n[44] My concept of genius.—Great men, like great ages, are explosives in which an immense force has been stored up; historically and physiologically, their precondition is always that things have long been collected, accumulated, saved, and preserved toward their coming—that for a long time no explosion has occurred. Once the tension in the mass has grown too great, the most accidental stimulus is enough to call “genius,” the “deed,” the great destiny into the world. What do surroundings, an age, the “spirit of the times,” “public opinion” matter then!—Take the case of Napoleon. The France of the Revolution, and still more of the years before it, would have produced from itself the opposite type to Napoleon: and it did produce him. And because Napoleon was different, heir to a stronger, longer, older civilization than the one that went up in smoke and fragments in France, he became master here, he alone was master here. Great human beings are necessary; the age in which they appear is accidental; that they almost always become its masters is due only to their being stronger, being older, to a longer accumulation toward their coming. The relation between a genius and his age is that between the strong and the weak, also between the old and the young: relatively speaking, the age is always much younger, thinner, less mature, less sure of itself, more childish.—That people in France today think very differently about this (in Germany, too: but that does not matter), that the theory of the milieu, a true neurotic’s theory, has become sacrosanct and almost scientific there, finding believers even among physiologists, does not “smell good”; it gives one melancholy thoughts.—People in England understand it no differently, but no one will grieve over that. Only two paths are open to the Englishman in coming to terms with genius and the “great man”: either democratically, in Buckle’s fashion, or religiously, in Carlyle’s.—The danger in great human beings and ages is extraordinary; exhaustion of every kind, sterility, follows close on their heels. The great human being is an end; the great age, the Renaissance, for example, is an end. Genius—in work, in deed—is necessarily a spendthrift: spending itself is its greatness… The instinct of self-preservation is, as it were, unhinged; the overwhelming pressure of the forces pouring out forbids it any such care and caution. People call this “self-sacrifice”; they praise its “heroism,” its indifference to its own welfare, its devotion to an idea, a great cause, a fatherland: all misunderstandings… He pours out, he overflows, he uses himself up, he does not spare himself—fatally, fatefully, involuntarily, as a river’s bursting its banks is involuntary. But because people owe so much to such explosives, they have given them much in return, a kind of higher morality, for example… That is the way of human gratitude: it misunderstands its benefactors.—\n\n[45] The criminal and his kin.—The criminal type is the type of the strong human being under unfavorable conditions, a strong human being made sick. He lacks the wilderness, a somewhat freer and more dangerous nature and way of life in which everything that serves as a weapon and a defense in the strong person’s instinct has its rightful place. Society has outlawed his virtues; the most vigorous drives he brings with him soon grow together with the depressing emotions—with suspicion, fear, dishonor. But this is almost a recipe for physiological degeneration. Whoever must do in secret what he does best and would most like to do, amid prolonged tension, caution, and cunning, becomes anemic; and because his instincts never bring him anything but danger, persecution, and disaster, his feelings toward these instincts also turn against them—he comes to feel them as a fatality. It is society, our tame, mediocre, castrated society, in which a human being of untamed growth, coming down from the mountains or out of adventures at sea, necessarily degenerates into a criminal. Or almost necessarily: for there are cases in which such a person proves stronger than society: the Corsican Napoleon is the most famous case. Dostoevsky’s testimony bears on the problem before us—Dostoevsky, incidentally, the only psychologist from whom I had anything to learn: he belongs among the finest strokes of good fortune in my life, even more than the discovery of Stendhal. This profound man, who was ten times right to hold the superficial Germans in low esteem, came to feel very differently than he himself had expected about the Siberian convicts among whom he lived for a long time, all serious criminals for whom there was no road back to society—he felt them to be carved, roughly speaking, from the best, hardest, and most valuable timber that grows anywhere on Russian soil. Let us generalize the criminal’s case: let us imagine natures who, for whatever reason, lack public approval, who know that they are not regarded as beneficent, as useful—that Chandala feeling of counting not as an equal but as an outcast, unworthy, defiling. All such natures carry the color of the underground in their thoughts and actions; everything about them grows paler than it does in those whose existence lies in daylight. Yet almost all the forms of existence we honor today once lived in this half-sepulchral air: the scientific character, the artist, the genius, the free spirit, the actor, the merchant, the great explorer… As long as the priest counted as the highest type, every valuable kind of human being was devalued… The time is coming—I promise it—when he will count as the lowest, as our Chandala, as the most deceitful, the most indecent kind of human being… I call attention to the way that even now, under the mildest rule of custom ever to prevail on earth, at least in Europe, every life off the beaten track, every long, all-too-long existence below the surface, every unusual, opaque way of living brings one close to the type the criminal embodies to perfection. All innovators of the spirit bear for a time the pale, fatalistic mark of the Chandala on their brows: not because others feel this way about them, but because they themselves feel the terrible gulf separating them from everything established and held in honor. Almost every genius knows, as a phase of his development, the “Catilinarian existence,” a feeling of hatred, revenge, and rebellion against everything that already is, that no longer becomes… Catiline—the preliminary form of every Caesar’s existence.—\n\n[46] Here the view is open.—It can be loftiness of soul when a philosopher is silent; it can be love when he contradicts himself; a seeker of knowledge can show a courtesy that lies. It has been said, not without subtlety: it is unworthy of great hearts to spread the turmoil they feel; one need only add that not fearing what is most unworthy can also be greatness of soul. A woman who loves sacrifices her honor; a seeker of knowledge who “loves” perhaps sacrifices his humanity; a god who loved became a Jew…\n\n[47] Beauty is no accident.—Even the beauty of a race or family, its grace and goodness in every gesture, is worked for: like genius, it is the final result of the accumulated labor of generations. One must have made great sacrifices to good taste, done much and left much undone for its sake—seventeenth-century France is admirable in both respects—one must have made it a principle of selection in company, surroundings, dress, sexual satisfaction; one must have preferred beauty to advantage, habit, opinion, inertia. The supreme rule: one must not “let oneself go,” even in one’s own presence.—Good things are costly beyond measure: and the law always holds that the person who has them is not the person who acquires them. Everything good is an inheritance: what is not inherited is imperfect, is a beginning… In Athens at the time of Cicero, who expresses his surprise at this, men and young men far surpassed women in beauty: but what labor and effort the male sex had demanded of itself there, for centuries, in the service of beauty!—One must not, that is, go wrong about the method here: a mere disciplining of feelings and thoughts amounts to almost nothing (—here lies the great misunderstanding of German cultivation, which is wholly illusory): one must first persuade the body. Strictly maintaining gestures of distinction and refinement, obliging oneself to live only with people who do not “let themselves go,” is quite enough to make one distinguished and refined: in two or three generations everything has already been internalized. It is decisive for the fate of a people and of humanity that culture should begin in the right place—not in the “soul” (as the fatal superstition of priests and half-priests would have it): the right place is the body, gesture, diet, physiology; the rest follows from there… The Greeks therefore remain the first cultural event in history—they knew, they did, what was needed; Christianity, which despised the body, has so far been humanity’s greatest misfortune.—\n\n[48] Progress as I understand it.—I too speak of a “return to nature,” although it is really not a going back but an ascent—up into a lofty, free, even terrible nature and naturalness, one that plays with great tasks, that is entitled to play with them… To put it figuratively: Napoleon was a piece of “return to nature” as I understand it (for instance, in tactical matters, and still more, as military men know, in strategy).—But Rousseau—where did he actually want to go back to? Rousseau, this first modern human being, idealist and scoundrel in one person; who needed moral “dignity” to bear the sight of himself; sick with unbridled vanity and unbridled self-contempt. This monstrosity, too, which planted itself on the threshold of the modern age, wanted a “return to nature”—where, I ask again, did Rousseau want to go back to?—I hate Rousseau even in the Revolution: it is the world-historical expression of this double nature, idealist and scoundrel. The bloody farce in which this Revolution played itself out, its “immorality,” concerns me little: what I hate is its Rousseauian morality—the so-called “truths” of the Revolution, through which it still exerts its influence and wins over everything shallow and mediocre. The doctrine of equality!… But there is no more poisonous poison: for it seems to be preached by justice itself, when it is the end of justice… “Equal treatment for equals, unequal treatment for unequals—that would be the true voice of justice: and, as a consequence, never make unequal things equal.”—The fact that such horror and bloodshed surrounded this doctrine of equality has given this quintessential “modern idea” a kind of glory and fiery radiance, so that the Revolution as a spectacle has seduced even the noblest spirits. In the end, that is no reason to esteem it more highly.—I see only one person who felt about it as one must feel, with disgust—Goethe…\n\n[49] Goethe—not a German event but a European one: a magnificent attempt to overcome the eighteenth century through a return to nature, through an ascent to the naturalness of the Renaissance, a kind of self-overcoming on the part of that century.—He bore its strongest instincts within him: sentimentality, the idolatry of nature, the antihistorical, the idealistic, the unreal and revolutionary (—the last is only one form of the unreal). He enlisted the help of history, natural science, antiquity, and likewise Spinoza, but above all practical activity; he surrounded himself entirely with bounded horizons; he did not detach himself from life, he placed himself within it; he did not lose heart, and took as much as possible upon himself, over himself, into himself. What he wanted was totality; he fought against the separation of reason, sensuality, feeling, will (—preached in the most forbidding scholasticism by Kant, Goethe’s antipode); he disciplined himself into wholeness, he created himself… In the midst of an age that set its mind on unreality, Goethe was a convinced realist: he said yes to everything akin to him in this—he had no greater experience than that supremely real being called Napoleon. Goethe conceived a strong, highly cultivated human being, skilled in everything bodily, keeping himself in check, revering himself, who may dare to allow himself the full range and richness of naturalness, who is strong enough for this freedom; the human being of tolerance, not from weakness but from strength, because he knows how to turn to his own advantage even what would destroy an average nature; the human being for whom nothing is forbidden any longer, except weakness, whether it goes by the name of vice or virtue… Such a spirit, having become free, stands amid the universe with a joyful and trusting fatalism, believing that only what is isolated is reprehensible, that in the whole everything is redeemed and affirmed—he no longer negates… But such a faith is the highest of all possible faiths: I have baptized it with the name of Dionysus.—\n\n[50] One could say that in a certain sense the nineteenth century also strove for everything Goethe strove for as a person: a universality of understanding, of approval, a willingness to let anything and everything draw near, an audacious realism, a reverence for everything factual. How is it that the overall result is not a Goethe but a chaos, a nihilistic sighing, not knowing which way to turn, an instinct of weariness that in practice continually drives people to reach back to the eighteenth century? (—For example, as a Romanticism of feeling, as altruism and hypersentimentality, as femininity in taste, as socialism in politics.) Is the nineteenth century, especially toward its close, not merely an intensified, coarsened eighteenth century, that is, a century of decadence? So that Goethe would have been no more than an interlude, a beautiful effort in vain, not just for Germany but for all Europe?—But we misunderstand great human beings when we view them from the paltry perspective of public usefulness. That we do not know how to make use of them may itself belong to greatness…\n\n[51] Goethe is the last German for whom I have reverence: he would have felt three things that I feel—we understand each other about the “cross,” too… People often ask me why I write in German at all: nowhere, they say, am I read worse than in my own country. But who knows, in the end, whether I even want to be read today?—To create things on which time tries its teeth in vain; to strive, in form and in substance, for a little immortality—I have never yet been modest enough to demand less of myself. The aphorism, the maxim, of which I am the first German master, are the forms of “eternity”; my ambition is to say in ten sentences what anyone else says in a book—what anyone else does not say in a book…\n\nI have given humanity the deepest book it possesses, my Zarathustra: before long I shall give it the most independent.—\n\n### What I Owe the Ancients\n\n[1] To close, a word about that world into which I have sought paths, into which I may have found a new path—the ancient world. My taste, which may be the opposite of a tolerant taste, is far from saying yes wholesale here either: it does not like saying yes at all, prefers saying no, and likes saying nothing best of all… This holds for entire cultures, for books—it also holds for places and landscapes. At bottom, only a very small number of ancient books count in my life; the most famous are not among them. My sense of style, of the epigram as a style, awoke almost instantly on encountering Sallust. I have not forgotten the astonishment of my revered teacher Corssen when he had to give his worst Latin student the very highest grade—I was fully formed at a stroke. Compressed, severe, with as much substance as possible at its core, a cold malice toward the “beautiful word,” also toward the “beautiful feeling”—in this I recognized myself. Even in my Zarathustra, one will recognize in me a very serious ambition for Roman style, for what is “more lasting than bronze” in style.—It was no different when I first encountered Horace. To this day, no poet has given me the same artistic delight that an ode of Horace’s gave me from the beginning. In certain languages one cannot even aspire to what has been achieved here. This mosaic of words, in which each word, as sound, as position, as concept, radiates its force to right and left and across the whole; this minimum in the extent and number of signs, this maximum of energy in the signs achieved by it—all this is Roman and, if one will believe me, noble in the highest degree. All the rest of poetry becomes something too popular by comparison—a mere chattering of feelings…\n\n[2] I owe the Greeks no comparably powerful impressions; and, to put it bluntly, they cannot be for us what the Romans are. One does not learn from the Greeks—their manner is too foreign, and also too fluid, to exert an imperative, “classical” force. Who ever learned to write from a Greek! Who ever learned without the Romans!… Do not bring up Plato against me. In relation to Plato I am a thoroughgoing skeptic, and I have always been unable to join in the admiration for Plato the artist that is customary among scholars. In the end, I have the most refined judges of taste among the ancients themselves on my side here. Plato, it seems to me, jumbles all the forms of style together, making him an early decadent of style: he has something similar on his conscience to the Cynics who invented Menippean satire. To find the Platonic dialogue, this terribly self-satisfied and childish kind of dialectic, at all alluring, one must never have read good French writers—Fontenelle, for example. Plato is boring.—In the end my distrust of Plato goes deep: I find him so far astray from all the fundamental instincts of the Greeks, so thoroughly moralized, so Christian before Christianity—he already has the concept “good” as his supreme concept—that I would sooner use the harsh expression “higher fraud” for the whole phenomenon of Plato, or idealism, if that sounds more agreeable, than any other. We have paid dearly for this Athenian’s schooling among the Egyptians (—or among the Jews in Egypt?…). In the great calamity of Christianity, Plato is that ambiguity and fascination called the “ideal,” which enabled the nobler natures of antiquity to misunderstand themselves and step onto the bridge that led to the “cross”… And how much Plato there still is in the concept “church,” in the church’s structure, system, practice!—My recreation, my preference, my cure for all Platonism has always been Thucydides. Thucydides and perhaps Machiavelli’s The Prince are closest to me in their unconditional will to deceive themselves about nothing and to see reason in reality—not in “reason,” still less in “morality”… Nothing cures one so thoroughly as Thucydides of that wretched idealizing whitewash of the Greeks which the “classically educated” young man carries away into life as the reward for his high-school drill. One must turn him over line by line and read his hidden thoughts as clearly as his words: there are few thinkers so rich in hidden thoughts. In him the culture of the Sophists, meaning the culture of the realists, finds its consummate expression: that invaluable movement amid the moral and idealistic fraud of the Socratic schools, which was just then breaking out everywhere. Greek philosophy as the decadence of the Greek instinct; Thucydides as the great summation, the final revelation of that strong, stern, hard sense of fact that the older Greek possessed by instinct. In the end, courage in the face of reality distinguishes such natures as Thucydides and Plato: Plato is a coward in the face of reality—consequently he flees into the ideal; Thucydides has himself under control, consequently he keeps things under control as well…\n\n[3] To sniff out “beautiful souls,” “golden means,” and other perfections in the Greeks, to admire in them, say, calm in greatness, an ideal cast of mind, lofty simplicity—from this “lofty simplicity,” ultimately a piece of German foolishness, I was protected by the psychologist I carried within me. I saw their strongest instinct, the will to power; I saw them tremble before the unbridled violence of this drive—I saw all their institutions grow out of protective measures to keep them safe from one another, from the explosives within them. The tremendous tension within then discharged itself outward in terrible and ruthless hostility: the city-states tore one another to pieces so that the citizens of each might find peace from themselves. They needed to be strong: danger was close by—it lurked everywhere. The splendidly supple physicality, the audacious realism and immoralism peculiar to the Greek, arose from necessity, not from “nature.” They came only later, they were not there from the beginning. And with festivals and arts, too, they wanted nothing other than to feel themselves on top, to show themselves on top: these are means of glorifying oneself, in some circumstances of making oneself afraid of oneself… To judge the Greeks in the German manner by their philosophers, to use, say, the stolid respectability of the Socratic schools to learn what was fundamentally Greek!… The philosophers are, after all, the decadents of Greek civilization, the countermovement against the old, noble taste (—against the competitive instinct, against the city-state, against the value of the race, against the authority of tradition). The Socratic virtues were preached because the Greeks had lost them: irritable, fearful, unstable, actors all, they had a few reasons too many to let morality be preached to them. Not that it did any good: but grand words and poses suit decadents so well…\n\n[4] I was the first, in seeking to understand the older Greek instinct, still rich and even overflowing, to take seriously that wondrous phenomenon which bears the name of Dionysus: it can be explained only by an excess of strength. Anyone who pursues the Greeks as does the deepest living connoisseur of their culture, Jakob Burckhardt in Basel, knew at once that something had been accomplished here: Burckhardt added a separate section on this phenomenon to his “Culture of the Greeks.” For the opposite, consider the almost amusing poverty of instinct among German philologists when they come near the Dionysian. The famous Lobeck in particular, who crawled into this world of mysterious states with the venerable assurance of a worm dried out among books, and persuaded himself that he was being scholarly by being frivolous and childish to the point of nausea—Lobeck, with the full expenditure of his learning, gave us to understand that all these curiosities really amounted to nothing. Indeed, the priests may have imparted something not entirely worthless to the participants in such orgies: for example, that wine arouses pleasure, that human beings sometimes live on fruit, that plants bloom in spring and wither in fall. As for that so bewildering wealth of rites, symbols, and myths of orgiastic origin, with which the ancient world is quite literally overgrown, Lobeck finds in it an occasion to become still more witty. “The Greeks,” he says, Aglaophamus I, 672, “when they had nothing else to do, laughed, leaped, raged about, or, since human beings sometimes feel like doing this too, sat down, wept, and lamented. Others came along later and sought some reason for this striking behavior; and so, to explain those customs, the countless festival legends and myths arose. On the other hand, people believed that this comical activity, which happened to take place on festival days, necessarily belonged to the celebration too, and retained it as an indispensable part of worship.”—This is contemptible chatter; one will not take a Lobeck seriously for a moment. It affects us quite differently when we examine the concept of “Greek” that Winckelmann and Goethe formed, and find it incompatible with the element from which Dionysian art grows—with orgiastic frenzy. Indeed, I do not doubt that Goethe would have excluded anything of the sort, as a matter of principle, from the possibilities of the Greek soul. Consequently, Goethe did not understand the Greeks. For only in the Dionysian mysteries, in the psychology of the Dionysian state, does the fundamental fact of the Greek instinct find expression—its “will to life.” What did the Greek assure himself of through these mysteries? Eternal life, the eternal recurrence of life; the future promised and consecrated in the past; the triumphant yes to life beyond death and change; true life as the collective continuation of life through procreation, through the mysteries of sexuality. For this reason the sexual symbol was, for the Greeks, the venerable symbol in itself, the true profundity within the whole of ancient piety. Every detail in the act of procreation, of pregnancy, of birth aroused the highest and most solemn feelings. In the teaching of the mysteries, pain is pronounced holy: the “labor pains of the woman giving birth” sanctify pain in general—all becoming and growing, everything that guarantees a future, entails pain… For the pleasure of creation to exist, for the will to life eternally to affirm itself, the “torment of the woman giving birth” must also exist eternally… All this is what the word Dionysus means: I know no higher symbolism than this Greek symbolism, that of the festivals of Dionysus. In it the deepest instinct of life, the instinct for life’s future, for life’s eternity, is felt religiously—the very path to life, procreation, as the holy path… Only Christianity, with its underlying resentment against life, made something impure of sexuality: it threw filth on the beginning, on the precondition of our life…\n\n[5] The psychology of orgiastic frenzy as an overflowing feeling of life and strength, within which even pain still acts as a stimulus, gave me the key to the concept of tragic feeling, which has been misunderstood both by Aristotle and, in particular, by our pessimists. Tragedy is so far from proving anything about the Greeks’ pessimism in Schopenhauer’s sense that it must instead be regarded as its decisive rejection and counterexample. Saying yes to life even in its strangest and harshest problems; the will to life rejoicing in its own inexhaustibility through the sacrifice of its highest types—that is what I called Dionysian, that is what I divined as the bridge to the psychology of the tragic poet. Not to be rid of terror and pity, not to cleanse oneself of a dangerous emotion by discharging it violently—as Aristotle understood it—but, beyond terror and pity, to be oneself the eternal joy of becoming—that joy which also includes the joy of destruction… And with this I touch again the point from which I once set out—“The Birth of Tragedy” was my first revaluation of all values: with this I place myself back on the ground from which my willing, my ability grows—I, the last disciple of the philosopher Dionysus—I, the teacher of eternal recurrence…\n\n### The Hammer Speaks\n\nThus Spoke Zarathustra—3, 90.\n\n“Why so hard!” the kitchen charcoal once said to the diamond. “Aren’t we close relatives?”\n\nWhy so soft? Oh, my brothers, this is what I ask you: aren’t you—my brothers?\n\nWhy so soft, so yielding and giving way? Why is there so much\ndenial, disavowal in your hearts? So little destiny in your\ngaze?\n\nAnd if you do not want to be destinies and inexorable ones, how could you one day—triumph with me?\n\nAnd if your hardness will not flash and cut and cut through, how could you one day—create with me?\n\nFor all creators are hard. And it must seem bliss to you to press your hand upon millennia as upon wax—\n\n—bliss to write upon the will of millennia as upon\nbronze—harder than bronze, nobler than bronze. Only the utterly hard is\nsupremely noble.\n\nThis new tablet, oh my brothers, I set above you: become hard!—","download_url":"https://mouseia.org/api/works/twilight-of-the-idols/translations/trn_twilight_of_the_idols_mouseia.txt"},{"id":"trn_twilight_of_the_idols_plain","translator":"Mouseia","kind":"plain","note":"A complete machine-assisted Plain English translation made independently and directly from the German, not from the Musean edition or an existing English translation.","text":"### Preface\n\nTwilight of the Idols\n\nor\n\nHow to Philosophize with a Hammer.\n\nKeeping your good spirits in the middle of a dark undertaking that carries an immense responsibility is no small feat—and yet, what could be more necessary than good spirits? Nothing succeeds without a share of high spirits. Only an excess of strength proves that strength is there.—A revaluation of all values: this question mark is so black, so enormous, that it casts a shadow over the person who puts it down. Having such a task as your fate forces you to run out into the sun at every chance, to shake off a seriousness that has grown heavy, much too heavy. Any means will do; every “case” is a stroke of luck. Above all, war. War has always been the great act of wisdom for all minds that have turned too far inward, grown too deep; even a wound still has healing power. A saying whose origin I withhold from scholarly curiosity has long been my motto:\n\nSpirits rise; courage grows strong through a wound.\n\nAnother way to recover, one I sometimes want even more, is to sound out idols… There are more idols in the world than realities: that is my “evil eye” for this world, and my “evil ear” too… To ask questions here with a hammer for once, and perhaps hear in reply that famous hollow sound that speaks of bloated guts—what a delight for someone who has ears even behind his ears—for me, an old psychologist and rat-catcher, before whom precisely what would like to stay silent has to speak up…\n\nThis book too—its title gives it away—is above all a rest, a patch of sunlight, a psychologist’s brief escape into idleness. Perhaps a new war too? And are new idols being sounded out?… This little book is a great declaration of war. As for sounding out idols, this time they are not idols of the moment but eternal idols that are touched here with a hammer as with a tuning fork—there are no older idols at all, none more sure of themselves, none more puffed up… And none more hollow… That does not stop them from being the ones people believe in most; besides, especially in the most distinguished case, people do not call them idols at all…\n\nTurin, September 30, 1888,\non the day when the book of the revaluation\nof all values was completed.\n\nFriedrich Nietzsche.\n\n### Maxims and Arrows\n\n[1] Idleness is the beginning of all psychology. What? Could psychology be a—\nvice?\n\n[2] Even the bravest of us rarely has the courage to face what he actually knows…\n\n[3] To live alone, you have to be an animal or a god—says Aristotle. He leaves out the third case: you have to be both—a philosopher…\n\n[4] “All truth is simple.”—Isn’t that a double lie?—\n\n[5] Once and for all, there are many things I do not want to know.—Wisdom puts limits on knowledge too.\n\n[6] In your wild nature you recover best from your unnaturalness, from your intellectual life…\n\n[7] What? Is the human being just a mistake God made? Or is God just a\nmistake human beings made?—\n\n[8] From life’s school of war.—What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.\n\n[9] Help yourself: then everyone else will help you too. The principle of\nloving your neighbor.\n\n[10] Don’t be a coward toward your own actions! Don’t abandon them afterward!—Remorse is indecent.\n\n[11] Can a donkey be tragic?—To go under beneath a load you can neither carry nor throw off?… The philosopher’s situation.\n\n[12] If you have your why of life, you can put up with almost any how.—Human beings do not seek happiness; only the Englishman does that.\n\n[13] Man created woman—but out of what? Out of a rib of his\nGod—his “ideal”…\n\n[14] What? You’re looking? You want to multiply yourself by ten, by a hundred? You’re looking for followers?—Look for zeros.\n\n[15] Posthumous people—me, for example—are understood less well than people who fit their times, but get a better hearing. More strictly: we are never understood—and that is the source of our authority…\n\n[16] Among women.—“The truth? Oh, you don’t know the truth! Isn’t it an assault on all our feelings of modesty?”—\n\n[17] This is the kind of artist I love, modest in his\nneeds: he really wants only two things, his bread and his\nart—bread and Circe…\n\n[18] Anyone who cannot put his will into things at least puts a meaning into them: that is, he believes a will is already in them (the principle of “faith”).\n\n[19] What? You chose virtue and a proudly lifted chest, and at the same time you look with envy at the advantages of people with no scruples?—But choosing virtue means giving up “advantages”… (For an antisemite’s front door.)\n\n[20] The perfect woman commits literature as she commits a little sin: to try it out, in passing, looking around to see if anyone notices, and to make sure someone notices…\n\n[21] Put yourself only in situations where you cannot have pretend virtues, where instead, like a tightrope walker on his rope, you either fall or stand—or get away…\n\n[22] “Evil people have no songs.”—How is it that the Russians\nhave songs?\n\n[23] “German spirit”: a contradiction in terms for eighteen years.\n\n[24] Searching for beginnings turns you into a crab. The\nhistorian looks backward; eventually he believes backward too.\n\n[25] Contentment even protects you from catching cold. Has a woman who knew she was well dressed ever caught cold?—Even supposing she was barely dressed.\n\n[26] I distrust everyone who builds systems, and I keep out of their way. The\nwill to build a system is a lack of honesty.\n\n[27] People think woman is deep—why? Because they never get to the bottom of her. Woman is not even shallow.\n\n[28] When a woman has manly virtues, you want to run away; and when she has no manly virtues, she runs away herself.\n\n[29] “How much did the conscience used to have to bite on? What good teeth it had!—And today? What’s missing?”—A dentist’s question.\n\n[30] You rarely act too hastily just once. The first time, you always do too much. That is exactly why you usually do it a second time—and now you do too little…\n\n[31] A worm curls up when it is stepped on. That is smart. It makes it less likely to be stepped on again. In the language of morality: humility.—\n\n[32] There is a hatred of lying and pretending that comes from a touchy sense of honor. There is the same hatred that comes from cowardice, because a divine commandment forbids lying. Too cowardly to lie…\n\n[33] How little it takes to be happy! The sound of a bagpipe.—Without music, life would be a mistake. A German even imagines God singing songs.\n\n[34] You can think and write only while sitting down (G. Flaubert).—Now I’ve caught you, nihilist! Sitting still is precisely the sin against the Holy Spirit. Only thoughts arrived at by walking have any value.\n\n[35] There are times when we psychologists are like horses and grow restless: we see our own shadow swaying up and down in front of us. To see anything at all, a psychologist has to look away from himself.\n\n[36] Do we immoralists harm virtue?—No more than anarchists harm princes. Only since people started shooting at them have princes sat firmly on their thrones again. Moral: morality needs to be shot at.\n\n[37] You run ahead?—Are you doing it as a shepherd? Or as an exception? A third possibility would be the runaway… First question of conscience.\n\n[38] Are you genuine? Or just an actor? A representative? Or the\nthing represented itself?—In the end you may even be just an imitation\nof an actor… Second question of conscience.\n\n[39] The disappointed man speaks.—I looked for great people; all I ever found were apes of their ideal.\n\n[40] Are you someone who watches? Or who gets to work?—Or who looks away, steps aside?… Third question of conscience.\n\n[41] Do you want to go along? Or go ahead? Or go on your own?… You have to know what you want, and that you want. Fourth question of conscience.\n\n[42] Those were steps for me; I climbed up over them—to do that, I had to pass beyond them. But they thought I wanted to settle down on them…\n\n[43] What does it matter whether I turn out to be right! I am right about too much.—And whoever laughs best today will also laugh last.\n\n[44] My formula for happiness: a yes, a no, a straight line, a goal…\n\n### The Problem of Socrates\n\n[1] In every age, the wisest people have passed the same judgment on life: it is no good… Always and everywhere we have heard the same note from their mouths—a note full of doubt, full of gloom, full of weariness with life, full of resistance to life. Even Socrates said as he died: “Living means being sick for a long time: I owe Asclepius the healer a rooster.” Even Socrates had had enough.—What does that prove? What does it point to?—In the past, people would have said (—oh, they did say it, loudly enough, with our pessimists leading the way!): “Something here must be true! The agreement of the wise proves the truth.”—Will we still talk like that today? Are we allowed to? “Something here must be sick”—that is our reply. These wisest people of all time deserve a closer look first! Perhaps none of them was steady on his feet anymore? Past his prime? Shaky? Decadent? Could wisdom appear on earth as a raven excited by a faint smell of carrion?…\n\n[2] This irreverent idea, that the great wise men are types of decline, first dawned on me in precisely the case where both learned and unlearned prejudice oppose it most strongly. I recognized Socrates and Plato as symptoms of decay, as tools of Greek disintegration, as falsely Greek, as anti-Greek (“The Birth of Tragedy,” 1872). That agreement of the wise—I came to understand this more and more—does least of all prove that they were right about what they agreed on. Instead, it proves that they themselves, these wisest men, had something in common physiologically that made them take the same negative attitude toward life—that forced them to take it. Judgments, value judgments about life, for it or against it, can ultimately never be true. They have value only as symptoms; only as symptoms do they matter—in themselves, such judgments are stupidities. We really must reach out and try to grasp this astonishingly subtle point: the value of life cannot be assessed. Not by a living person, because he is a party to the dispute, even its object, and not its judge; not by a dead person, for a different reason.—So when a philosopher treats life’s value as a problem, that itself counts against him. It puts a question mark over his wisdom; it shows a lack of wisdom.—What? All these great wise men—could they not only have been decadent, but not even have been wise?—But I return to the problem of Socrates.\n\n[3] By birth, Socrates belonged to the lowest class: Socrates was rabble. People know how ugly he was; you can still see it yourself. But ugliness, an objection in itself, is almost a refutation among Greeks. Was Socrates even a Greek? Ugliness is often enough the expression of development that has been crossed and held back by crossbreeding. In other cases, it appears as development in decline.\n\nThe anthropologists among criminologists tell us that the typical criminal is ugly: a monster in face, a monster in soul. But the criminal is decadent. Was Socrates a typical criminal?—At the very least, this would not contradict that famous judgment by a reader of faces, which sounded so offensive to Socrates’ friends. A foreigner who understood faces was passing through Athens and told Socrates to his face that he was a monster—that he harbored every evil vice and desire inside him. And Socrates answered only: “You know me, sir!”—\n\n[4] It is not just the admitted wildness and anarchy of his instincts that point to decadence in Socrates. So do the overgrowth of logic and that malice of someone with rickets that marks him out. Nor should we forget those auditory hallucinations that have been interpreted in religious terms as “Socrates’ divine sign.” Everything about him is exaggerated, clownish, a caricature; at the same time, everything is hidden, full of ulterior motives, underground.—I am trying to understand what personal peculiarity produced that Socratic equation of reason = virtue = happiness. It is the strangest equation there is, and in particular it has every instinct of the older Greeks against it.\n\n[5] With Socrates, Greek taste turns in favor of dialectical argument: what is actually happening here? Above all, an aristocratic taste is defeated; with dialectic, the rabble comes out on top. Before Socrates, good society rejected dialectical manners: they were considered bad manners, they exposed you. Young people were warned against them. Even presenting your reasons like that was distrusted. Respectable things, like respectable people, do not carry their reasons openly in their hands like that. It is indecent to show all five fingers. What first has to be proved is worth little. Wherever authority is still part of good manners, wherever people do not “give reasons” but give orders, the dialectician is a kind of clown. People laugh at him; they do not take him seriously.—Socrates was the clown who got people to take him seriously: what actually happened here?—\n\n[6] People choose dialectic only when they have no other means. They know it arouses distrust and does little to persuade. Nothing is easier to brush aside than the effect a dialectician produces: the experience of every gathering where people speak proves that. It can only be self-defense in the hands of people who have no other weapons left. You must be in a position where you have to force recognition of your right; otherwise you do not use it. That is why the Jews were dialecticians; Reynard the Fox was one. What? And Socrates was one too?—\n\n[7] —Is Socrates’ irony an expression of revolt? Of the rabble’s resentment? As an oppressed man, does he enjoy his own ferocity in the knife thrusts of logical deduction? Does he take revenge on the aristocrats he fascinates?—As a dialectician, you hold a merciless tool in your hand. You can play the tyrant with it; by winning, you expose the other person. The dialectician leaves it to his opponent to prove he is not an idiot: he makes him furious and helpless at the same time. The dialectician robs his opponent’s intellect of its power.—What? Is dialectic just a form of revenge in Socrates?\n\n[8] I have indicated what could make Socrates repellent; that makes it all the more necessary to explain why he fascinated people.—One reason is that he discovered a new kind of contest and was its first fencing master for the aristocratic circles of Athens. He fascinated people by touching the Greeks’ drive to compete—he introduced a variation into the wrestling match between young men and adolescent boys. Socrates was also a great master of erotic love.\n\n[9] But Socrates guessed still more. He saw behind his aristocratic Athenians; he understood that his case, his peculiar sort of case, was no longer an exception. The same kind of degeneration was quietly preparing itself everywhere: old Athens was coming to an end.—And Socrates understood that everyone needed him—his remedy, his cure, his personal trick for preserving himself… Everywhere the instincts were in anarchy; everywhere people were five steps away from excess: the monster in the soul was the common danger. “The drives want to play the tyrant; we must invent a counter-tyrant who is stronger”… After that reader of faces had revealed to Socrates what he was—a cave full of every evil desire—the great ironist added a remark that gives us the key to him. “That is true,” he said, “but I became master of them all.” How did Socrates become master of himself?—His case was basically only the extreme case, only the most striking example of what was then starting to become everyone’s plight: no one was master of himself anymore; the instincts were turning against one another. He fascinated people as this extreme case—his frightening ugliness proclaimed it to every eye. Of course, he fascinated them still more as an answer, a solution, an apparent cure for this case.—\n\n[10] If you need to make reason a tyrant, as Socrates did, the danger that something else will play the tyrant must be considerable. At that time people hit on rationality as their savior. Neither Socrates nor his “patients” had any choice about being rational—it was compulsory, it was their last resort. The fanaticism with which all Greek thought throws itself into rationality betrays a desperate situation. People were in danger; they had only one choice: either go under or—be rational to the point of absurdity… The moralism of the Greek philosophers from Plato onward is caused by sickness; so is their high opinion of dialectic. Reason = virtue = happiness means only: we must copy Socrates and set up a permanent daylight against the dark desires—the daylight of reason. We must be clever, clear, bright at any cost: every surrender to the instincts, to the unconscious, leads downward…\n\n[11] I have indicated why Socrates fascinated people: he seemed to be a doctor, a savior. Do I still need to point out the error in his belief in “rationality at any cost”?—Philosophers and moralists deceive themselves when they think that waging war against decadence already takes them out of it. Getting out is beyond their power: what they choose as a remedy, as salvation, is itself just another expression of decadence. They change its expression; they do not get rid of it. Socrates was a misunderstanding; the whole morality of improvement, including Christian morality, was a misunderstanding… The harshest daylight, rationality at any cost, a life that is bright, cold, cautious, conscious, without instinct, resisting instincts—this itself was just a sickness, another sickness, and certainly no way back to “virtue,” to “health,” to happiness… Having to fight the instincts—that is the formula for decadence. As long as life is on the rise, happiness equals instinct.—\n\n[12] —Did he himself finally understand this, this cleverest of all self-outwitters? Did he tell himself this at the end, in the wisdom of his courage to die?… Socrates wanted to die—it was not Athens but he who gave himself the cup of poison; he forced Athens to give him the cup… “Socrates is no doctor,” he said quietly to himself: “death alone is the doctor here… Socrates himself was just sick for a long time…”\n\n### \"Reason\" in Philosophy\n\n[1] You ask me what peculiarities philosophers have?… Their lack of a sense of history, for example, their hatred of the very idea of becoming, their Egyptianism. They think they honor something when they remove it from history and view it from the standpoint of eternity—when they make a mummy of it. Everything philosophers have handled for thousands of years has been a mummy of a concept; nothing real has come out of their hands alive. These gentlemen who worship conceptual idols kill and stuff things when they worship—they endanger the life of everything when they worship. Death, change, age, as well as procreation and growth, are objections to them—even refutations. What is does not become; what becomes is not… Now all of them believe, even desperately, in what is. But since they cannot get hold of it, they look for reasons why it is being kept from them. “There must be some illusion, some deception involved in our not perceiving what is: where is the deceiver?”—“We’ve got him,” they cry joyfully, “it’s the senses! These senses, so immoral in other ways too, deceive us about the true world. Moral: get free of the senses’ deception, of becoming, of history, of the lie—history is nothing but belief in the senses, belief in the lie. Moral: say no to everything that trusts the senses, to the whole rest of humanity: they are all ‘common people.’ Be a philosopher, be a mummy, portray monotonous monotheism with a gravedigger’s gestures!—And above all, away with the body, that pitiful fixed idea of the senses! Riddled with every logical error there is, refuted, even impossible, although it is shameless enough to behave as if it were real!”…\n\n[2] With great respect, I set the name of Heraclitus apart. While the other tribe of philosophers rejected the evidence of the senses because they showed multiplicity and change, he rejected their evidence because they showed things as though they had permanence and unity. Heraclitus too did the senses an injustice. They lie neither in the way the Eleatics believed nor in the way he believed—they do not lie at all. What we make of their evidence first puts the lie into it: the lie of unity, for example, the lie of thinghood, of substance, of permanence… “Reason” is what causes us to falsify the evidence of the senses. To the extent that the senses show becoming, passing away, change, they do not lie… But Heraclitus will always be right that being is an empty fiction. The “apparent” world is the only one: the true world is just a lie added to it…\n\n[3] —And what fine tools of observation we have in our senses! This nose, for example, which no philosopher has yet spoken of with respect and gratitude, is actually, for now, the most delicate instrument available to us. It can detect even tiny differences in movement that the spectroscope itself cannot detect. Today we have science to exactly the extent that we have decided to accept the evidence of the senses—that we have also learned to sharpen them, equip them, and think their evidence through to the end. The rest is a malformed birth and not yet science: meaning metaphysics, theology, psychology, the theory of knowledge. Or else formal science, the study of signs: such as logic and that applied logic, mathematics. Reality does not appear in them at all, not even as a problem; nor does the question of what value such a convention of signs as logic has at all.—\n\n[4] The other peculiarity of philosophers is no less dangerous: it consists in confusing the last with the first. What comes at the end—unfortunately! For it should not come at all!—they put at the beginning, as the beginning: the “highest concepts,” meaning the most general, the emptiest concepts, the last smoke of reality as it evaporates. This too is just an expression of their way of worshipping: the higher must not grow out of the lower; it must not have grown at all… Moral: everything of the first rank must be its own cause. Coming from something else counts as an objection, as casting doubt on its value. All the supreme values are of the first rank; all the highest concepts, what is, the unconditioned, the good, the true, the perfect—all this cannot have come into being, and must therefore be its own cause. But none of this can be unlike the rest, or contradict itself… That gives them their stupendous concept “God”… The last, thinnest, emptiest thing is put first, as the cause in itself, as the most real being… To think that humanity has had to take the brain disorders of sick web-spinners seriously!—And it has paid dearly for doing so!…\n\n[5] —Let us finally contrast this with the different way we (—I say “we” out of politeness…) look at the problem of error and appearance. In the past, people took alteration, change, becoming in general as proof of mere appearance, as a sign that something must be there to lead us astray. Today, on the contrary, we see ourselves as caught up in error, in a sense, forced into error, precisely to the extent that our prejudice in favor of reason forces us to assume unity, identity, permanence, substance, cause, thinghood, being. At the same time, careful checking makes us certain that the error lies here. It is no different from the movements of the great heavenly body: in that case, error has our eye as its constant advocate; in this case, it has our language. Language originated in the time of the most rudimentary form of psychology. We enter a crude world of fetishism when we bring to awareness the basic assumptions of the metaphysics of language—in plain terms, of reason. This sees doers and deeds everywhere; it believes in will as a cause in general; it believes in the “I,” in the I as being, in the I as substance, and projects this belief in the I as substance onto all things—only in this way does it create the concept “thing”… Being is thought into everything as a cause, slipped in underneath it; only from the conception “I” does the concept “being” follow, as something derived… At the beginning stands the great, disastrous error that the will is something that acts—that will is a faculty… Today we know it is only a word… Much later, in a world a thousand times more enlightened, philosophers became aware, to their surprise, of the confidence, the subjective certainty, with which they used the categories of reason. They concluded that these could not come from experience—after all, the whole of experience contradicted them. Where, then, did they come from?—And in India as in Greece, people made the same mistake: “We must once have been at home in a higher world (—instead of a much lower one, which would have been the truth!); we must have been divine, because we have reason!”… In fact, nothing so far has had a more naive power to persuade than the error about being, as formulated by the Eleatics, for example: after all, it has every word, every sentence we speak on its side!—Even the Eleatics’ opponents fell for the lure of their concept of being: Democritus, among others, when he invented his atom… “Reason” in language—oh, what an old, deceitful woman! I’m afraid we won’t get rid of God because we still believe in grammar…\n\n[6] People will thank me if I compress such an essential, such a new\ninsight into four propositions: that makes it easier to\nunderstand, and challenges people to contradict it.\n\nFirst proposition. The reasons for calling “this” world apparent instead establish its reality—any other kind of reality is absolutely impossible to demonstrate.\n\nSecond proposition. The features people have assigned to the “true being” of things are the features of nonbeing, of nothingness—they have built the “true world” out of its opposition to the real world: an apparent world indeed, since it is merely a moral-optical illusion.\n\nThird proposition. Inventing tales about a world “other” than this one makes no sense at all, unless an instinct to slander, belittle, and cast suspicion on life is powerful within us. In that case, we take revenge on life with the fantasy spectacle of an “other,” a “better” life.\n\nFourth proposition. Dividing the world into a “true” and an “apparent” one, whether in the Christian way or in Kant’s way (a sly Christian after all), is only a suggestion prompted by decadence—a symptom of life in decline… The fact that the artist values appearance more highly than reality is no objection to this proposition. For “appearance” here means reality once again, only selected, intensified, corrected… The tragic artist is no pessimist—he says yes precisely to everything questionable and terrible itself; he is Dionysian…\n\n### How the \"True World\" Finally Became a Fable\n\nHistory of an Error.\n\n[1] The true world is within reach of the wise, the devout, the virtuous—he lives in it, he is it.\n\n(The oldest form of the idea, relatively sensible, simple, convincing.\nAnother way of saying “I, Plato, am the truth.”)\n\n[2] The true world, out of reach for now, but promised to the wise, the devout, the virtuous (“to the sinner who repents”).\n\n(The idea progresses: it becomes more subtle, more ensnaring, harder to grasp—it becomes a woman, it becomes Christian…)\n\n[3] The true world, beyond reach, beyond proof, beyond any promise, but even as a thought a comfort, an obligation, a command.\n\n(Basically the old sun, but through fog and skepticism; the\nidea has become lofty, pale, northern, from Königsberg.)\n\n[4] The true world—beyond reach? At any rate, not reached. And since it has not been reached, it is also unknown. So it offers no comfort, no redemption, no obligation either: what obligation could something unknown place on us?…\n\n(Gray morning. Reason’s first yawn. The cockcrow of\npositivism.)\n\n[5] The “true world”—an idea no longer useful for anything, not even imposing any obligation anymore—an idea that has become useless, unnecessary, and therefore an idea that has been refuted: let’s do away with it!\n\n(Bright day; breakfast; the return of common sense and good spirits;\nPlato blushes with shame; all free spirits raise a devilish uproar.)\n\n[6] We have done away with the true world: what world is left? The apparent one, perhaps?… But no! Along with the true world, we have also done away with the apparent one!\n\n(Noon; the moment of the shortest shadow; the end of the longest\nerror; humanity’s high point; Zarathustra begins.)\n\n### Morality as Anti-Nature\n\n[1] All passions have a time when they are simply disastrous, when they drag their victim down with the weight of stupidity—and a later, much later time when they marry the spirit, become “spiritualized.” In the past, because of the stupidity in passion, people made war on passion itself. They conspired to destroy it—all the old moral monsters agree on this: “The passions must be killed.” The most famous formula for this appears in the New Testament, in that Sermon on the Mount where, incidentally, things are by no means viewed from on high. It says there, for example, with a practical application to sexuality, “If your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out.” Fortunately, no Christian follows this rule. To destroy passions and desires just to prevent their stupidity and its unpleasant consequences now seems to us to be simply an acute form of stupidity itself. We no longer admire dentists who pull teeth out so that they will not hurt anymore… On the other hand, to be fair, we should admit that the idea of “giving passion a spiritual form” could not have been conceived on the soil from which Christianity grew. As everyone knows, the early Church fought against the “intelligent” on behalf of the “poor in spirit”: how could we expect it to wage an intelligent war against passion?—The Church fights passion by cutting it out in every sense: its practice, its “cure,” is castration. It never asks: “How do we give a desire a spiritual form, make it beautiful, make it divine?”—In its discipline, it has always emphasized rooting out sensuality, pride, the lust for power, greed, and the desire for revenge.—But attacking the passions at the root means attacking life at the root: the Church’s practice is hostile to life…\n\n[2] The same means, castration, rooting out, is instinctively chosen in the struggle against a desire by people whose wills are too weak, who are too degenerate to impose moderation on themselves in it: those natures who need La Trappe, figuratively speaking (and not figuratively—), some final declaration of hostility, a gulf between themselves and a passion. Radical means are indispensable only to the degenerate. Weakness of will—or, more precisely, the inability not to react to a stimulus—is itself just another form of degeneration. Radical hostility, hostility to the death, against sensuality remains a symptom that gives us something to think about: it entitles us to draw conclusions about the overall condition of someone so extreme.—Besides, this hostility, this hatred, reaches its peak only when such natures no longer have enough firmness even for the radical cure, for renouncing their “devil.” Survey the whole history of priests and philosophers, and artists as well: the most poisonous things said against the senses have not come from the impotent, or from ascetics, but from failed ascetics, from people who would have needed to be ascetics…\n\n[3] When sensuality takes on a spiritual form, we call it love: this is a great triumph over Christianity. Another triumph is the spiritual form we have given hostility. This consists in deeply understanding the value of having enemies: in short, in acting and reasoning in the opposite way to how people acted and reasoned before. The Church has always wanted to destroy its enemies; we, we immoralists and anti-Christians, see an advantage for ourselves in the Church’s continuing to exist… In politics too, hostility has now become more spiritual—much smarter, much more thoughtful, much more sparing. Almost every party understands that its own survival depends on the opposing party not losing its strength; the same applies to politics on the grand scale. A new creation in particular, such as the new Reich, needs enemies more than friends: only in opposition does it feel necessary, only in opposition does it become necessary… We take the same approach to the “inner enemy”: here too we have given hostility a spiritual form; here too we have understood its value. You can be productive only at the price of being full of opposing forces; you stay young only if your soul does not stretch out, does not long for peace… Nothing has become stranger to us than that old ideal of “peace of soul,” the Christian ideal; nothing makes us less envious than the moral cow and the fat happiness of a good conscience. When you have given up war, you have given up a great life… In many cases, of course, “peace of soul” is just a misunderstanding—something else that simply does not know how to give itself a more honest name. A few cases, without beating around the bush or prejudging them. “Peace of soul” can be, for example, the gentle glow of a rich animal vitality spreading into morality (or religion). Or the beginning of tiredness, the first shadow cast by evening, any kind of evening. Or a sign that the air is damp, that south winds are approaching. Or unwitting gratitude for good digestion (sometimes called “love of humanity”). Or the growing quiet of someone recovering from illness, to whom everything tastes new, and who waits… Or the state that follows a powerful satisfaction of our ruling passion, the well-being of a rare fullness. Or the old-age weakness of our will, our desires, our vices. Or laziness, persuaded by vanity to dress itself up in moral finery. Or the arrival of certainty, even a terrible certainty, after long tension and torment through uncertainty. Or the expression of maturity and mastery in the midst of doing, creating, working, willing: calm breathing, the “freedom of the will” now achieved… Twilight of the Idols: who knows? Perhaps just a kind of “peace of soul” too…\n\n[4] —I put a principle into a formula. Every natural morality—that is, every healthy morality—is governed by an instinct of life. Some command of life is fulfilled through a definite set of “shoulds” and “should nots”; some obstacle or hostility on life’s path is cleared away by it. Unnatural morality, on the other hand—that is, almost every morality that has been taught, respected, and preached so far—turns precisely against the instincts of life. It condemns these instincts, sometimes secretly, sometimes loudly and shamelessly. In saying “God looks at the heart,” it says no to life’s lowest and highest desires, and takes God as the enemy of life… The saint who pleases God is the ideal castrato… Life ends where the “kingdom of God” begins…\n\n[5] If you have understood the outrageous wrong of such a rebellion against life, a rebellion that has become almost sacred in Christian morality, you have fortunately understood something else too: how useless, illusory, absurd, and dishonest such a rebellion is. A living person’s condemnation of life is ultimately still only the symptom of a particular kind of life. Whether that condemnation is justified or unjustified is not a question that this even raises. You would have to stand outside life, and at the same time know it as well as one, as many, as all the people who have lived it, to be entitled even to touch the problem of life’s value. Those are reasons enough to understand that the problem is beyond our reach. When we speak of values, we speak under life’s inspiration, from life’s perspective: life itself forces us to establish values; life itself values through us when we establish values… It follows that even that unnatural morality which sees God as life’s opposite and condemnation is only a value judgment made by life—which life? What kind of life?—But I have already given the answer: declining, weakened, tired, condemned life. Morality as it has been understood up to now—as Schopenhauer most recently formulated it too, as “denial of the will to life”—is the instinct of decadence itself, turning itself into a command. It says: “Perish.” It is the judgment of the condemned…\n\n[6] Finally, let us consider how naive it is to say, “Human beings should be like this and that!” Reality shows us a delightful wealth of types, the abundance of an extravagant play and change of forms. And some pitiful street-corner moralist says in response: “No! Human beings should be different”?… This poor sanctimonious wretch even knows what they should be like: he paints himself on the wall and says, “Here is the man!”… But even when the moralist addresses only the individual and says to him, “You should be like this and that!” he still makes himself ridiculous. The individual is a piece of fate, from before and from behind, one more law, one more necessity for everything that comes and will be. To tell him “Change yourself” means demanding that everything change, even backward into the past… And in fact there have been consistent moralists: they wanted human beings to be different, namely virtuous; they wanted them in their own image, namely sanctimonious. For that purpose they denied the world! No small madness! No modest kind of immodesty!… Morality, insofar as it condemns in itself, and not from life’s viewpoints, considerations, and purposes, is a particular error we should have no sympathy for, a peculiarity of the degenerate that has done unspeakable harm!… We others, we immoralists, have instead opened our hearts wide to every kind of understanding, comprehension, approval. We do not say no easily; we take pride in being people who say yes. More and more, our eyes have opened to that economy which still needs, and knows how to use, everything that the priest’s holy lunacy, the sick reason in the priest, rejects. That economy in the law of life draws an advantage even from the repulsive species of the sanctimonious, the priest, the virtuous person—what advantage?—But we ourselves, we immoralists, are the answer here…—\n\n### The Four Great Errors\n\n[1] The error of confusing cause and effect.—No error is more dangerous than confusing an effect with its cause. I call it the real corruption of reason. Yet this error is one of humanity’s oldest habits, and also one of its newest. Even among us it is treated as sacred: it goes by the names “religion” and “morality.” Every statement that religion and morality put forward contains it. Priests and moral lawmakers are the people who brought about this corruption of reason.—Here is an example. Everyone knows the famous Cornaro’s book. He recommends his meager diet as a recipe for a long and happy life—and a virtuous one too. Few books have been read so widely. Even now, many thousands of copies are printed in England every year. I have no doubt that hardly any book—the Bible excepted, as is only fair—has done as much harm or shortened as many lives as this well-meant curiosity. The reason is that it confuses an effect with its cause. The respectable Italian saw his diet as the cause of his long life. In fact, the condition that made a long life possible—his extremely slow metabolism and low energy use—was the cause of his meager diet. He was not free to eat little or much. His frugal eating was not a matter of “free will”: eating more made him sick. But anyone who is not a carp does not merely benefit from eating a proper amount: they need to. A scholar today, who rapidly uses up nervous energy, would ruin himself on Cornaro’s diet. Believe someone who has tried it.—\n\n[2] The most general formula behind every religion and morality says: “Do this and that, don’t do this and that—and you’ll be happy! Otherwise…” Every morality, every religion, is this command. I call it reason’s great original sin, its undying unreason. In my mouth, that formula turns into its opposite—the first example of my “revaluation of all values.” A person who has turned out well, a “happy” person, has to do certain things and instinctively avoids doing others. He brings the order that his body embodies into his relations with people and things. As a formula: his virtue is the result of his happiness… A long life and many descendants are not the reward for virtue. Rather, virtue itself is that slowing down of metabolism which brings, among other things, a long life and many descendants—in short, Cornaro’s way of living.—The Church and morality say: “A family line, a people, is ruined by vice and luxury.” My restored reason says: when a people is going to ruin, degenerating physically, vice and luxury follow from this. That means the need for ever stronger and more frequent stimulation, familiar to every exhausted body. This young man turns pale and withered before his time. His friends say: this or that disease is to blame. I say: the fact that he got sick, that he could not resist the disease, was already the result of an impoverished life, an inherited exhaustion. The newspaper reader says: this party is ruining itself with a mistake like that. My higher politics says: a party that makes mistakes like that is finished—it no longer has dependable instincts. Every mistake, in every sense, results from instincts breaking down, from the will falling apart. That almost defines what is bad. Everything good is instinct—and therefore easy, necessary, free. Strenuous effort is an objection. The god is a different type from the hero. In my language: light feet are the first sign of divinity.\n\n[3] The error of false causation.—People have always believed they knew what a cause was. But where did we get our knowledge—or, more exactly, our belief that we knew something here? From the realm of those famous “inner facts,” not one of which has so far proved to be a fact. We believed that we ourselves caused things when we willed. Here, at least, we thought we had caught causation in the act. Nor did anyone doubt that everything preceding an action, its causes, had to be sought in consciousness and would be found there if we looked—as “motives.” Otherwise, after all, we would not have been free to do it or responsible for it. Finally, who would have denied that a thought is caused? That the I causes the thought?… Of these three “inner facts,” which seemed to guarantee causation, the first and most convincing is the will as a cause. The idea of consciousness (“spirit”) as a cause, and later still the idea of the I (the “subject”) as a cause, came afterward. They came once causation by the will had been accepted as a given, as a fact of experience… Since then we have thought better of it. Today we no longer believe a word of any of this. The “inner world” is full of illusions and misleading lights: the will is one of them. The will no longer moves anything, so it no longer explains anything either. It merely accompanies events, and it can also be absent. The so-called “motive”: another error. Merely something on the surface of consciousness, something accompanying the act that conceals what came before it rather than showing it. And the I, of all things! It has become a fable, a fiction, a play on words. It has completely stopped thinking, feeling, and willing!… What follows from this? There are no mental causes at all! All the supposed evidence from experience for them has gone to hell! That is what follows!—And we had made quite a misuse of that “experience.” On that basis we had created the world as a world of causes, a world of will, a world of spirits. The oldest and longest-lasting psychology was at work here. It did nothing else. To it, everything that happened was an action, and every action resulted from a will. The world became a multitude of doers. A doer—a “subject”—was slipped underneath everything that happened. Human beings projected their three “inner facts,” the things they believed in most firmly—the will, the spirit, the I—out of themselves. They first drew the idea of being from the idea of the I. They declared that “things” existed in their own image, on the model of their idea of the I as a cause. Is it any wonder that later they only ever found in things what they had put into them?—The thing itself, to say it again, the idea of a thing, is merely a reflection of the belief in the I as a cause… And even your atom, gentlemen of mechanics and physics—how much error, how much leftover primitive psychology, still survives in your atom!—Not to mention the “thing in itself,” the metaphysicians’ horrible, shameful thing! The error of spirit as a cause confused with reality! And made the measure of reality! And called God!—\n\n[4] The error of imaginary causes.—Let’s start with dreams. A particular sensation—for example, one caused by a distant cannon shot—is afterward supplied with a cause. Often this is a whole little novel, with the dreamer himself as its main character. Meanwhile the sensation continues, like a kind of echo. It seems to wait until the drive to find a cause lets it come to the foreground—no longer as chance, but as “meaning.” The cannon shot appears as part of a causal sequence, with time apparently reversed. What comes later, the explanation, is experienced first, often with a hundred details that pass in a flash. The shot follows… What has happened? The images produced by a certain bodily state were mistaken for its cause.—In fact, we do the same thing when awake. Most of our general feelings—every kind of blockage, pressure, tension, or explosion in the action and counteraction of our organs, and especially the state of the sympathetic nerve—set off our drive to find causes. We want a reason for feeling this way or that—for feeling bad or feeling good. It never satisfies us simply to establish the fact that we feel this way or that. We only admit this fact—become conscious of it—once we have given it some kind of explanation.—In such a case, memory goes to work without our knowing it. It brings up earlier states of the same kind and the causal interpretations that have grown attached to them—not what actually caused those states. Of course, memory also brings up the belief that the images, the accompanying processes in consciousness, were the causes. This is how we become used to a particular interpretation of causes. In truth, that habit obstructs and even rules out any investigation of the cause.\n\n[5] The psychological explanation.—Tracing something unfamiliar back to something familiar brings relief, reassurance, and satisfaction. It also gives a feeling of power. The unfamiliar brings danger, uneasiness, and worry. Our first instinct is to get rid of these painful states. First principle: any explanation is better than none. At bottom, we only want to get rid of oppressive ideas, so we are not very strict about how we get rid of them. The first idea that explains the unfamiliar as something familiar feels so good that we “take it for true.” Pleasure as proof (“strength” as proof) becomes the test of truth.—So the drive to find causes depends on fear and is stirred up by it. If at all possible, the question “Why?” is meant to provide not so much the cause for its own sake as a particular kind of cause—a reassuring cause, one that frees us and brings relief. The first result of this need is that we assume the cause is something already familiar, something experienced before, something recorded in memory. What is new, unexperienced, or strange is ruled out as a cause.—So we are not merely looking for a kind of explanation to serve as a cause. We are looking for a selected, preferred kind: the explanations that have most quickly and most often removed the feeling of strangeness, novelty, and inexperience—the most usual explanations.—The result: one way of assigning causes becomes more and more dominant, comes together into a system, and finally takes control. That means it simply rules out other causes and explanations.—The banker immediately thinks of “business,” the Christian of “sin,” the girl of her love.\n\n[6] The whole realm of morality and religion comes under this heading of imaginary causes.—“Explanation” of unpleasant general feelings. They are caused by beings that are hostile to us. Evil spirits: the most famous case is the mistaken belief that hysterical women were witches. They are caused by actions we cannot approve of. The feeling of “sin,” of “sinfulness,” is slipped underneath a physical discomfort: we can always find reasons to be unhappy with ourselves. They are explained as punishments, as payment for something we should not have done or should not have been. Schopenhauer shamelessly turned this into a general statement in which morality appears as what it is: the true poisoner and slanderer of life. “Every great pain, whether physical or mental, tells us what we deserve; for it could not come to us if we did not deserve it.” Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, 2, 666. They are explained as the results of thoughtless actions that end badly. The emotions and the senses are assumed to be the causes, the “guilty” parties. Physical distress is interpreted as “deserved” with the help of other kinds of distress.—“Explanation” of pleasant general feelings. They are caused by trust in God. They are caused by the awareness of good actions: the so-called “good conscience,” a physical state that sometimes looks so much like good digestion that one could mistake the two. They are caused by the successful outcome of our undertakings. A naive false inference: a successful undertaking certainly does not give a hypochondriac—or a Pascal—pleasant general feelings. They are caused by faith, love, and hope—the Christian virtues.—In truth, all these supposed explanations are states that follow from feelings of pleasure or displeasure, and are like translations of those feelings into a false dialect. We are able to hope because our basic physical feeling is strong and rich again. We trust God because the feeling of fullness and strength gives us peace.—Morality and religion belong entirely to the psychology of error. In every single case, cause and effect are confused; or truth is confused with the effect of what is believed to be true; or a state of consciousness is confused with that state’s power to cause things.\n\n[7] The error of free will.—Today we have no sympathy left for the idea of “free will.” We know only too well what it is: the most disreputable trick theologians have, designed to make humanity “responsible” in their sense—that is, dependent on them… Here I am only giving the psychology behind all attempts to hold people responsible.—Wherever people look for responsibility, it is usually the instinct that wants to punish and judge that does the looking. The process of becoming is stripped of its innocence whenever being this way or that is traced back to a will, to intentions, to acts for which someone is responsible. The doctrine of the will was essentially invented for the purpose of punishment—that is, out of the desire to find someone guilty. The whole of the old psychology, the psychology of the will, rests on this premise: its creators, the priests at the head of ancient communities, wanted to give themselves a right to impose punishments—or to give God that right… People were imagined as “free” so that they could be judged and punished—so that they could become guilty. Consequently, every action had to be imagined as willed, and the origin of every action as lying in consciousness. This made the most fundamental falsification in psychology into the very principle of psychology… Today we have entered the opposite movement. We immoralists, in particular, are doing everything we can to remove the ideas of guilt and punishment from the world again, and to cleanse psychology, history, nature, social institutions, and sanctions of them. In our eyes, no one is more radically opposed to us than the theologians, who keep using the idea of a “moral world order” to infect the innocence of becoming with “punishment” and “guilt.” Christianity is a hangman’s metaphysics…\n\n[8] What alone can our teaching be?—That no one gives human beings their qualities: not God, not society, not their parents and ancestors, and not they themselves. The nonsense of this last idea, which we reject here, was taught as “intelligible freedom” by Kant, and perhaps by Plato before him. No one is responsible for existing at all, for being constituted this way or that, for being in these circumstances, in this environment. The fate of a person’s being cannot be separated from the fate of everything that was and everything that will be. A person is not the result of any particular intention, will, or purpose. No attempt is being made through them to achieve an “ideal of humanity,” an “ideal of happiness,” or an “ideal of morality.” It is absurd to try to trace their being back to some purpose. We invented the idea of “purpose”: reality has no purpose… We are necessary, we are a piece of fate, we belong to the whole, we are in the whole. There is nothing that could judge, measure, compare, or condemn our being, for that would mean judging, measuring, comparing, and condemning the whole… But there is nothing outside the whole!—That no one is held responsible anymore, that the way things are cannot be traced back to a first cause, that the world is not a unity either as a center of sensation or as “spirit”—this alone is the great liberation. Only this restores the innocence of becoming… Until now, the idea of “God” has been the greatest objection to existence… We deny God; we deny responsibility in God. Only through this do we free the world.—\n\n### The \"Improvers\" of Humanity\n\n[1] People know my demand that the philosopher place himself beyond good and evil—that he put the illusion of moral judgment beneath him. This demand follows from an insight that I was the first to put into words: there are no moral facts at all. Moral judgment has this in common with religious judgment: it believes in realities that are not real. Morality is only an interpretation of certain phenomena—or, to be more precise, a misinterpretation. Like religious judgment, moral judgment belongs to a stage of ignorance that does not yet even have the idea of reality, the distinction between what is real and what is imaginary. At that stage, “truth” refers entirely to things we now call “fantasies.” So moral judgment must never be taken literally. Taken that way, it always contains nothing but nonsense. But it remains priceless as a system of signs. At least to someone who knows how to read it, it reveals the most valuable realities of cultures and inner lives that did not know enough to “understand” themselves. Morality is only a language of signs, only a system of symptoms. You have to know what is going on already to get any use out of it.\n\n[2] A first, entirely preliminary example. In every age, people have wanted to “improve” human beings. Above all, this was what morality meant. But the same word hides the most widely different aims. Both taming the human beast and breeding a particular kind of human being have been called “improvement.” Only these terms from zoology express realities—realities that the typical “improver,” the priest, knows nothing about—and wants to know nothing about… To our ears, calling the taming of an animal its “improvement” sounds almost like a joke. Anyone who knows what happens in menageries doubts that the beast is “improved” there. It is weakened, made less harmful. Through the depressing emotion of fear, through pain, wounds, and hunger, it becomes a sick beast.—It is no different with the tamed human being whom the priest has “improved.” In the early Middle Ages, when the Church really was above all a menagerie, people everywhere hunted down the finest specimens of the “blond beast.” They “improved” Germanic nobles, for example. But what did one of these “improved” Germanic men, lured into a monastery, look like afterward? Like a caricature of a human being, like a malformed creature. He had become a “sinner.” He was stuck in a cage; he had been locked up among nothing but terrifying ideas… There he lay, sick, miserable, spiteful toward himself, full of hatred for the drives toward life, full of suspicion toward everything that was still strong and happy. In short, a “Christian”… In physical terms: when fighting the beast, making it sick may be the only way to make it weak. The Church understood this. It ruined human beings, it weakened them—but it claimed to have “improved” them…\n\n[3] Let’s take the other case of so-called morality: breeding a particular race and type. Indian morality provides the grandest example. It was given religious authority as the “Law of Manu.” Here the task is to breed no fewer than four races at once: a priestly race, a warrior race, a race of traders and farmers, and finally a servant race, the Shudras. Clearly, we are no longer among animal tamers. It takes a kind of person a hundred times gentler and more reasonable even to conceive the plan for such breeding. We breathe more freely as we leave the Christian air of sickrooms and prisons and enter this healthier, higher, wider world. How pitiful the “New Testament” is beside Manu, how bad it smells!—But this organization, too, needed to be terrifying. This time it was fighting not the beast but the opposite idea: the unbred human being, the mixed-breed human being, the Chandala. And again, it had no other means of making him harmless, of making him weak, than making him sick. It was a fight against the “great mass.” Perhaps nothing offends our feelings more than these protective measures of Indian morality. The third edict, for example (Avadana-Sastra 1), the one “on impure vegetables,” orders that the only food allowed to the Chandala is garlic and onions. The reason given is that sacred scripture forbids giving them grain, fruits that contain seeds, water, or fire. The same edict lays down that the water they need must not come from rivers, springs, or ponds. It may come only from the approaches to swamps and from holes made by animals’ footprints. They are also forbidden to wash their clothes or themselves, since the water granted to them out of mercy may be used only to quench thirst. Finally, Shudra women are forbidden to help Chandala women give birth, and Chandala women are also forbidden to help one another…—The results of such health policing were inevitable: deadly epidemics and hideous sexually transmitted diseases. These in turn led to the “law of the knife,” ordering circumcision for male children and removal of the inner labia for female children.—Manu himself says: “The Chandala are the fruit of adultery, incest, and crime”—this is the necessary consequence of the idea of breeding. “For clothes they shall have only rags from corpses, for dishes broken pots, for ornaments old iron, and for worship only evil spirits. They shall wander restlessly from one place to another. They are forbidden to write from left to right or to use their right hand for writing. The use of the right hand and of writing from left to right is reserved for the virtuous alone, for people of good stock.”—\n\n[4] These rules are instructive enough. Here, for once, we have Aryan humaneness, completely pure, in its original form. We learn that the idea of “pure blood” is the opposite of a harmless idea. On the other hand, it becomes clear among which people hatred—the Chandala’s hatred of this “humaneness”—has been made everlasting, where it has become religion, where it has become genius… From this point of view, the Gospels are a document of the first rank; the Book of Enoch even more so.—Christianity has Jewish roots and can only be understood as a growth from that soil. It represents the countermovement against every morality of breeding, race, and privilege. It is the anti-Aryan religion above all others: Christianity as the revaluation of all Aryan values, the victory of Chandala values, the gospel preached to the poor and the lowly, the united revolt of all the downtrodden, the miserable, the malformed, and the disadvantaged against the “race”—the Chandala’s undying revenge as the religion of love…\n\n[5] The morality of breeding and the morality of taming are entirely worthy of each other in the means they use to establish themselves. We can state this as the highest principle: to make morality, you must have an unconditional will to its opposite. This is the great, disturbing problem I have pursued the longest: the psychology of the “improvers” of humanity. A small and basically modest fact, the so-called pious fraud, first gave me access to this problem: pious fraud, the inheritance of all the philosophers and priests who “improved” humanity. Neither Manu nor Plato nor Confucius nor the Jewish and Christian teachers ever doubted their right to lie. They had no doubts about quite different rights either… Put as a formula, we could say: all the means by which people have so far tried to make humanity moral were immoral from the ground up.—\n\n### What the Germans Lack\n\n[1] Among Germans today, having a mind is not enough: you also have to claim it for yourself, take the liberty of using it…\n\nPerhaps I know the Germans; perhaps I may even tell them a few truths. The new Germany represents a great store of ability, inherited and learned. For a while, it can even afford to spend its accumulated stock of strength wastefully. What has come to power with it is not a high culture, still less a delicate taste or a noble “beauty” of instincts. But it has more manly virtues than any other country in Europe can show. A great deal of courage and self-respect, a great deal of reliability in dealings with others and in mutual duties, a great deal of hard work and endurance—and an inherited moderation that needs a spur rather than a brake. I would add that people here still obey without being humiliated by obedience… And no one despises his opponent…\n\nYou can see that I want to be fair to the Germans. I would not want to be untrue to myself in this, so I must also state my objection to them. Coming to power costs dearly: power makes people stupid… The Germans—they were once called the people of thinkers: do they still think at all today?—The Germans are now bored by the intellect; the Germans now distrust the intellect. Politics swallows up all seriousness about truly intellectual matters. “Germany, Germany above everything”—I fear that was the end of German philosophy… “Are there German philosophers? Are there German poets? Are there good German books?” people ask me abroad. I blush, but with the courage I have even in desperate cases, I answer: “Yes, Bismarck!”—Could I even admit what books people read today?… That damned instinct for mediocrity!—\n\n[2] —What the German mind could be—who has not had gloomy thoughts about that! But this people has deliberately made itself stupid for almost a thousand years. Nowhere have Europe’s two great narcotics, alcohol and Christianity, been more viciously abused. Recently a third has even been added, one that can single-handedly finish off all the mind’s delicate and daring agility: music, our clogged-up, clogging German music.—How much tiresome heaviness, lameness, dampness, lounging in dressing gowns, how much beer there is among German intellectuals! How is it actually possible for young men who dedicate their lives to the highest intellectual goals not to feel the first instinct of intellectual life, the mind’s instinct for self-preservation—and to drink beer?… The alcoholism of young scholars may not yet cast doubt on their scholarship. You can even be a great scholar without having a mind. But in every other respect it remains a problem.—Where can you fail to find the gentle degeneration that beer produces in the mind! Once, in a case that has almost become famous, I put my finger on just such a degeneration: that of our foremost German free spirit, the clever David Strauss, into the author of a beer-bench gospel and a “new faith”… Not for nothing had he pledged himself in verse to the “lovely brown one”—faithful until death…\n\n[3] —I spoke of the German mind becoming coarser and more shallow. Is that enough?—At bottom, what frightens me is something quite different: how German seriousness, German depth, and German passion in intellectual matters are declining more and more. The emotional intensity has changed, not merely the intellect.—I come into contact with German universities here and there. What an atmosphere prevails among their scholars! What barren intellectual life, grown complacent and lukewarm! It would be a profound misunderstanding to hold up German scholarship against me here—and proof, besides, that you had not read a word of mine. For seventeen years I have never tired of exposing how our current system of scholarly work drains away the spirit. Today, the enormous scope of the fields of knowledge condemns every individual to harsh servitude. This is a main reason why people whose natures are fuller, richer, and deeper no longer find the education and educators suited to them. Nothing harms our culture more than its surplus of arrogant street-corner loafers and fragments of human beings. Against their will, our universities are the real greenhouses for this kind of withering of the mind’s instincts. And all Europe already has some idea of this—great-power politics fools no one… Germany is increasingly regarded as Europe’s flatlands.—I am still looking for a German with whom I could be serious in my own way—how much more for one with whom I could be cheerful! Twilight of the Idols: ah, who today could understand the kind of seriousness from which a hermit is recovering here!—Our cheerfulness is the least understandable thing about us…\n\n[4] Take stock. It is not only obvious that German culture is declining; there is also no shortage of adequate reasons for it. In the end, no one can spend more than they have. This applies to individuals and to peoples. If you spend yourself on power, great-power politics, the economy, global trade, parliamentary government, and military interests—if you devote the store of understanding, seriousness, will, and self-overcoming that makes you who you are to those things—you do not have it left for the other side. Culture and the state—let’s not deceive ourselves about this—are opponents. The “cultural state” is merely a modern idea. One lives off the other; one flourishes at the other’s expense. All great ages of culture are ages of political decline. What was great in a cultural sense was nonpolitical, even antipolitical.—Goethe’s heart opened at the phenomenon of Napoleon; it closed during the “Wars of Liberation”… At the very moment Germany rises as a great power, France gains a different importance as a cultural power. Already today, much new seriousness and much new intellectual passion have moved to Paris. The question of pessimism, for example, the question of Wagner, and almost all psychological and artistic questions are considered there with incomparably more subtlety and thoroughness than in Germany. The Germans are themselves incapable of this kind of seriousness.—In the history of European culture, the rise of the “Reich” means one thing above all: a shift in the center of gravity. People everywhere already know it: in the main thing—and that remains culture—the Germans no longer count. People ask: can you point to even one mind that matters to Europe, as your Goethe, your Hegel, your Heinrich Heine, your Schopenhauer mattered?—There is no end to the astonishment that there is no longer a single German philosopher.—\n\n[5] The whole system of higher education in Germany has lost the main thing: both its purpose and the means to that purpose. People have forgotten that education, the development of culture, is itself the goal—not the “Reich”—and that this goal needs educators, not high school teachers and university scholars… We need educators who have themselves been educated: superior, noble minds, proving themselves at every moment, through speech and silence; mature cultures that have grown sweet—not the learned louts whom high school and university now offer the young as “higher nursemaids.” Apart from the rarest of exceptions, we lack educators, the first condition of education. Hence the decline of German culture.—One of these extremely rare exceptions is my deeply respected friend Jakob Burckhardt in Basel. More than anyone, he is the reason for Basel’s leading place in humanistic culture.—What Germany’s “higher schools” actually achieve is a brutal drilling designed to make countless young men useful—and exploitable—for state service, with as little loss of time as possible. “Higher education” and countless numbers contradict each other from the start. All higher education belongs only to the exception: you must be privileged to have a right to so high a privilege. Nothing great, nothing beautiful, can ever belong to everyone: beauty is for the few.—What causes the decline of German culture? The fact that “higher education” is no longer a privilege—the democratism of “universal” education, education that has become common… Nor should we forget that military privileges virtually force the higher schools to take too many students—that is, force their ruin.—In present-day Germany, no one is free anymore to give their children a noble education. All our “higher” schools are arranged for the most dubious mediocrity: in their teachers, their curricula, and their educational aims. And everywhere there is an indecent hurry, as if something had been missed if a young man is not yet “finished” at 23, not yet able to answer the “main question”: what career?—A higher kind of person, if I may say so, does not love “careers,” precisely because he knows he has a calling… He has time, he takes his time, he has no thought of becoming “finished.” At thirty, in the sense of high culture, you are a beginner, a child.—Our overcrowded high schools and our overloaded, stupefied high school teachers are a scandal. There may be causes for defending these conditions, as the Heidelberg professors recently did—but there are no reasons for it.\n\n[6] —So as not to act against my nature, which says yes and deals with contradiction and criticism only indirectly, only unwillingly, I will immediately state the three tasks for which educators are needed. We have to learn to see; we have to learn to think; we have to learn to speak and write. In all three, the goal is a noble culture.—Learning to see: training the eye to be calm and patient, to let things come to it; putting off judgment, learning to walk around and take in an individual case from every side. This is the first preparatory training for intellectual life: not reacting to a stimulus at once, but gaining control of the instincts that hold us back and shut things out. Learning to see, as I understand it, is almost what unphilosophical language calls a strong will. The essential thing is precisely the ability not to “will,” to suspend a decision. All lack of intellect, all commonness, rests on the inability to resist a stimulus. You have to react; you follow every impulse. In many cases this compulsion is already sickness, decline, a symptom of exhaustion. Almost everything that unphilosophical crudity calls “vice” is merely this physical inability not to react.—One practical result of having learned to see: as a learner in general, you will have become slow, suspicious, and resistant. At first you will let anything strange or new approach with hostile calm—you will draw your hand back from it. Standing open with every door, lying submissively on your stomach before every little fact, always ready to spring into other people and other things, to plunge into them—in short, the famous modern “objectivity”—is bad taste, is as common and low as it gets.—\n\n[7] Learning to think: our schools no longer have any idea what that means. Even at universities, even among the actual scholars of philosophy, logic is beginning to die out—as theory, as practice, as a craft. Read German books: there is no longer the faintest memory that thinking needs a technique, a course of training, a will to mastery—that thinking has to be learned as dancing has to be learned, as a kind of dancing… Who among the Germans still knows from experience that delicate shiver which light feet in intellectual matters send through every muscle!—The stiff clumsiness of intellectual gestures, the heavy hand when grasping something—these are so German that abroad they are confused with the German character as a whole. The German has no fingers for nuances… The fact that the Germans have even put up with their philosophers, above all the most deformed conceptual cripple who ever lived, the great Kant, gives no small idea of German grace.—Dancing in every form cannot, in fact, be left out of a noble education: being able to dance with your feet, with ideas, with words. Do I still have to say that you must be able to do it with your pen too—that you must learn to write?—But here I would become a complete riddle to German readers…\n\n### Skirmishes of an Untimely Man\n\n[1] People I can’t stand.—Seneca: or the bullfighter of virtue.—Rousseau: or the return to nature in impure nakedness.—Schiller: or the moral trumpeter of Säckingen.—Dante: or the hyena writing poetry in graves.—Kant: or cant as an intelligible character.—Victor Hugo: or the lighthouse on the sea of nonsense.—Liszt: or the school of dexterity—in chasing women.—George Sand: or milky abundance, in plain language: the dairy cow with a “beautiful style.”—Michelet: or enthusiasm taking off its coat… Carlyle: or pessimism as a lunch that has backed up.—John Stuart Mill: or offensive clarity.—The Goncourt brothers: or the two Ajaxes fighting Homer. Music by Offenbach.—Zola: or the joy of stinking.—\n\n[2] Renan.—Theology, or the corruption of reason by “original sin” (Christianity). Renan is evidence: whenever he risks a yes or no on any general issue, he gets it wrong with embarrassing regularity. For example, he wants to combine science and nobility into one. But science belongs to democracy; that is obvious enough to touch. He has no small ambition to represent an aristocracy of the mind. Yet at the same time he kneels before its opposite teaching, the gospel of the humble—and kneeling is not all he does… What good are all his free thinking, modern attitudes, mockery, and chameleon’s flexibility if he has remained a Christian, a Catholic, even a priest in his guts! Like a Jesuit and confessor, Renan puts his inventiveness into seduction. His intellectual qualities include the priest’s broad smirk—like all priests, he becomes dangerous only when he loves. No one can match his way of worshiping that puts life at risk… Renan’s kind of mind, a mind that drains people’s strength, is one more disaster for poor, sick France, sick in its will.—\n\n[3] Sainte-Beuve.—Nothing of a man; full of petty bitterness against every manly mind. He wanders around, subtle, curious, bored, fishing for information—basically a woman, with a woman’s vindictiveness and sensuality. As a psychologist, a genius at malicious gossip, with an inexhaustible supply of ways to do it. No one knows better how to mix poison into praise. His deepest instincts are common and base, related to Rousseau’s resentment. So he is a Romantic—for underneath all Romanticism, Rousseau’s instinct grunts and hungers for revenge. A revolutionary, but still reasonably restrained by fear. Not independent of anything that has strength: public opinion, the Academy, the court, even Port-Royal. Bitter toward everything great in people and things, toward everything that believes in itself. Enough of a poet and half a woman still to feel greatness as a power; always bent like that famous worm, because he always feels stepped on. As a critic he has no standard, stability, or backbone. He has the cosmopolitan libertine’s tongue for many things, but not even the courage to admit his own free living. As a historian he has no philosophy, no power of philosophical insight. So he refuses the task of judging in any major matter, holding up “objectivity” as a mask. He is different with everything for which a delicate, worn-out taste is the final judge. There he really does have the courage to be himself and take pleasure in himself—there he is a master.—In some respects, an early form of Baudelaire.—\n\n[4] The Imitation of Christ is one of those books I cannot hold in my hands without a physical resistance. It gives off a perfume of the Eternal Feminine that you have to be French—or a Wagnerian—to appreciate… This saint has a way of talking about love that would make even the women of Paris curious.—I am told that the cleverest of Jesuits, A. Comte, who wanted to lead his Frenchmen to Rome by the roundabout route of science, drew inspiration from this book. I believe it: “the religion of the heart”…\n\n[5] G. Eliot.—They have got rid of the Christian God and now think they have all the more reason to hold on to Christian morality. That is English consistency; we won’t hold it against little moralizing women like Eliot. In England, for every small step away from theology, you have to regain your good name by showing yourself to be a frightening moral fanatic. That is the penance you pay there.—For the rest of us, things are different. When you give up Christian belief, you also pull the right to Christian morality out from under your feet. This morality is by no means self-evident. We have to keep bringing this point to light, despite the English blockheads. Christianity is a system, a connected and complete view of things. If you break a central idea out of it, the belief in God, you also break the whole thing apart. Nothing necessary remains in your hands. Christianity assumes that human beings do not know and cannot know what is good or evil for them. They believe in God, who alone knows it. Christian morality is a command. Its origin is beyond this world. It is beyond all criticism, beyond any right to criticize. It is true only if God is the truth—it stands or falls with belief in God.—If the English actually believe they know for themselves, “intuitively,” what is good and evil, and therefore think they no longer need Christianity to guarantee morality, that is itself only a consequence of the dominance of Christian value judgments. It shows how strong and deep this dominance is: the origin of English morality has been forgotten, and people no longer feel how much its right to exist depends on particular conditions. For the Englishman, morality is not yet a problem…\n\n[6] George Sand.—I read the first Letters of a Traveler: like everything that comes from Rousseau, false, contrived, puffed up like bellows, exaggerated. I cannot stand this colorful wallpaper of a style, or the commoner’s ambition to have generous feelings. The worst thing, though, remains this woman’s flirtation with masculine qualities, with the manners of ill-behaved boys.—How cold she must have been through all of it, this unbearable artist! She wound herself up like a clock—and wrote… Cold, like Hugo, like Balzac, like all the Romantics as soon as they started writing literature! And how smugly she must have lain there, this fertile writing cow, who had something German about her in the bad sense, like Rousseau himself, her master, and who could only have become possible once French taste had declined!—But Renan worships her…\n\n[7] A rule for psychologists.—Don’t practice cheap gossip psychology! Never observe just for the sake of observing! That gives you a false perspective, a squint, something forced and exaggerated. Trying to have experiences by wanting to have them—that doesn’t work. You must not look at yourself while having an experience; every such look becomes the “evil eye.” A born psychologist instinctively avoids looking just to look. The same is true of a born painter. He never works “from nature”—he leaves it to his instinct, his dark chamber, to sift and give expression to the “case,” “nature,” the “experience”… Only the general result enters his awareness: the conclusion, the outcome. He knows nothing of deliberately extracting an abstraction from an individual case.—What happens if you do it differently? For example, if you practice cheap gossip psychology like the Parisian novelists, great and small? You practically lie in wait for reality and bring home a handful of curiosities every evening… But just look at the final result—a heap of blotches, a mosaic at best, and in every case something pieced together, restless, with clashing colors. The Goncourts are the worst at this. They cannot put three sentences together without simply hurting the eye—the psychologist’s eye.—Judged as art, nature is no model. It exaggerates, distorts, leaves gaps. Nature is chance. Studying “from nature” seems a bad sign to me: it reveals submission, weakness, fatalism. Groveling in the dust before little facts is unworthy of a complete artist. Seeing what is there—that belongs to another kind of mind, the unartistic, fact-minded kind. You have to know who you are…\n\n[8] On the artist’s psychology.—For there to be art, for there to be any aesthetic activity or perception, one physical precondition is essential: intoxication. Intoxication must first have made the whole machine more excitable; otherwise no art results. Every kind of intoxication has this power, however different its causes. Above all, the intoxication of sexual excitement, the oldest and most basic form of intoxication. Also the intoxication that follows every great desire, every strong emotion; the intoxication of festivals, competitions, daring feats, victory, any extreme movement; the intoxication of cruelty; intoxication in destruction; intoxication under certain weather conditions, such as spring fever; or under the influence of drugs; finally, intoxication of the will, of a will that is overflowing and swollen.—The essential thing in intoxication is the feeling of increased strength and fullness. Out of this feeling we give something to things, force them to take from us, overpower them—we call this process idealizing. Let’s get rid of a prejudice here: idealizing does not consist, as people generally believe, in subtracting or discounting what is small or secondary. What matters instead is an enormous amplification of the main features, so that the others disappear beside them.\n\n[9] In this state a person enriches everything out of his own fullness: whatever he sees, whatever he wants, he sees swollen, compressed, strong, loaded with power. A person in this state transforms things until they mirror his power—until they are reflections of his perfection. This compulsion to transform things into something perfect is—art. Even everything he is not still becomes a delight in itself to him; in art a person enjoys himself as perfection.—We could imagine the opposite state: an instinct that is specifically anti-artistic, a way of being that makes everything poorer, thinner, consumptive. And in fact history is full of such anti-artists, people starved of life, who by necessity take things into themselves, drain them, and make them leaner. The genuine Christian is an example, Pascal for one: a Christian who was also an artist does not occur… Don’t be childish and object with Raphael or some homeopathic Christians of the nineteenth century: Raphael said yes, Raphael did yes, so Raphael was not a Christian…\n\n[10] What do the opposing concepts Apollonian and Dionysian mean, which I introduced into aesthetics, both understood as kinds of intoxication?—Above all, Apollonian intoxication keeps the eye excited, so that it gains the power of vision. Painters, sculptors, and epic poets are visionaries in the fullest sense. In the Dionysian state, by contrast, the whole system of emotions is excited and heightened. It discharges all its means of expression at once, and it drives out at the same time the power of representing, imitating, transfiguring, and transforming, every kind of mimicry and acting. What remains essential is the ease of transformation, the inability not to react (—much like certain hysterics, who also step into any role at the slightest hint). It is impossible for the Dionysian person to miss any suggestion; he overlooks no sign of emotion; he has the highest degree of the instinct for understanding and guessing, just as he has the highest degree of skill at communicating. He enters every skin, every emotion; he is constantly changing himself.—Music as we understand it today is likewise a total excitement and discharge of the emotions, but still only the leftover of a much fuller world of emotional expression, a mere remainder of Dionysian play-acting. To make music possible as a separate art, a number of senses have been shut down, above all the muscle sense (at least relatively; to a certain degree all rhythm still speaks to our muscles), so that a person no longer imitates and acts out in his body everything he feels right away. Even so, this is the truly Dionysian normal state, in any case the original state; music is the slowly achieved specialization of this state, at the expense of the most closely related abilities.\n\n[11] The actor, the mime, the dancer, the musician, and the lyric poet are fundamentally related in their instincts and in themselves one, but they have gradually specialized and separated from each other—even to the point of contradiction. The lyric poet stayed united with the musician longest; the actor with the dancer.—The architect represents neither a Dionysian nor an Apollonian state. Here it is the great act of will, the will that moves mountains, the intoxication of great will, that calls for art. The most powerful people have always inspired the architects; the architect was always under the suggestion of power. A building is meant to make pride, victory over gravity, and the will to power visible; architecture is a kind of eloquence of power in forms, sometimes persuading, even flattering, sometimes simply commanding. The highest feeling of power and security is expressed in whatever has the grand style. Power that no longer needs proof; that scorns to please; that is slow to answer; that feels no witness around it; that lives unaware that there is any opposition to it; that rests in itself, fatalistic, a law among laws: that is how the grand style speaks of itself.—\n\n[12] I read the life of Thomas Carlyle, a farce that happened without anyone knowing or meaning it, a heroic and moral interpretation of upset stomachs.—Carlyle, a man of strong words and poses, an orator by necessity, constantly irritated by the longing for a strong faith and the feeling that he is incapable of it (—in that a typical Romantic!). Longing for a strong faith is not proof of a strong faith; it is the opposite. If you have such a faith, you can allow yourself the fine luxury of skepticism: you are secure enough, firm enough, tied down enough for it. Carlyle numbs something in himself with the fortissimo of his reverence for people of strong faith and with his fury against the less simple-minded: he needs noise. A constant, passionate dishonesty toward himself—that is his distinguishing trait; that is what makes him interesting, and keeps him so.—Of course, in England he is admired precisely for his honesty… Well, that is English; and considering that the English are the people of perfect cant, it is even fair, and not just understandable. At bottom Carlyle is an English atheist who makes it a point of honor not to be one.\n\n[13] Emerson.—Much more enlightened, more wide-ranging, more many-sided, more refined than Carlyle, and above all happier… A man who instinctively feeds only on ambrosia, who leaves behind whatever is indigestible in things. Compared with Carlyle, a man of taste.—Carlyle, who was very fond of him, still said of him: “He doesn’t give us enough to bite on.” That may be rightly said, but it does not count against Emerson.—Emerson has that kind and witty cheerfulness which discourages all seriousness. He simply has no idea how old he already is and how young he will still be—he could say of himself, in words of Lope de Vega, “I succeed myself.” His mind always finds reasons to be content and even grateful; and sometimes he touches the cheerful transcendence of that decent fellow who came back from a lovers’ rendezvous as though the business had gone well. “Though strength may be lacking,” he said gratefully, “the pleasure still deserves praise.”—\n\n[14] Anti-Darwin.—As for the famous struggle for life, so far it seems to me more asserted than proved. It does occur, but as an exception. The overall look of life is not need or hunger but wealth, abundance, even absurd waste—where there is fighting, it is a fight for power… Don’t confuse Malthus with nature.—But suppose this struggle exists—and in fact it does occur—then unfortunately it turns out the opposite of what Darwin’s school wants, and perhaps of what one might want along with them: namely, it turns out to the disadvantage of the strong, the privileged, the fortunate exceptions. Species do not grow in perfection: the weak keep becoming master over the strong—the reason is that they are the great majority, and they are also cleverer… Darwin forgot intelligence (—that is English!); the weak have more intelligence… You have to need intelligence in order to get it—you lose it when you no longer need it. Whoever has strength gets rid of intelligence (—“let it go!” people think in Germany today, “the Empire must stay with us anyway”…). By intelligence, as you can see, I mean caution, patience, cunning, disguise, great self-control, and everything that counts as mimicry (a large part of so-called virtue belongs to the latter).\n\n[15] Case studies of psychologists.—This man is a judge of human nature: why does he actually study people? He wants to snatch small advantages over them, or big ones—he is a politician!… That man over there is also a judge of human nature, and you say he wants nothing for himself from it, that he is a great “impersonal one.” Look closer! Maybe he wants an even worse advantage: to feel superior to people, to be able to look down on them, to no longer be mistaken for one of them. This “impersonal one” is a despiser of people; and the first man is the more humane type, whatever appearances may say. At least he puts himself on the same level; he puts himself in among them…\n\n[16] The Germans’ psychological tact seems to me called into question by a whole series of cases, and my modesty keeps me from presenting the list. In one case I do have a big occasion to support my claim: I hold it against the Germans that they misjudged Kant and his “philosophy of back doors,” as I call it—he was not the type of intellectual honesty.—The other thing I cannot stand to hear is a notorious “and”: the Germans say “Goethe and Schiller”—I fear they say “Schiller and Goethe”… Don’t people know this Schiller yet?—There are even worse “ands”; I have heard with my own ears, though only among university professors, “Schopenhauer and Hartmann.”\n\n[17] The most intellectual people, provided they are also the most courageous, also experience by far the most painful tragedies. But for that very reason they honor life, because it sets its greatest opposition against them.\n\n[18] On “intellectual conscience.”—Nothing seems to me rarer today than real hypocrisy. I strongly suspect that the mild air of our culture is not good for this plant. Hypocrisy belongs to ages of strong belief, when even if you were forced to put on a show of some other belief, you did not let go of the belief you had. Today you let it go; or, more commonly still, you acquire a second belief as well—in either case you stay honest. Without doubt a much greater number of convictions is possible today than before: possible, that is, permitted, that is, harmless. Out of this comes tolerance toward oneself.—Tolerance toward oneself allows several convictions; these live together peacefully—they take care, like everyone today, not to compromise themselves. What compromises you today? Being consistent. Going in a straight line. Having fewer than five meanings. Being genuine… I am very afraid that modern people are simply too comfortable for some vices, so that these are dying out altogether. All evil that depends on a strong will—and perhaps there is no evil without strength of will—degenerates into virtue in our lukewarm air… The few hypocrites I got to know were imitating hypocrisy: they were actors, like almost every tenth person these days.—\n\n[19] Beautiful and ugly.—Nothing is more conditional, let us say more limited, than our sense of the beautiful. Anyone who wanted to think of it apart from people’s delight in people would immediately lose the ground under his feet. The “beautiful in itself” is merely a word, not even a concept. In the beautiful a person sets himself up as the measure of perfection; in select cases he worships himself in it. A species cannot do anything other than say yes to itself alone in this way. Its lowest instinct, that of self-preservation and self-expansion, still radiates out even in such sublimities. A person believes that the world itself is heaped with beauty—he forgets that he is its cause. He alone has given it beauty—alas, only a very human, all-too-human beauty… At bottom a person mirrors himself in things; he considers everything beautiful that throws his image back at him. The judgment “beautiful” is the vanity of his species… A small suspicion may whisper this question in the skeptic’s ear: is the world really made more beautiful by the fact that humans take it to be beautiful? He has made it human: that is all. But nothing, nothing at all, guarantees us that humans should be the model of the beautiful. Who knows how he looks in the eyes of a higher judge of taste? Perhaps daring? Perhaps even amusing? Perhaps a little arbitrary?… “Oh Dionysus, divine one, why are you pulling me by the ears?” Ariadne once asked her philosopher lover in one of those famous dialogues on Naxos. “I find a kind of humor in your ears, Ariadne: why aren’t they even longer?”\n\n[20] Nothing is beautiful; only man is beautiful: all aesthetics rests on this naïveté; it is the first truth of aesthetics. Let us add its second truth right away: nothing is ugly except degenerating man—with that, the realm of aesthetic judgment is bounded.—Figured out physiologically, everything ugly weakens and saddens people. It reminds them of decay, danger, powerlessness; they actually lose strength from it. You can measure the effect of the ugly with a dynamometer. Wherever a person is pushed down at all, he senses that something “ugly” is near. His feeling of power, his will to power, his courage, his pride—these fall with the ugly and rise with the beautiful… In both cases we draw a conclusion; the premises for it are piled up in enormous quantity in instinct. The ugly is understood as a hint and symptom of degeneration; whatever reminds us of degeneration, even in the most distant way, produces in us the judgment “ugly.” Every sign of exhaustion, heaviness, age, tiredness; every kind of lack of freedom, such as cramp or paralysis; above all the smell, color, and form of dissolution and rot, even when diluted to a mere symbol—all of this calls up the same reaction, the value judgment “ugly.” A hatred leaps out there: whom does man hate there? But there is no doubt: the decline of his own type. He hates there out of the deepest instinct of his species; in this hatred are shuddering, caution, depth, far-sightedness—it is the deepest hatred there is. Because of it, art is deep…\n\n[21] Schopenhauer. Schopenhauer, the last German who counts (who is a European event, like Goethe, like Hegel, like Heinrich Heine, and not merely a local, “national” one), is a case of the first rank for a psychologist: namely, as a maliciously brilliant attempt to bring into the field, in support of a nihilistic devaluation of life as a whole, precisely the opposing cases—the great self-affirmations of the “will to life,” the exuberant forms of life. One after another, he interpreted art, heroism, genius, beauty, great compassion, knowledge, the will to truth, and tragedy as consequences of the “denial” of the “will,” or of the will’s need for denial—the greatest psychological counterfeiting in history, apart from Christianity. Looked at more closely, in this he is only the heir of the Christian interpretation, except that he knew how to approve even what Christianity rejected, the great cultural facts of humanity, in a Christian, that is, nihilistic sense (namely as paths to “redemption,” as early forms of “redemption,” as stimulants of the need for “redemption”…).\n\n[22] I will take one single case. Schopenhauer speaks of beauty with a melancholy fervor—why, ultimately? Because he sees in it a bridge on which one gets further, or gets thirsty to get further… For him it is redemption from the “will” for moments—it entices toward redemption forever… Above all he praises it as the redeemer from the “focal point of the will,” from sexuality—in beauty he sees the drive to procreate denied… Strange saint! Someone contradicts you, and I fear it is nature. Why is there beauty in nature at all, in sound, color, scent, rhythmic movement? What drives beauty out?—Fortunately a philosopher also contradicts him. No lesser authority than the divine Plato (Schopenhauer himself calls him that) maintains a different claim: that all beauty stimulates procreation—that this is precisely the distinctive feature of its effect, from the most sensual up to the most spiritual…\n\n[23] Plato goes further. He says, with an innocence you need to be Greek to have, and not “Christian,” that there would be no Platonic philosophy at all if there were not such beautiful young men in Athens: it is only the sight of them that throws the philosopher’s soul into an erotic frenzy and gives it no rest until it has sunk the seed of all lofty things into such beautiful soil. Another strange saint!—you can’t believe your ears, even if you do trust Plato. At the very least you guess that philosophy was done differently in Athens, above all in public. Nothing is less Greek than the concept-cobweb-weaving of a hermit, the intellectual love of God in the manner of Spinoza. Philosophy in Plato’s style would be better defined as an erotic competition, as a further development and internalization of the old competitive gymnastics and what it presupposed… What finally grew out of Plato’s philosophical eroticism? A new art form of the Greek contest: dialectic.—I would also remind you, against Schopenhauer and in Plato’s honor, that the whole higher culture and literature of classical France also grew up on the soil of sexual interest. Everywhere in it you may look for gallantry, the senses, competition between the sexes, “woman”—you will never look in vain…\n\n[24] Art for art’s sake.—The fight against purpose in art is always a fight against the moralizing tendency in art, against its subordination to morality. Art for art’s sake means: “To the devil with morality!”—But even this hostility still shows the overwhelming power of the prejudice. If you have excluded the purpose of preaching morals and improving people from art, it does not follow by a long way that art has no purpose at all, no aim, no meaning—in short, that it is art for art’s sake, a worm biting its own tail. “Better no purpose at all than a moral purpose!”—that is mere passion talking. A psychologist asks instead: what does all art do? Doesn’t it praise? Doesn’t it glorify? Doesn’t it select? Doesn’t it bring things forward? In doing all this it strengthens or weakens certain valuations… Is this only a side effect? An accident? Something in which the artist’s instinct was not involved at all? Or is it rather the precondition for the artist being able to do what he does…? Is his deepest instinct aimed at art, or rather at the point of art, which is life? At the desirability of life?—Art is the great stimulant to life: how could anyone understand it as purposeless, aimless, art for art’s sake?—One question remains: art also brings out much of life’s ugliness, hardness, and questionable side—doesn’t that seem to put us off life?—And in fact there were philosophers who gave it this meaning: Schopenhauer taught “getting free of the will” as the overall aim of art, and he honored “putting us in a mood of resignation” as the great usefulness of tragedy.—But this—I have already hinted at it—is the pessimist’s way of seeing and an “evil eye”: we must appeal to the artists themselves. What does the tragic artist communicate of himself? Isn’t it precisely the state of being without fear of the terrible and questionable things he shows?—This state is itself highly desirable; whoever knows it honors it with the highest honors. He communicates it, he has to communicate it, provided he is an artist, a genius of communication. The bravery and freedom of feeling in front of a powerful enemy, a sublime hardship, a problem that arouses dread—this victorious state is what the tragic artist selects and glorifies. Before tragedy the warlike part of our soul celebrates its Saturnalia; the person who is used to suffering, who seeks out suffering, the heroic person, praises his existence with tragedy—to him alone the tragic poet offers the drink of this sweetest cruelty.—\n\n[25] Taking people as they come, keeping open house with your heart—that is generous, but it is only generous. You recognize the hearts capable of noble hospitality by the many curtained windows and closed shutters: they keep their best rooms empty. Why? Because they are expecting guests with whom one does not “make do.”\n\n[26] We no longer value ourselves enough when we communicate ourselves. Our real experiences are not chatty at all. They could not communicate themselves even if they wanted to. The reason is that they lack the word. What we have words for, we have already moved past. There is a grain of contempt in all talking. Language, it seems, was invented only for what is average, middling, communicable. With language the speaker already makes himself vulgar.—From a morality for the deaf and mute, and other philosophers.\n\n[27] “This image is enchantingly beautiful!”… The literary woman, unsatisfied, agitated, empty in heart and belly, listening at all times with painful curiosity to the command that whispers “either children or books” from the depths of her body: the literary woman, educated enough to understand the voice of nature even when it speaks Latin, and on the other hand vain and enough of a silly goose to also say to herself in secret, in French: “I will see myself, I will read myself, I will go into ecstasies, and I will say: is it possible that I had so much wit?”\n\n[28] The “impersonal ones” get their say.—“Nothing is easier for us than to be wise, patient, superior. We drip with the oil of indulgence and sympathy; we are absurdly fair; we forgive everything. For that very reason we ought to be a little stricter with ourselves; for that very reason we ought to cultivate in ourselves, from time to time, a small emotion, a small vice of passion. It may go hard with us; and among ourselves we perhaps laugh at the picture we present that way. But what can we do! We have no other form of self-overcoming left: this is our asceticism, our penance”… Getting personal—the virtue of the “impersonal one”…\n\n[29] From a doctoral examination.—“What is the task of all higher education?”—To turn the person into a machine.—“What is the means?”—He has to learn to be bored.—“How is that achieved?”—Through the concept of duty.—“Who is his model for it?”—The philologist: he teaches cramming.—“Who is the perfect person?”—The civil servant.—“Which philosophy gives the highest formula for the civil servant?”—Kant’s: the civil servant as thing-in-itself, set up as judge over the civil servant as appearance.—\n\n[30] The right to stupidity.—The tired worker who breathes slowly, who looks good-natured, who lets things go as they go: this typical figure, whom one now meets in all classes of society in the age of work (and of the “Empire”!—), claims art for himself today, books included, above all the newspaper—and how much more so beautiful nature, Italy… The evening person, with the “wild urges lulled to sleep” that Faust talks about, needs the summer resort, the seaside, the glaciers, Bayreuth… In ages like these art has a right to pure foolishness, as a kind of vacation for mind, wit, and feeling. Wagner understood that. Pure foolishness restores…\n\n[31] Another problem of diet.—The means with which Julius Caesar defended himself against sickliness and headaches: enormous marches, the simplest way of life, constant time outdoors, continual hardships—these are, on the large scale, the measures of preservation and protection in general against the extreme vulnerability of that subtle machine, working under the highest pressure, which is called genius.—\n\n[32] The immoralist speaks.—Nothing offends a philosopher’s taste more than man insofar as he wishes… If the philosopher sees man only in his doing, sees this bravest, craftiest, most enduring animal lost even in labyrinthine predicaments, how admirable man seems to him! He still speaks encouragement to him… But the philosopher despises man the wisher, also the “desirable” man—and in general everything desirable, all of man’s ideals. If a philosopher could be a nihilist, he would be one because he finds nothing behind all of man’s ideals. Or not even nothing—only the worthless, the absurd, the sick, the cowardly, the tired, every kind of dregs from the drained cup of his life… Man, who as a reality is so worthy of reverence—how is it that he deserves no respect as soon as he wishes? Does he have to pay for being so capable as a reality? Does he have to make up for his doing, the strain of head and will in all doing, by stretching his limbs in the imaginary and absurd?—The history of his desirables has so far been the shameful private parts of man: one should take care not to read in it too long. What justifies man is his reality—it will justify him forever. How much more is the real man worth compared with any merely wished-for, dreamed-up, fabricated, lied-into-existence man? Compared with any ideal man?… And only the ideal man offends the philosopher’s taste.\n\n[33] The natural value of egoism.—Selfishness is worth as much as the person who has it is worth physiologically: it can be worth a great deal, or it can be worthless and contemptible. Every individual can be looked at to see whether he represents the ascending or the descending line of life. Once you have decided that, you also have a standard for what his selfishness is worth. If he represents the rising line, then his value is indeed extraordinary—and for the sake of life as a whole, which takes a step forward with him, the care to preserve him and to create the best possible conditions for him may even be extreme. The single person, the “individual” as the people and philosophers have understood it so far, is after all an error: he is nothing in himself, no atom, no “link in the chain,” nothing merely inherited from the past—he is the whole one line of humanity all the way up to himself… If he represents the descending development, decay, chronic degeneration, sickness (—illnesses are, on the large scale, already results of decay, not its causes), then he has little value, and basic fairness demands that he take as little as possible away from those who have turned out well. He is only their parasite now…\n\n[34] Christian and anarchist.—When the anarchist, as mouthpiece of declining layers of society, demands “right,” “justice,” “equal rights” with fine indignation, he is only under the pressure of his lack of culture, which does not know how to grasp why he is actually suffering—what he is poor in: life… A drive to find causes is strong in him: someone must be to blame for his feeling bad… The “fine indignation” itself also does him good; it is a pleasure for all poor devils to grumble—it gives a small intoxication of power. Even complaint, complaining about oneself, can give life an appeal that makes it bearable: there is a subtler dose of revenge in every complaint. You reproach those who are different for your bad feeling—under some circumstances even for your own badness—as if it were a wrong, as if they enjoyed an illegitimate privilege. “If I am a scoundrel, you should be one too”: on this logic people make revolution.—Complaining is good for nothing in any case: it comes from weakness. Whether you blame others or yourself for your bad feeling—the socialist does the former, the Christian for example the latter—makes no real difference. What they have in common, let us also say the undignified part, is that someone is supposed to be to blame for one’s suffering—in short, that the sufferer prescribes himself the honey of revenge against his suffering. The objects of this need for revenge, as a need for pleasure, are causes picked up as the occasion arises: the sufferer finds causes everywhere to cool his small revenge—if he is a Christian, to say it again, he finds them in himself… The Christian and the anarchist—both are decadents.—But even when the Christian condemns, slanders, and dirties the “world,” he does it out of the same instinct from which the socialist worker condemns, slanders, and dirties society: the “Last Judgment” itself is still the sweet comfort of revenge—the revolution, as the socialist worker also expects it, only imagined somewhat further off… The “beyond” itself—what is a beyond for, if not as a means of dirtying the here and now?…\n\n[35] A criticism of the morality of decadence. An “altruistic” morality, a morality in which self-interest wastes away, is always a bad sign. This applies to individuals, and especially to whole peoples. When self-interest starts to fail, the best thing is missing. Instinctively choosing what harms you, being drawn to “disinterested” motives, comes close to a formula for decadence. “Not looking out for your own advantage”—that is just the moral fig leaf covering a very different, physiological fact: “I no longer know how to find my own advantage.” The instincts are falling apart!—Once a person becomes altruistic, it is all over for him.—Instead of saying frankly, “I’m no longer worth anything,” the moral lie in the decadent person’s mouth says, “Nothing is worth anything—life is worth nothing”… Such a judgment is ultimately a great danger. It is contagious—across the whole diseased soil of society, it soon grows into a tropical jungle of concepts, now as religion (Christianity), now as philosophy (Schopenhauerism). Under some circumstances, the fumes of these poisonous trees, grown from decay, poison life far and wide, for thousands of years…\n\n[36] Morality for doctors.—A sick person is a parasite on society. In a certain condition, it is indecent to go on living. Continuing to vegetate in cowardly dependence on doctors and medical treatments, after the meaning of life and the right to live have been lost, should meet with deep contempt from society. Doctors, in turn, should communicate this contempt—not prescriptions, but a fresh dose of disgust at their patient every day… A new responsibility must be created, the doctor’s responsibility, for every case in which the highest interest of life, of life on the rise, calls for the most ruthless suppression and pushing aside of degenerating life—for example, concerning the right to reproduce, the right to be born, the right to live… To die proudly when it is no longer possible to live proudly. Death freely chosen, death at the right time, carried out clearly and cheerfully, among children and witnesses: so that a real farewell is still possible, with the person saying goodbye still present; and likewise a real assessment of what has been achieved and wanted, a summing up of life—all in contrast to the pitiful, horrifying comedy Christianity has made of the hour of death. Christianity must never be forgiven for exploiting the dying person’s weakness to rape his conscience, for misusing the very manner of his death to pass value judgments on the person and his past!—Here, in spite of all the cowardice of prejudice, the first task is to establish the right assessment—that is, the physiological assessment—of so-called natural death, which in the end is only an “unnatural” death too, a suicide. No one ever dies through anyone but himself. Only, this is death under the most contemptible conditions, an unfree death, a death at the wrong time, a coward’s death. Out of love for life, we should want death differently: freely, consciously, not by chance, not by surprise… Finally, a piece of advice for the pessimists and other decadents. It is not in our power to prevent being born, but we can make up for this mistake—for sometimes it is a mistake. When you do away with yourself, you do the most respectable thing there is: you almost earn the right to live by doing it… Society—what am I saying! Life itself benefits more from this than from any “life” of self-denial, anemia, and other virtues—you have freed others from the sight of you, freed life from an objection to it… Pure, fresh pessimism proves itself only through the pessimists’ refutation of themselves: they must go one step further in their logic, not just deny life with “will and representation,” as Schopenhauer did—they must first deny Schopenhauer… Incidentally, however contagious pessimism is, it still does not increase the total sickness of an age or a generation: it expresses that sickness. You fall victim to it as you fall victim to cholera: you must already have a sufficiently sickly disposition. Pessimism itself does not produce a single additional decadent. I recall the statistical finding that the years in which cholera rages do not differ from other years in the total number of deaths.\n\n[37] Have we become more moral?—As might have been expected, all the ferocity of moral stupidity—which in Germany, as everyone knows, counts as morality itself—has thrown itself against my idea of “beyond good and evil.” I could tell some nice stories about that. Above all, people asked me to consider our age’s “undeniable superiority” in moral judgment, the real progress we have made here: compared with us, they said, Cesare Borgia certainly should not be presented as a “higher human being,” a kind of overman, as I present him… A Swiss editor at the “Bund” went so far as to “understand” my work as a proposal to abolish all decent feelings, while expressing his respect for the courage it took to dare such a thing. Much obliged!—In reply, I take the liberty of asking whether we really have become more moral. That everyone believes it is already an objection… We modern people, very delicate, very easily hurt, giving and receiving a hundred kinds of consideration, really do imagine that the tender humanity we embody, the agreement we have reached about sparing one another, helping one another, trusting one another, is a positive advance; that it puts us far above the people of the Renaissance. But every age thinks this way, has to think this way. What is certain is that we could not put ourselves into Renaissance conditions, or even imagine ourselves there: our nerves could not stand that reality, not to mention our muscles. But this inability proves no progress, only a different, later constitution, a weaker, more delicate, more vulnerable one, which necessarily produces a morality full of consideration. Imagine away our delicacy and lateness, our physiological aging, and our morality of “humanization” would immediately lose its value too—no morality has value in itself: it would make us despise ourselves. On the other hand, let us not doubt that we modern people, with our thickly padded humanity, which refuses to bump into a single stone, would give Cesare Borgia’s contemporaries a comedy to die laughing at. In fact, with our modern “virtues,” we are extraordinarily funny without meaning to be… The decline of hostile instincts, instincts that arouse distrust—and that would be our “progress”—is only one consequence of the general decline in vitality: it takes a hundred times more effort, more caution, to maintain an existence so dependent on conditions, so late in life. People help one another; everyone is to some extent a patient, and everyone a nurse. Then they call that “virtue”—among people who knew life differently, fuller, more extravagant, more overflowing, it would have had another name, perhaps “cowardice,” “wretchedness,” “old women’s morality”… Our milder customs—this is my proposition, my new idea, if you like—are a consequence of decline; conversely, harsh and terrifying customs can result from an excess of life. For then much can be risked, much challenged, much wasted too. What once gave life its spice would be poison to us… We are also too old, too late, to be indifferent—that too is a form of strength. Our morality of sympathetic feeling, against which I was the first to warn, what could be called “moral impressionism,” is one more expression of the physiological oversensitivity characteristic of everything decadent. That movement which tried to present itself scientifically through Schopenhauer’s morality of pity—a very unsuccessful attempt!—is the real movement of decadence in morality. As such, it is deeply related to Christian morality. Strong ages, noble cultures, see something contemptible in pity, in “love of one’s neighbor,” in a lack of self and self-esteem.—Ages must be measured by their positive strengths—and by that measure, the Renaissance, so extravagant and so full of disastrous consequences, proves to be the last great age. And we, we modern people, with our anxious care for ourselves and love of our neighbors, with our virtues of hard work, modest expectations, honesty, and scientific method—collecting, economical, mechanical—prove to be a weak age… Our virtues are conditioned, are called for, by our weakness… “Equality,” a certain actual growing alike that merely finds expression in the theory of “equal rights,” essentially belongs to decline. The gap between one person and another, one class and another, the variety of types, the will to be oneself, to stand apart, what I call the passion of distance, belongs to every strong age. Today the tension, the distance spanned between the extremes, is growing smaller and smaller—the extremes themselves finally blur into similarity… All our political theories and constitutions, certainly including the “German Empire,” are conclusions, necessary consequences, of decline. The unconscious influence of decadence has gained control even over the ideals of particular sciences. My objection to all sociology in England and France remains that its experience is limited to the decaying forms of society, and that it quite innocently takes its own instincts of decay as the standard for sociological value judgments. Declining life, the decrease in all organizing power—that is, power that separates, opens gaps, puts some below and others above—is formulated as an ideal in today’s sociology… Our socialists are decadents, but Mr. Herbert Spencer is a decadent too—he sees the victory of altruism as something desirable!…\n\n[38] My idea of freedom.—Sometimes a thing’s value lies not in what we achieve with it but in what we pay for it—what it costs us. Here is an example. Liberal institutions stop being liberal as soon as they have been achieved: after that, nothing harms freedom more badly or more thoroughly than liberal institutions. We know what they bring about: they undermine the will to power, they turn leveling mountains and valleys into a moral principle, they make people small, cowardly, and pleasure-seeking—with them, the herd animal always wins. Liberalism: in plain language, becoming herd animals… While these same institutions are still being fought for, they have quite different effects; then they really do promote freedom powerfully. Look more closely, and it is war that produces these effects, the war for liberal institutions, which, as war, keeps the illiberal instincts alive. And war teaches freedom. For what is freedom? Having the will to take responsibility for oneself. Maintaining the distance that separates us. Becoming more indifferent to hardship, severity, deprivation, even to life. Being ready to sacrifice people to one’s cause, oneself included. Freedom means that the masculine instincts, the instincts that delight in war and victory, rule over other instincts, for example the instincts of “happiness.” The person who has become free, and still more the spirit that has become free, tramples on the contemptible kind of comfort that shopkeepers, Christians, cows, women, Englishmen, and other democrats dream of. A free person is a warrior.—What measures freedom, in individuals as in peoples? The resistance that must be overcome, the effort it takes to stay on top. The highest type of free person should be sought where the greatest resistance is constantly overcome: five steps away from tyranny, right on the threshold of the danger of slavery. This is true psychologically, if by “tyrants” we mean relentless and terrible instincts that call for the greatest possible authority and discipline against them—the finest example is Julius Caesar. It is also true politically: just take a walk through history. Peoples who were worth something, who became worth something, never did so under liberal institutions. Great danger made them into something deserving of reverence, danger that first teaches us what our resources, our virtues, our defenses and weapons, our minds are—danger that forces us to be strong… First principle: you must need to be strong; otherwise you never will be.—Those great hothouses for strong people, for the strongest kind of person there has ever been, the aristocratic communities of the kind found in Rome and Venice, understood freedom in exactly the sense in which I understand the word freedom: as something you have and do not have, something you want, something you conquer…\n\n[39] A criticism of modernity.—Our institutions are no good anymore: everyone agrees on that. But that is our fault, not theirs. Now that we have lost all the instincts from which institutions grow, we are losing institutions altogether, because we are no longer fit for them. Democracy has always been the declining form of organizing power: already in “Human, All Too Human” 1, 318, I described modern democracy, along with its halfway forms such as the “German Empire,” as a form of the state’s decay. For institutions to exist, there must be a kind of will, instinct, command, anti-liberal to the point of viciousness: the will for tradition, for authority, for responsibility extending centuries ahead, for solidarity among chains of generations reaching forward and backward without end. Where this will exists, something like the Roman Empire is founded; or like Russia, the only power today that has endurance in its body, that can wait, that can still promise something—Russia, the opposite of Europe’s pitiful fragmentation into little states and its nervousness, which entered a critical phase with the founding of the German Empire… The whole West no longer has the instincts from which institutions grow, from which a future grows: perhaps nothing goes so much against the grain of its “modern spirit.” People live for today, they live very fast—they live very irresponsibly: this is precisely what they call “freedom.” What makes institutions into institutions is despised, hated, rejected: people think they are in danger of a new slavery as soon as the word “authority” is even spoken. That is how far decadence has gone in our politicians’ and political parties’ instinct for values: they instinctively prefer what breaks things apart, what speeds up the end… Modern marriage is evidence. Clearly, all reason has disappeared from modern marriage: but that is no objection to marriage, only to modernity. The reason behind marriage lay in the man’s sole legal responsibility: that gave marriage weight, whereas today it limps on both legs. The reason behind marriage lay in its being indissoluble in principle: that gave it an emphasis that could make itself heard against the accidents of feeling, passion, and the moment. It also lay in families’ responsibility for choosing the partners. By growing more tolerant toward marriage for love, people have actually eliminated marriage’s foundation, what first makes it an institution. You never, ever base an institution on a personal peculiarity; as I said, you do not base marriage on “love.” You base it on the sexual drive, on the drive to own property (wife and child as property), on the drive to rule, which keeps organizing the smallest structure of rule for itself, the family; which needs children and heirs to maintain an achieved degree of power, influence, and wealth physiologically too, to prepare for long-term tasks, for solidarity of instinct across centuries. Marriage as an institution already includes affirmation of the greatest, most lasting form of organization: if society itself cannot, as a whole, stand guarantee for itself into the most distant generations, marriage has no meaning at all.—Modern marriage lost its meaning—so people abolish it.—\n\n[40] The worker question.—The stupidity—really the degeneration of instinct that causes all stupidity today—lies in the very existence of a worker question. You do not ask questions about certain things: the first command of instinct.—I cannot see at all what people intend to do with the European worker, now that they have made him into a question. He is doing far too well not to ask for more, step by step, to make more immodest demands. In the end, he has the great weight of numbers on his side. The hope that a modest, self-sufficient kind of person, a Chinese type, might develop into a class here is completely gone; and that would have made sense, that would actually have been necessary. What have people done?—Everything to destroy even the conditions for it in the bud. With the most irresponsible thoughtlessness, they have utterly destroyed the instincts through which a worker becomes possible as a class, possible to himself. They have made the worker fit for military service, given him the right to organize and the right to vote politically: is it any wonder that the worker already feels his existence to be a state of distress—in moral terms, an injustice? But what do people want? I ask again. If you want an end, you must also want the means: if you want slaves, you are a fool to train them to be masters.—\n\n[41] “Freedom that I do not mean…” In times like ours, being left to your instincts is one more disaster. These instincts contradict, disrupt, and destroy one another; I have already defined modernity as physiological self-contradiction. A rational education would require that at least one of these systems of instinct be paralyzed under iron pressure, allowing another to gain strength, become strong, become master. Today the individual would first have to be made possible by being pruned: possible, that is, whole… The opposite happens: independence, free development, letting things take their course, are demanded most hotly by precisely those for whom no restraint would be too strict—this applies in politics and in art. But that is a symptom of decadence: our modern idea of “freedom” is one more proof of the degeneration of instinct.—\n\n[42] Where belief is needed.—Nothing is rarer among moralists and saints than honesty; perhaps they say the opposite, perhaps they believe it themselves. For when a belief is more useful, more effective, more convincing than conscious hypocrisy, instinct soon turns hypocrisy into innocence: the first principle for understanding great saints. With philosophers, another kind of saint, the whole trade likewise requires them to admit only certain truths: namely, those on whose basis their trade has public approval—in Kant’s terms, truths of practical reason. They know what they have to prove; in that respect they are practical—they recognize one another by their agreement about “the truths.”—“You shall not lie”—in plain language: take care, Mr. Philosopher, not to tell the truth…\n\n[43] A word in the conservatives’ ear.—What people did not know before, what they know today, or could know: regression, a return in any sense or to any degree, is not possible at all. We physiologists, at least, know this. But all priests and moralists have believed in it—they wanted to bring humanity back, screw it back, to an earlier level of virtue. Morality was always a bed of Procrustes. Even politicians have imitated the preachers of virtue here: even today there are parties whose dream and goal is for everything to move backward like a crab. But no one is free to be a crab. There is no help for it: we must go forward, which means step by step further into decadence (—this is my definition of modern “progress”…). You can hold this development back and, by holding it back, dam up degeneration itself, let it accumulate, make it more violent and sudden: you can do no more.—\n\n[44] My idea of genius.—Great men, like great ages, are explosives in which an enormous force has been stored up. Historically and physiologically, they always presuppose a long process of collecting, accumulating, saving, and preserving for their sake—a long time without an explosion. Once the tension in the mass has grown too great, the most accidental stimulus is enough to call “genius,” the “deed,” a great destiny into the world. What do surroundings, historical period, the “spirit of the age,” or “public opinion” matter then?—Take Napoleon’s case. The France of the Revolution, and even more the France before the Revolution, would have produced from itself the opposite type to Napoleon’s: it did produce that type. And because Napoleon was different, the heir of a stronger, longer, older civilization than the one going up in smoke and falling to pieces in France, he became master here; he alone was master here. Great people are necessary; the age in which they appear is accidental. They almost always become masters of their age simply because they are stronger, because they are older, because the accumulation that prepared for them went on longer. The relation between a genius and his age is like that between strong and weak, also like that between old and young: comparatively, the age is always much younger, thinner, less mature, less sure of itself, more childish.—That people in France think very differently about this today (in Germany too, but that does not matter), that the theory of the social environment, a truly neurotic theory, has become sacred and almost scientific there, finding believers even among physiologists—that “doesn’t smell good,” it gives you sad thoughts.—People in England understand it no differently, but no one will be upset about that. The Englishman has only two ways of coming to terms with genius and the “great man”: either democratically, in Buckle’s manner, or religiously, in Carlyle’s.—The danger in great people and great ages is extraordinary; exhaustion of every kind, sterility, follows right on their heels. The great person is an end; the great age, the Renaissance for example, is an end. Genius—in work, in action—is necessarily a spendthrift: its greatness lies in spending itself… The instinct for self-preservation is, as it were, disconnected; the overwhelming pressure of the forces pouring out forbids any such care and caution. People call this “self-sacrifice”; they praise its “heroism,” its indifference to its own well-being, its devotion to an idea, a great cause, a fatherland: all misunderstandings… It pours out, it overflows, it uses itself up, it does not spare itself—inevitably, disastrously, involuntarily, as a river bursts its banks involuntarily. But because people owe so much to such explosives, they have given them much in return, for example a kind of higher morality… That is how human gratitude works: it misunderstands its benefactors.—\n\n[45] The criminal and related types.—The criminal type is the strong person under unfavorable conditions, a strong person made sick. He lacks the wilderness, a certain freer, more dangerous nature and way of life, in which everything that serves as a weapon or defense in the strong person’s instinct has its rightful place. Society has outlawed his virtues; the liveliest drives he brought with him soon grow together with depressing emotions, with suspicion, fear, dishonor. But this is almost a recipe for physiological degeneration. Someone who has to do what he does best, what he most wants to do, in secret, with prolonged tension, caution, cunning, becomes anemic. And because his instincts never bring him anything but danger, persecution, disaster, his feeling toward these instincts also changes—he feels them as a doom. It is society, our tame, mediocre, castrated society, in which a naturally vigorous person coming from the mountains or the adventures of the sea necessarily degenerates into a criminal. Or almost necessarily: for there are cases in which such a person proves stronger than society: the Corsican Napoleon is the most famous case. Dostoevsky’s testimony matters for the problem before us—Dostoevsky, incidentally the only psychologist from whom I had anything to learn: he is one of the happiest discoveries of my life, even more than my discovery of Stendhal. This deep man, who was ten times right to look down on the shallow Germans, experienced the Siberian convicts among whom he lived for a long time, all serious criminals with no way back to society, quite differently from what he himself expected—roughly, as carved from the best, hardest, most valuable wood that grows anywhere on Russian soil. Let us generalize the criminal’s case: let us think of people who, for whatever reason, lack public approval, who know that they are not seen as doing good or being useful—that Chandala feeling of not being considered equal, but outcast, unworthy, polluting. All such people have the color of the underground on their thoughts and actions; everything about them becomes paler than in those whose lives rest in daylight. But almost all the ways of life we honor today once lived in this half-tomb atmosphere: the scientific character, the artist, the genius, the free spirit, the actor, the merchant, the great explorer… As long as the priest counted as the highest type, every valuable kind of person was devalued… The time is coming—I promise it—when he will count as the lowest, as our Chandala, as the most dishonest, most indecent kind of person… I draw attention to how, even now, under the mildest rule of custom that has ever prevailed on earth, at least in Europe, every standing apart, every long, all-too-long stay below, every unusual, hard-to-see-through way of life brings a person close to the type that the criminal completes. All innovators of the spirit wear the Chandala’s pale, fatalistic mark on their foreheads for a time: not because others see them this way, but because they themselves feel the terrible gulf separating them from everything traditional and honored. Almost every genius goes through a “Catilinarian existence” as one stage of his development: a feeling of hatred, revenge, and revolt against everything that already exists, that is no longer becoming… Catiline—the form in which every Caesar first exists.—\n\n[46] Here the view is clear.—It can show greatness of soul when a philosopher stays silent; it can show love when he contradicts himself; a person seeking knowledge can practice a courtesy that lies. Someone said, not without subtlety, “It is unworthy of great hearts to spread the turmoil they feel”: we must only add that not fearing what is most unworthy can also show greatness of soul. A woman who loves sacrifices her honor; a person seeking knowledge who “loves” perhaps sacrifices his humanity; a god who loved became a Jew…\n\n[47] Beauty is no accident.—The beauty of a race or family, too, its grace and goodness in every gesture, is achieved through work: like genius, it is the final result of the accumulated work of generations. Great sacrifices must have been made to good taste; much must have been done and much left undone for its sake—seventeenth-century France is admirable in both respects. It must have served as a principle of selection in company, place, dress, sexual satisfaction; beauty must have been preferred to advantage, habit, opinion, laziness. The highest guideline: you must not “let yourself go,” even in front of yourself.—Good things are extremely costly, and the rule always holds that the person who has them is different from the person who acquires them. Everything good is inherited: what is not inherited is imperfect, is a beginning… In Athens at the time of Cicero, who expresses his surprise at this, men and young men far surpassed women in beauty: but what work and effort the male sex there had demanded of itself for centuries in the service of beauty!—We must not choose the wrong method here: merely training feelings and thoughts amounts to almost nothing (—here lies the great misunderstanding of German education, which is entirely illusory). The body must be persuaded first. Strictly maintaining meaningful, well-chosen gestures, committing to live only with people who do not “let themselves go,” is quite enough to become meaningful and well-chosen: in two or three generations everything has already been internalized. It is decisive for the fate of a people and of humanity that culture begin in the right place—not in the “soul” (as the disastrous superstition of priests and half-priests held): the right place is the body, gesture, diet, physiology; the rest follows from that… That is why the Greeks remain history’s first great cultural event—they knew, they did, what was needed. Christianity, which despised the body, has been humanity’s greatest misfortune so far.—\n\n[48] Progress as I understand it.—I too speak of a “return to nature,” though it is not really a going back but a climbing up—up into high, free, even terrible nature and naturalness, the kind that plays with great tasks, that is allowed to play with them… To put it in an image: Napoleon was a piece of “return to nature” as I understand it (for example in tactical matters, and even more, as military men know, in strategy).—But Rousseau—where did he actually want to return to? Rousseau, this first modern person, idealist and scoundrel in one, who needed moral “dignity” to bear the sight of himself; sick with unrestrained vanity and unrestrained self-contempt. This malformed creature who settled on the threshold of the modern age also wanted a “return to nature”—where, I ask again, did Rousseau want to return to?—I hate Rousseau even in the Revolution: it is the world-historical expression of this combination of idealist and scoundrel. The bloody farce in which this revolution played itself out, its “immorality,” concerns me little: what I hate is its Rousseau-style morality—the so-called “truths” of the Revolution, with which it still exerts its influence and wins over everything shallow and mediocre. The doctrine of equality!… But there is no poison more poisonous: for it seems to be preached by justice itself, while it is the end of justice… “Equal things to equals, unequal things to unequals—that would be justice’s true message; and, as follows from this, never make unequal things equal.”—The fact that this doctrine of equality was surrounded by such horror and blood has given this most “modern idea” a kind of glory and fiery glow, so that the Revolution as a spectacle has seduced even the noblest minds. In the end, that is no reason to respect it more.—I see only one person who felt about it as one must, with disgust—Goethe…\n\n[49] Goethe—not a German event but a European one: a grand attempt to overcome the eighteenth century by returning to nature, by climbing up to the naturalness of the Renaissance, a kind of self-overcoming on the part of that century.—He carried that century’s strongest instincts in himself: sentimentality, the worship of nature, the anti-historical, the idealistic, the unreal and revolutionary (—the latter is only a form of the unreal). He called to his aid history, natural science, antiquity, and likewise Spinoza, and above all practical activity. He surrounded himself with nothing but closed horizons. He did not detach himself from life; he placed himself in it. He was not fainthearted, and he took as much as possible upon himself, over himself, into himself. What he wanted was totality. He fought the splitting apart of reason, senses, feeling, and will (—preached in the most repellent scholasticism by Kant, Goethe’s opposite), he disciplined himself into wholeness, he created himself… In the middle of an age with an unreal outlook, Goethe was a convinced realist: he said yes to everything in this respect that was related to him—he had no greater experience than that most real of beings, called Napoleon. Goethe conceived of a person who is strong, highly cultivated, skilled in all physical things, holding himself in check, reverent toward himself, who may dare to allow himself the whole range and richness of naturalness, who is strong enough for this freedom; the person of tolerance, not out of weakness but out of strength, because he knows how to use for his own advantage even what would destroy the average nature; the person for whom nothing is forbidden anymore, except weakness, whether it is called vice or virtue… Such a spirit that has become free stands in the middle of the universe with a joyful and trusting fatalism, believing that only the individual is reprehensible, that in the whole everything is redeemed and affirmed—he no longer denies… But such a belief is the highest of all possible beliefs: I have given it the name Dionysus.—\n\n[50] You could say that in a certain sense the nineteenth century also strove for all that Goethe strove for as a person: a universality in understanding and approving, letting everything come close to oneself, a bold realism, a reverence for everything factual. How does it happen that the overall result is not a Goethe but a chaos, a nihilistic sigh, a not-knowing-which-way-to-turn, an instinct of fatigue that in practice keeps driving people to fall back on the eighteenth century? (—for example as the Romanticism of feeling, as altruism and hypersentimentality, as femininity in taste, as socialism in politics.) Isn’t the nineteenth century, especially at its close, just a strengthened, coarsened eighteenth century, that is, a century of decadence? So that Goethe, not just for Germany but for all of Europe, would have been only an episode, a beautiful waste?—But you misunderstand great people if you look at them from the wretched perspective of public usefulness. That one does not know how to draw any use from them may itself be part of their greatness…\n\n[51] Goethe is the last German for whom I feel reverence: he would have felt three things that I feel—we also understand each other about the “cross”… People often ask me why I actually write in German: I would be read worse nowhere than in the fatherland. But who knows in the end whether I even wish to be read today?—To create things on which time tries its teeth in vain; to strive for a small immortality in form and in substance—I have never been modest enough to ask less of myself. The aphorism and the maxim, in which I am a master, the first among Germans, are the forms of “eternity”; my ambition is to say in ten sentences what everyone else says in a book—what everyone else does not say in a book…\n\nI have given humanity the deepest book it possesses, my Zarathustra; before long I will give it the most independent one.—\n\n### What I Owe the Ancients\n\n[1] A last word about the world I have looked for ways into, and to which I may have found a new way in: the ancient world. My taste may be the opposite of a tolerant taste. Even here it is far from saying yes to everything, wholesale. It does not much like saying yes at all. It would rather say no, and best of all it would say nothing… That is true of whole cultures. It is true of books. It is also true of places and landscapes. At bottom, only a very small number of ancient books count in my life, and the most famous are not among them. My sense of style, of the epigram as a style, woke almost the instant I came into contact with Sallust. I have not forgotten the astonishment of my revered teacher Corssen, when he had to give his worst Latin student the very top grade. At a single stroke I was fully formed. Compressed, severe, with as much substance as possible underneath, a cold spite toward the “beautiful word” and the “beautiful feeling” too—that is where I recognized myself. You will find in me, even in my Zarathustra, a very serious ambition for Roman style, for what is “more lasting than bronze” in style.—It was no different when I first came into contact with Horace. To this day no other poet has given me the artistic delight that a Horatian ode gave me from the start. In some languages you could not even want what is achieved here. This mosaic of words, in which every word—as sound, as position, as idea—sends its force out to the right and left and over the whole; this minimum in the size and number of signs, and the maximum in the energy of the signs that it achieves—all of this is Roman and, if you will believe me, noble in the highest degree. All the rest of poetry, by comparison, becomes something too popular—mere chatter about feelings…\n\n[2] I owe the Greeks no impressions nearly as strong. And to say it straight out, they cannot be for us what the Romans are. You do not learn from the Greeks. Their way is too foreign, and too fluid, to work as a command, to work as a “classic.” Who would ever have learned to write from a Greek! Who would ever have learned it without the Romans!… Do not bring up Plato against me. Where Plato is concerned I am a thorough skeptic. I have never been able to join in the admiration for Plato the artist that is customary among scholars. Here, in the end, I have the most refined judges of taste among the ancients themselves on my side. Plato, it seems to me, throws all the forms of style together. That makes him a first decadent of style. He has something on his conscience that is similar to what the Cynics have, who invented the Menippean satire. For the Platonic dialogue—this horribly smug and childish kind of dialectic—to seem attractive, you must never have read good French writers, Fontenelle for example. Plato is boring.—In the end my distrust of Plato goes deep. I find him so far astray from all the basic instincts of the Greeks, so moralized, so Christian before Christianity—he already has the concept “good” as the highest concept—that for the whole phenomenon of Plato I would rather use the harsh phrase “higher swindle,” or, if you prefer to hear it, idealism, than any other. People have paid dearly for the fact that this Athenian went to school with the Egyptians (—or with the Jews in Egypt?…). In the great calamity of Christianity, Plato is that ambiguity and fascination called the “ideal.” It made it possible for the nobler natures of antiquity to misunderstand themselves and step onto the bridge that led to the “cross”… And how much Plato is still in the concept of the “church,” in the structure, system and practice of the church!—My relief, my favorite, my cure for all Platonism has always been Thucydides. Thucydides and, perhaps, Machiavelli’s Prince are closest to me, through their unconditional will not to fool themselves and to see reason in reality—not in “reason,” and even less in “morality”… Nothing cures you so thoroughly as Thucydides of the pitiful prettying-up of the Greeks into an ideal, which the “classically educated” young man carries off into life as his reward for his high school drilling. You have to turn him over line by line and read his hidden thoughts as clearly as his words. There are few thinkers so rich in hidden thoughts. In him the culture of the Sophists, that is, the culture of realists, reaches its perfect expression: a priceless movement in the middle of the swindle of morality and ideals that was just then breaking out everywhere in the Socratic schools. Greek philosophy as the decadence of the Greek instinct; Thucydides as the great sum, the last revelation of that strong, strict, hard sense of fact that lay in the instincts of the older Greek. In the end, courage in the face of reality is what separates natures like Thucydides and Plato. Plato is a coward before reality—so he flees into the ideal. Thucydides has control of himself—so he also keeps control of things…\n\n[3] To sniff out “beautiful souls,” “golden means” and other perfections in the Greeks, or to admire in them, say, calm in greatness, the ideal turn of mind, lofty simplicity—from this “lofty simplicity,” a German silliness when all is said and done, I was protected by the psychologist I carried inside me. I saw their strongest instinct, the will to power. I saw them tremble before the unruly force of this drive. I saw all their institutions grow out of protective measures, meant to make them safe from one another against the explosive stuff inside them. The enormous tension within then discharged itself outward, in terrible and ruthless hostility. The city communities tore one another to pieces, so that the citizens of each could find peace from themselves. They needed to be strong. The danger was close—it lurked everywhere. The magnificently supple bodies, the daring realism and immoralism that belong to the Greek, were a matter of need, not of “nature.” That came later. It was not there from the start. And with festivals and arts they wanted nothing other than to feel on top and to show themselves on top. These are ways of glorifying themselves and, under some circumstances, of making themselves feared… To judge the Greeks the German way, by their philosophers, and to use, say, the honest-citizen respectability of the Socratic schools to find out what is basically Greek!… The philosophers are, after all, the decadents of Greek culture. They are the countermovement against the old, noble taste (—against the instinct for competition, against the city-state, against the value of race, against the authority of tradition). The Socratic virtues were preached because the Greeks had lost them. Irritable, fearful, unstable, all of them actors, they had a few reasons too many to let themselves be preached at about morals. Not that it helped at all. But big words and poses suit decadents so well…\n\n[4] I was the first to take seriously, as a way of understanding the older Greek instinct, which was still rich and even overflowing, that wonderful phenomenon that bears the name of Dionysus. It can be explained only by an excess of strength. Anyone who follows the Greeks closely—like the deepest expert on their culture alive today, Jakob Burckhardt in Basel—knew at once that something had been accomplished here. Burckhardt added to his “Culture of the Greeks” a section of its own on this phenomenon. If you want the opposite, look at the almost amusing poverty of instinct in German philologists when they come anywhere near the Dionysian. Above all the famous Lobeck, who crawled into this world of mysterious states with the venerable confidence of a worm dried out between books, and persuaded himself that he was being scholarly by being, to the point of disgust, frivolous and childish—Lobeck, with all the display of learning he could muster, gave us to understand that there is really nothing to any of these curiosities. In fact, the priests may have told the participants in such orgies a few things that were not worthless—for example, that wine arouses desire, that a person can at times live on fruit, that plants bloom in the spring and wither in the fall. As for that strangely rich store of rites, symbols and myths of orgiastic origin, with which the ancient world is quite literally overgrown, Lobeck finds in it a chance to become one notch cleverer still. “The Greeks,” he says in Aglaophamus I, 672, “if they had nothing else to do, laughed, jumped, and raged about, or, since a person sometimes feels like it, sat down and wept and wailed. Others then came along later and looked for some reason for this striking behavior; and so those countless festival legends and myths arose to explain those customs. On the other hand, people believed that the comical goings-on that happened to take place on festival days necessarily belonged to the celebration too, and held on to them as an indispensable part of worship.”—That is contemptible chatter. You cannot take a Lobeck seriously for a moment. It strikes us very differently when we examine the idea of “Greek” that Winckelmann and Goethe formed for themselves, and find it incompatible with the element from which Dionysian art grows—with orgiastic frenzy. I really do not doubt that Goethe would have ruled out anything of the kind, on principle, from the possibilities of the Greek soul. So Goethe did not understand the Greeks. For only in the Dionysian mysteries, in the psychology of the Dionysian state, does the basic fact of the Greek instinct express itself: its “will to life.” What did the Greek assure himself of through these mysteries? Eternal life, the eternal return of life; the future promised and consecrated in the past; the triumphant yes to life beyond death and change; true life as the continuing life of the whole, through procreation, through the mysteries of sexuality. That is why the sexual symbol was, for the Greeks, the venerable symbol in itself, the real depth within all ancient piety. Every single detail in the act of procreation, in pregnancy, in birth, awakened the highest and most solemn feelings. In the teaching of the mysteries, pain is declared holy: the “labor pains of the woman giving birth” make pain holy in general—all becoming and growing, everything that guarantees the future, requires pain… For there to be the joy of creating, for the will to life to affirm itself eternally, there must also be, eternally, the “agony of the woman giving birth”… All of this is what the word Dionysus means. I know no higher symbolism than this Greek symbolism, that of the Dionysian festivals. In it the deepest instinct of life, the instinct toward the future of life, toward the eternity of life, is felt in a religious way—the road to life itself, procreation, as the holy road… Only Christianity, with its resentment against life at the bottom of it, made something unclean out of sexuality. It threw filth on the beginning, on the very precondition of our life…\n\n[5] The psychology of orgiastic frenzy as an overflowing feeling of life and strength, a feeling in which even pain works as a stimulant, gave me the key to the idea of the tragic feeling. It has been misunderstood by Aristotle and, above all, by our pessimists. Tragedy is so far from proving anything for the pessimism of the Greeks, in Schopenhauer’s sense, that it has to count instead as its decisive rejection and counter-evidence. Saying yes to life even in its strangest and hardest problems; the will to life, delighting in its own inexhaustibility as it sacrifices its highest types—that is what I called Dionysian. That is what I guessed to be the bridge to the psychology of the tragic poet. Not to get free of fear and pity, not to purge oneself of a dangerous emotion by discharging it violently—that is how Aristotle understood it—but to be, beyond fear and pity, the eternal joy of becoming itself—that joy which also includes the joy of destroying… And with that I touch again the place I once set out from. “The Birth of Tragedy” was my first revaluation of all values. With that I place myself again on the ground from which my will and my ability grow—I, the last disciple of the philosopher Dionysus—I, the teacher of the eternal return…\n\n### The Hammer Speaks\n\nThus Spoke Zarathustra, 3, 90.\n\n“Why so hard!” the kitchen coal once said to the diamond. “Aren’t we close relatives, after all?”\n\nWhy so soft? Oh, my brothers, this is what I ask you: aren’t you—my brothers?\n\nWhy so soft, so yielding and giving way? Why is there so much denying, so much disowning in your hearts? So little fate in your eyes?\n\nAnd if you do not want to be fates and relentless ones, how could you one day win with me?\n\nAnd if your hardness does not want to flash and cut and cut to pieces, how could you one day create with me?\n\nFor all creators are hard. And it must seem bliss to you to press your hand on thousands of years as on wax—\n\n—bliss, to write on the will of thousands of years as on bronze—harder than bronze, nobler than bronze. Only what is completely hard is noblest.\n\nI set this new tablet over you, oh, my brothers: become hard!——","download_url":"https://mouseia.org/api/works/twilight-of-the-idols/translations/trn_twilight_of_the_idols_plain.txt"}],"retex_markdown_url":"https://mouseia.org/api/works/twilight-of-the-idols/retex.md"}}