Twilight of the Idols
Original German
Wie man mit dem Hammer philosophirt.
1 Diese Schrift von noch nicht 150 Seiten, heiter und verhängnißvoll im Ton, ein Dämon, welcher lacht —, das Werk von so wenig Tagen, daß ich Anstand nehme, ihre Zahl zu nennen, ist unter Büchern überhaupt die Ausnahme: es giebt nichts Substanzenreicheres, Unabhängigeres, Umwerfenderes, — Böseres. Will man sich kurz einen Begriff davon geben, wie vor mir Alles auf dem Kopfe stand, so mache man den Anfang mit dieser Schrift. Das, was Götze auf dem Titelblatt heißt, ist ganz einfach das, was bisher Wahrheit genannt wurde. Götzen-Dämmerung — auf deutsch: es geht zu Ende mit der alten Wahrheit...
2 Es giebt keine Realität, keine „Idealität“, die in dieser Schrift nicht berührt würde (— berührt: was für ein vorsichtiger Euphemismus!...). Nicht bloß die ewigen Götzen, auch die allerjüngsten, folglich altersschwächsten. Die „modernen Ideen“ zum Beispiel. Ein großer Wind bläst zwischen den Bäumen, und überall fallen Früchte nieder — Wahrheiten. Es ist die Verschwendung eines allzureichen Herbstes darin: man stolpert über Wahrheiten, man tritt selbst einige todt, — es sind ihrer zu viele... Was man aber in die Hände bekommt, das ist nichts Fragwürdiges mehr, das sind Entscheidungen. Ich erst habe den Maaßstab für „Wahrheiten“ in der Hand, ich kann erst entscheiden. Wie als ob in mir ein zweites Bewußtsein gewachsen wäre, wie als ob sich in mir „der Wille“ ein Licht angezündet hätte über die schiefe Bahn, auf der er bisher abwärts lief... Die schiefe Bahn — man nannte sie den Weg zur „Wahrheit“... Es ist zu Ende mit allem „dunklen Drang“, der gute Mensch gerade war sich am wenigsten des rechten Wegs bewußt... Und allen Ernstes, Niemand wußte vor mir den rechten Weg, den Weg aufwärts: erst von mir an giebt es wieder Hoffnungen, Aufgaben, vorzuschreibende Wege der Cultur — ich bin deren froher Botschafter... Ebendamit bin ich auch ein Schicksal. —
3 Unmittelbar nach Beendigung des eben genannten Werks und ohne auch nur einen Tag zu verlieren, griff ich die ungeheure Aufgabe der Umwerthung an, in einem souverainen Gefühl von Stolz, dem Nichts gleichkommt, jeden Augenblick meiner Unsterblichkeit gewiß und Zeichen für Zeichen mit der Sicherheit eines Schicksals in eherne Tafeln grabend. Das Vorwort entstand am 3. September 1888: als ich Morgens, nach dieser Niederschrift, in’s Freie trat, fand ich den schönsten Tag vor mir, den das Ober-Engadin mir je gezeigt hat — durchsichtig, glühend in den Farben, alle Gegensätze, alle Mitten zwischen Eis und Süden in sich schließend. — Erst am 20. September verließ ich Sils-Maria, durch Überschwemmungen zurückgehalten, zuletzt bei weitem der einzige Gast dieses wunderbaren Orts, dem meine Dankbarkeit das Geschenk eines unsterblichen Namens machen will. Nach einer Reise mit Zwischenfällen, sogar mit einer Lebensgefahr im überschwemmten Como, das ich erst tief in der Nacht erreichte, kam ich am Nachmittag des 21. in Turin an, meinem bewiesenen Ort, meiner Residenz von nun an. Ich nahm die gleiche Wohnung wieder, die ich im Frühjahr innegehabt hatte, via Carlo Alberto 6ᴵᴵᴵ, gegenüber dem mächtigen palazzo Carignano, in dem Vittorio Emanuele geboren ist, mit dem Blick auf die piazza Carlo Alberto und drüber hinaus auf’s Hügelland. Ohne Zögern und ohne mich einen Augenblick abziehn zu lassen, gieng ich wieder an die Arbeit: es war nur das letzte Viertel des Werks noch abzuthun. Am 30. September großer Sieg; siebenter Tag; Müßiggang eines Gottes am Po entlang. Am gleichen Tage schrieb ich noch das Vorwort zur „Götzen-Dämmerung“, deren Druckbogen zu corrigiren meine Erholung im September gewesen war. — Ich habe nie einen solchen Herbst erlebt, auch nie Etwas der Art auf Erden für möglich gehalten, — ein Claude Lorrain in’s Unendliche gedacht, jeder Tag von gleicher unbändiger Vollkommenheit. —
Musean translation
A complete machine-assisted Musean translation directly from the German of the 1908 Insel edition, including its concluding poem. This early edition's readings and omissions are retained, not replaced with later critical restorations.
How to Philosophize with a Hammer.
1 This work of not even 150 pages, cheerful and fateful in tone, a laughing demon—the work of so few days that I hesitate to name their number—is an exception among books altogether: nothing is richer in substance, more independent, more subversive—or more wicked. Anyone who wants a quick sense of how, before me, everything stood on its head should begin with this work. What the title page calls an idol is quite simply what has been called truth until now. Twilight of the Idols—in plain language: the old truth is coming to an end…
2 There is no reality, no “ideality,” that this work does not touch (—touch: what a cautious euphemism!…). Not only the eternal idols, but the very newest, and therefore the most decrepit. “Modern ideas,” for example. A great wind blows through the trees, and fruit falls everywhere—truths. It has all the lavishness of an overabundant autumn: you stumble over truths, even trample some to death—there are too many… But whatever comes into your hands is no longer anything questionable: these are decisions. I am the first to hold the measure of “truths” in my hand; I am the first who can decide. As though a second consciousness had grown within me, as though “the will” had lit a lamp inside me to illuminate the sloping track down which it had run until now… The sloping track—they called it the path to “truth”… All “dark striving” is at an end; it was precisely the good man who was least aware of the right path… And in all seriousness, no one before me knew the right path, the path upward: only with me are there once again hopes, tasks, paths to prescribe for culture—I am their bearer of glad tidings… That also makes me a destiny.—
3 Immediately after finishing the work just mentioned, without losing even a day, I attacked the immense task of the revaluation, with a sovereign feeling of pride beyond compare, certain at every moment of my immortality, engraving sign after sign on bronze tablets with the sureness of a destiny. The preface was written on September 3, 1888: when I stepped outside that morning after writing it, I found before me the most beautiful day the Upper Engadin had ever shown me—transparent, glowing with color, embracing every contrast, every middle ground between ice and the South.—Not until September 20 did I leave Sils-Maria, detained by floods, at last the only guest left anywhere in this wonderful place, to which my gratitude means to give the gift of an immortal name. After an eventful journey, which even put my life in danger in flooded Como, where I arrived only deep into the night, I reached Turin on the afternoon of the 21st, my proven place, my residence from now on. I took the same lodgings I had occupied in the spring, via Carlo Alberto 6ᴵᴵᴵ, opposite the mighty Palazzo Carignano, where Vittorio Emanuele was born, looking out over the Piazza Carlo Alberto and beyond it to the hills. Without hesitation, without letting myself be distracted for a moment, I returned to work: only the last quarter of the work remained to be done. On September 30, a great victory; the seventh day; a god's idleness along the Po. On that same day I also wrote the preface to Twilight of the Idols, whose proofs I had corrected for recreation during September.—I have never experienced such an autumn, nor ever thought anything like it possible on earth—a Claude Lorrain extended into infinity, each day of the same unbridled perfection.—
Plain English translation
A complete machine-assisted Plain English translation made independently and directly from the same German edition, including its concluding poem. This is the 1908 text, not a modern critical edition.
How to Philosophize with a Hammer.
1 This book of fewer than 150 pages is cheerful and fateful in tone, a demon that laughs. It took so few days to write that I hesitate to name the number. Among books, it stands alone: nothing is richer in substance, more independent, more revolutionary—or more wicked. If you want a quick idea of how everything stood on its head before me, start with this book. What the title calls an idol is simply what people have called truth until now. Twilight of the Idols—in plain words: the old truth is coming to an end…
2 There is no reality, no “ideality,” that this book doesn't touch on (touch on—what a cautious way to put it!…). Not just the eternal idols, but also the newest and therefore the most decrepit. The “modern ideas,” for example. A great wind blows through the trees, and fruit falls everywhere—truths. It has the extravagance of an all-too-rich autumn: you stumble over truths, you even trample some to death—there are too many… But what you get into your hands is no longer something open to question. These are decisions. I am the first to hold the measuring stick for “truths”; I am the first who can decide. It is as if a second consciousness had grown in me, as if “the will” had lit a lamp inside me to illuminate the sloping path it has been running down until now… The sloping path—that was what people called the road to “truth”… All “dark urges” are finished. It was precisely the good person who knew least about the right road… And in all seriousness, no one before me knew the right road, the road upward. Only with me are there once again hopes, tasks, paths to lay down for culture—I bring their good news… That also makes me a destiny.—
3 Immediately after finishing that book, without losing even a day, I took on the enormous task of the revaluation. I felt a supreme pride beyond anything else, certain of my immortality at every moment, carving sign after sign into bronze tablets with the certainty of fate. The preface was written on September 3, 1888. That morning, when I stepped outside after writing it, I found the most beautiful day the Upper Engadin had ever shown me—clear, glowing with color, holding every contrast and every point between ice and the South.—Flooding kept me in Sils-Maria until September 20. By the end, I was the only guest left anywhere in that wonderful place, to which my gratitude wants to give an immortal name. The journey had its mishaps. My life was even in danger in flooded Como, which I did not reach until late at night. On the afternoon of the 21st, I arrived in Turin, my proven place, my home from now on. I took the same rooms I had occupied in the spring, via Carlo Alberto 6ᴵᴵᴵ, across from the great Palazzo Carignano, where Vittorio Emanuele was born. They overlooked the Piazza Carlo Alberto and, beyond it, the hills. Without hesitation, without letting myself be distracted for a moment, I went back to work. Only the last quarter of the book remained to be done. On September 30, a great victory; the seventh day; a god's day off along the Po. That same day I also wrote the preface to “Twilight of the Idols,” whose proofs I had been correcting for relaxation during September.—I have never experienced an autumn like that. I had never even thought anything like it possible on earth—a Claude Lorrain carried into infinity, every day showing the same unrestrained perfection.—
About this section
Twilight of the Idols is part of Ecce Homo by Friedrich Nietzsche. This page sets the German original beside 2 direct-source translations, so any line can be checked against the source. It is chapter 14 of 17 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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