Morality as Anti-Nature

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…

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…

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”…

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…

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…

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…—

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…

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…

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…

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…

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…

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…—