Dawn of the Day/Book 4
FOURTH BOOK
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Question of conscience.—Tell me briefly what really is the new thing that you want? We no longer want to turn causes into sinners and consequences into executioners.
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Usefulness of the strictest theories.—We pardon many moral weaknesses in man, making use of a coarse sieve, provided he be a constant adherer to the strictest theory of morals. The life of free-thinking moralists, on the other hand, has always been placed under the microscope: with the mental reservation that all error in life is the surest argument against an unwelcome conviction
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The "thing in itself."—What is the ridiculous ? we used to ask formerly—as though there were beings other than ourselves, to whose qualities the ridiculous was added—and we exhausted ourselves in conjectures (a theologian even remarked that it might be "the naivete of sin"). Nowadays we ask: What is laughter? How does hunger originate? Having thought it over in our minds, we have come to the conclusion that there is nothing which is good, nothing which is beautiful, nothing which is lofty, nothing which is evil in itself; but that there are indeed conditions of the soul, in which we give such epithets to the things thnt pass within and without us. We have withdrawn the predicates of the things or, at least, recalled to our minds that we have but lent them. Let us beware how, at this insight, we lose the capacity of lending and increase both in wealth and avarice.
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To the dreamers of immortality.—So you wish for a perpetuity of this beautiful consciousness of your own selves? Are you then unmindful of all other things which would then have to endure fun for ever and ever, as they have done all these years with it more than Christian patience ? Or do you presume to inspire them with an undying feeling of delight? One single immortal man on earth would indeed suffice to incite everything still in existence to a general mania of killing and hanging in consequence of the disgust of him. And ye dwellers on earth with your petty couceptions of some few thousands of minuter, you wish to be an eternal burden to the everlasting universal existence! Is there anything more obtrusive than this? Lastly: Let us be gentle towards a being of seventy years of age; he has not been able to indulge his fancy in picturing his own "eternal tediousness"–he lacked leisure.
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Whererin we know ourselves.–Whenever an animal sees another it will draw a parallel between itself and the other; the same habit prevails among people of barbarous ages. Hence all men come to know themselves almost exclusively with regard to their defensive and offensive faculties.
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Avaunt, forbearance!—You suffer, and want us to be lenient towards you, when you, in your suffering, wrong both things and men. But what is the good of our leniency? You should be more cautious for your own sake. That is a fine way of compensating for your sufferings, to injure into the bargain your own judgments In reviling something, your own vengeance will redound on yourselves; you thereby dim your eyes, not those of others: you accustom yourselves to taking a wrong and distorted view of the things.
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Moral of victims.—"Enthusiastic devotion, selfsacrifice these are the watchwords of your morals; and I readily believe that you, as you say, are sincere: only I know you better than you know yourselves, if your "honesty” is able to go in close companionship with these morals. From their height you look down upon that other sober morality which requires selfcontrol, severity, obedience; perhaps you even call it selfish, and indeed!—you are honest towards yourselves when it displeases you—it cannot help displeasing you! For in enthusiastically sacrificing yourselves and making victims of yourselves, you enjoy that rapturous thought now to be one with the powerful, be he God or man, to whom you devote yourselves: you revel in the consciousness of his power which is, in its turn, testified by a sacrifice. In truth you only seen to sacrifice yourselves; the fact is that you transform yourselves in your minds into gods, and enjoy yourselves as such. If judged by this enjoyment—how weak and poor must appear to you all those "selfish" morals of obedience, duty and rationality: they are displeasing to you because here one has really to sacrifice and give oneself up, without the sacrificer deeming himself transformed into a god as you do. In short, you long for rapture and excess, and those morals which you despise point at rupture and I quite believe that they cause discomfort. excess.
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The evil ones and music.—Should the full felicity of love, which lies in implicit confidence, ever have fallen to the share of persons other than those deeply suspicious, evil and bitter? For these enjoy therein the prodigious, improbable and incredible exception of their souls. Some day they are overcome by that all-absorbing, dreamy sensation which forms the contrast to their whole secret and public life: like unto delightful mystery and miracle, full of golden splendour and baffling description and illustration. Implicit confidence renders us speechless; nay, this blissful silence even implies suffering and heaviness; wherefore souls, overwhelmed with happiness, generally feel more grateful to music than all other and better ones would do, For they see and hear through music as through an iridescent cloud; their love grows, at it were, more distant, more touching and less oppressive: music is their only means of watching their extraordinary state of mind, and of becoming aware of it with a feeling of surprise and relief. At the sound of music every lover thinks: "It speaks of me, it speaks in any stead, it knows everything."
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The artist.—With the help of the artist the Germans wish to be thrown into a state of imaginary passion; the Italians to rest from their real passions; the French to have an opportunity of demonstrating their artistic taste and an occasion for discussions. Let us therefore be fair.
218
Dealing on artist with one's foibles.—If we must needs have foibles, and finish by acknowledging them as laws, I would fain that everybody were endowed with at least so much artistic power as to be able, by dint of his foibles, to set off his virtues and make us desirous of them: a power which the great musicians possessed on a gigantic scale. How often do we meet in Beethoven's music with a rude, dogmatical, impatient strain; in that of Mozart with the jovial mirth of honest fellowship, when heart and mind leave to be content with little; in Richard Wagner with an abrupt and aggressive restlessness, making the most patient listener well nigh lose his temper: but at this point he returns to the concentration of his genius, and so do they. By means of their foibles, these musicians have created within us an arlent craving for their virtnes—and for a palate ten times more sensitive to every accent of intellect, beauty and goodness in music.
219
The deceit in humiliation.—By your irrationality you have done a grievous harm to your neighbor and have irretrievably destroyed a happiness—and then you get the better of your vanity and go to him, humbling yourself before him, exposing your irrationality to his contempt, and think that after this difficult, extremely painful scene everything is righted—that your spontaneous loss of honour atones for the compulsory loss of the other's happiness : with this conviction you depart relieved and re-established in your virtue. But the other suffers as intensely as before; he does not derive any comfort from your irrationality and confession; he remembers the painful sight, which you have accorded him, when you were disparaging yourself in his presence, as a fresh wound inflicted by you—but the thought of revenge is far from his mind and he does not understand how anything could be righted between you and him. You have, in truth, been acting that scene to on for the sake of yourself: you had invited a witness again for your own sake and not for his—do not deceive yourself.
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Dignity and timidity.—Ceremonies, official and staterobes, grave faces, solemn looks, slow pace, involved speech—in short, everything called dignity—is a form of simulation adopted by those people who are timid at heart; they wish to make others afraid (of them or of that which they represent). Men of a dauntless mind who are naturally awe-inspiring do not stand in need of dignity and ceremonies; they bring into repute—or rather into ill-repute—honesty, straightforward words and actions, as characteristics of self-confident arrogance.
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Morality of the victim.—The morality which is estimated by sacrifice is that of the semi-barbarous stage. Reason in this case gains but a stubbornly contested and sanguinary victory within the soul, for there are powerful anti-cravings to be subdued. species of cruelty which is met with at the sacrifices demanded by cannibal gods is essential.
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Where fanaticism is desirable.—Phlegmatic natures are only to be thrown into ecstasies by being fantasized.
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The dreadedeye.—Nothing is so much dreaded by artists, poets and authors as that eye which sees their minor deceptions, and subsequently perceives how frequently they have halted at the landmark whence the path branches off either to innocent delight in their ego or lo straining for effect; that eye, which detects when they were about to sell little for much or tried to exalt and adorn without being themselves exalted; which, despite all the fallacies of their art, sees the idea as it first floated before their imagination, perhaps in the shape of a fascinating, celestial form ; perhaps even as a theft, perpetrated against all the world; as a commonplace idea which they had to spread, abridge, tinge, swathe, season, in order to make something of it, whereas really the idea ought to make something of them, —oh, this eye, which detects in your work all your restlessness, your prying eye and your covetousness, your imitation and rivalry (which is but a jealous imitation); which knows both your blush and your skill in concealing this blush and in interpreting it before yourselves !
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decelerating element in our neighbour's misFortune.—He is in distress, and forth with the “ compassionate" come and depict to him his disaster—at length they depart, content and edified, having gloated over both the afflicted man's sorrow, and their own and spent an enjoyable afternoon.
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Mean of making oneself/ easily despised.— A man who speaks much and fast, sinks after a brief intercourse extremely low in our estimation, even though he speak rationally—not only in proportion as he annoys us, but even much lower. For we divine how many people he has already annoyed, thus adding to the discomfort which he causes, also the contempt which we suppose others to feel for him
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On the intercourse with celebrities.—A.: Why do you avoid this great man ?—B.: I should not like to misunderstand him. Our foibles are incompatible: I am short-sighted and suspicious, and he exhibits his false diamonds with as much delight as his real ones.
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Chain-wearers.—Beware of all enchained intellects; of clever women, for instance, wliom fate has banished to narrow, dull surroundings, amongst which they grow old. True, they are lying in the sun. apparently idle and half-blind; but at every unknown step, at every unexpected occurrence they start up, to bite; they wreak vengeance on everything that has escaped their kennel.
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Revenge in praise.—Here we have a written page full of praise, and you call it flat: but, when you will have found out that revenge lurks in this praise, you will find it almost too subtle, and greatly delight in the profusion of short, bold strokes, and similes. Not man, but his revenge is so subtle, rich and ingenious: he himself is almost unaware of it.
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Pride.—Ah! not one of you knows the feeling which the tortured has after torture, when he is being carried back to his cell and his secret with him he clings to it with stubborn tenacity. What do you know of the exultation of human pride?
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Utilitarian.—In our days the opinions on moral things so manifestly run in different directions, that to some we have to prove certain morals by virtue of their utility, whilst to others we disprove them by virtue of this very utility.
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On German virtue.—How utterly depraved in its taste, how servile to dignities, ranks, robes, state and splendour must a nation have been, when it began to look upon the simple as the bad, the simple-hearted man as the bad man! We should always confront the moral arrogance of the Germans with nothing else but this one short word—”bad."
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From a controversy.—A.: Friend, you have talked yourself hoarse.—B.: Then I am refuted. Let us, therefore, drop the matter.
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The conscientious.—Have you observed what kind of people attach the greatest importance to scrupulous conscientiousness? Those who are conscious of many mean feelings; who are carefully thinking of and about themselves, and are afraid of others; who are intent upon concealing their innermost feelings to the best of their power ;—by this scrupulous conscientiousness and strict fulfilment of duty, by the severe and harsh impression which others, especially their inferiors, are bound to receive of them, they endeavour to impose upon themselves.
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Dread of renown.—A.: Fighting shy of one's renown, intentionally offending one's panegyrist, shrinking from hearing opinions on one's person from sheer dread of praise are cases actually to be met with you may believe it or not!—B.: That will be a matter of easy arrangement! Patience, squire laughtiness!
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Spurning gratitude.—We may certainly refuse request, but never spurn gratitude (or listen to coldly and conventionally, which is tantamount to it). This gives deep offence—and why?
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Punishment.—A strange thing, our punishment! It does not clear the character of the criminal, it is no expiation: on the contrary, it is more defiling than the very crime.
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A party-trouble.—Almost every party has a ridiculous, somewhat dangerous grievance: all those who for years have been the faithful and honourable champions of the faction, and some day suddenly perceive that one much more powerful than they has usurped the leading part, suffer from it. How are they to bear being silenced? Therefore they raise their voices, occasionally even changing their notes.
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The striving after grace. A strong character that is not given to cruelty and not always occupied with itself, involuntarily strives after grace—which is its characteristic. Whereas weak characters are given to harsh judgments, they associate with the heroes of the contempt of mankind, the religions or philosophical traducers of existence, or intrench themselves behind severe customs and punctilious “professions," thus endeavouring to give themselves a character or a certain kind of strength, which is likewise done quite involuntarily.
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A hint to moralists.—Our musicians have made a great discovery: interesting ugliness is possible even in their art. And so they plunge into this open ocean of ugliness as though they were intoxicate, and never did they possess such facilities for composing music. Only now have we gained the common, dark-coloured background, whereon every ray of beautiful music, however faint, obtains a gold and emerald lustre: only now we venture upon rousing the audience to impetuous and indignant feelings, taking away their breath, and then, in an interval of harmonious concord, giving them a feeling of bliss which is of general advantage to the appreciation of music. We have discovered the contrast : now only the strongest effects are possible—and cheap : nobody any longer asks for good music. But you are pressed for time! Every art, when one it has made this discovery, has but a short while to live.—Oh that our thinkers had cars to dive into the soul of our musicians by means of their music! How long have we to wait ere we may again meet with such an opportunity to take the inward man in the very act of his evil-doing and in the innocence of this act! For our musicians have not the faintest idea that it is their own history, the history of the disfigurement of the soul, which they transpose into music. Formerly a good musician was almost sure to become a good man for the sake of his art. And now?
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Stage-morality.—He who believes that Shakespeare's stage has a moral effect and that the sight of Macbeth irresistibly detracts from evil ambition is mistaken. And he is again mistaken if he believes that Shakespeare himself was of this opinion. Any man who is really possessed by mad ambition will watch this, his emblem, with delight; and the very fact that the hero perishes in his passion is the strongest charm in the hot cup of this delight. Were the poet's feelings different to these? How royally and not in the least knavishly his ambitious hero runs his course from the hour of his great crime! Only then he grows "demonaically” attractive and encourages similar natures to imitation— demoniacal means here: in defiance of advantage and life, in favour of an idea and craving. Do you imagine that Tristan and Isolde give a warning example of adultery through its being the cause of their death? This would be turning the poets upside down for they, and Shakespeare above all, are in love with the passions themselves, and no less with their yearnings for death— when the heart does not cling to life more firmly than the drop of water does to the glass. It is not so much guilt and its evil consequences which they—Shakespeare as well as Sophocles (in Ajax, Philoctetes Œdipus)—wish to portray; however easy it might have been in the aforesaid cases to make guilt the lever of the play, they carefully refrained from so doing. Neither is it the wish of the tragic poet to prejudice us against life by means of his representations of life. Nay, he exclaims: “It is the charm of charms, this exciting, variable, hazardous, gloomy and often sun-steeped existence! It is an adventure to live!— with whatever party you side in life, it will ever retain this character." Thus he speaks in a restless and vigorous age, which is partly intoxicated and dazed by its superabundance of blood and energy—ill an age more evil than ours: wherefore we must needs begin by adapting and accommodating the purpose of a Shake- sperian play—that is, by not understanding it.
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Fear and intelligence.—If what is now most positively asserted is true, that the cause of the black pigment of the skin is not attributable to the effect of light, could it perhaps be the final outcome of frequent passions, multiplied throughout thousands of years (and extravasations of blood under the skin)? Whereas in other more intelligent tribes the white skin resulted from their having as frequently grown pallid through fear? For the degree of timidity is a graduator of intelligence : and frequent indulgence of blind rage is a sign that animal nature is still on the look—out, and longing for an opportunity to burst through again. Thus a greyish brown would be the primitive colour of man—somewhat of the ape and bear hue, as is meet.
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Independence.—Independence in its weakest dose called "freedom of thought") is the form of resignation to which the imperious mau stoops in the evil—who, for a long time, has been looking for something which he might govern, without finding anything but himself.
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The two directions..—When we try to examine the mirror in itself we eventually detect nothing but the things reflected by it. When we wish to grasp the things reflected, we touch nothing but the mirror. This is the general history of knowledge.
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Delight in the real.—Our present love of delight in the real which we have, all of us—is accounted for by the fact that, for a long time, we ldlighted in the unreal, until we grew tired of it. Such as it appears now it is in itself a serious tendency, without option and refinement-—ts least danger is insipidity.
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Aristotle and matrimony.—Among the children of master-minds insanity breaks forth; among those of the virtuous, stupidity observes Aristotle. Did he, in so saying, mean to invite the exceptional characters to matrimony?
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Origin of bad temper.—The injustice and inconsistencies in the minds of many, their unregulated dispositions and immoderations are the final results of innumerable logical inaccuracies, superficialities and rash conclusions which their ancestors have been guilty of. The goodtempered, however, descend from deliberate and thoroughgoing races, who placed reason before everything; whether for laudable or evil purposes is a matter of no great importance.
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Dissimulation, a duty.—Kindness has been fully developed by that long simulation which tried to appear as kindness: wherever great power subsisted men opened their eyes to the necessity of this very kind of dissembling, which inspires us with a feeling of safety and confidence, multiplying by hundreds the real amount of physical power. Falsehood is, though not the mother, yet the nurse of kindness. Honesty has likewise been reared more especially by the requirement of a semblance of honesty and integrity: in hereditary aristocracies. Eventually the permanent practice of dissembling ripens into nature : simulation in the end neutralises itself and organs and instincts are the unexpected fruits in the garden of hypocrisy.
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Who then is ever alone!—The faint-hearted does not know what it is to be alone, for some enemy or other is always lying in wait for him. Oh, for him who could tell us the history of that noble feeling which is called loneliness!
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Night and music.—According to the mode of life of the timid the ear, the organ of fear, has only in the might and twilight of dark woods and caves been able to attain its present phase of development; that is, the longest human period which has ever existed: in broaddaylight the car is less required. This explains the character of music as that of an art of night and twilight.
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Consider!—He, who is being punished is no longer the same who has done the deed. He is always the scapegoat.
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Appearances.—Alas! Alas! Appearance requires the clearest and most persistent proof. Far too many lack eyes to perceive it. But it is so tedious to prove it!
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The anticipating ones.—The characteristic but also hazardous feature of poetical natures is their exhaustive fancy which anticipates, pre-enjoys, pre-suffers that which will and might be and is already worn out at the decisive moment of the event and action. Lord Byron, who was but too familiar with all this, wrote in his diary: “If ever I shall have a son, he shall choose a very prosaic profession—that of a lawyer or a pirate."
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Conversation on music.—{{italic|A.:}] What do you say to this music?—B.: It has overpowered no, I cannot find words for it. Hark! There it begins again.—A.: So much the better! Let us, this time, try our best to master it. May I add a few words to this music? And also show you a drama, which at first perhaps you did not want to pay attention to?—B.: Very well; I love two cars and more, if required. Move up quite close to me—A.: This is not yet what he wants to tell us; at present he only promises that he is going to say something, something extraordinary as he gives us to understand by these gestures. For gestures they are. How he beckons! How he raises himself! How he throws up his arms! Ah, now the supreme moment of sus- pense seems to have come to him : two more trumpetblasts, and he opens his theme, splendidly adorned as though studded with precious stones. Is it a handsom woman? Or a beautiful horse? Enough, he looks about in raptures, for it is his duty to attract enraptured looks—only now his theme begins quite to satisfy him, now he grows inventive and risks new and bolder features. How he forces out his theme! Mark!—he knows not only how to adorn it, but also to paint it! Yes, he knows the colour of health, he knows how to make it up—he is more subtle in his self-consciousness than I thought. And now he is convinced that he has convinced his hearers, he exhibits his impromptus as though they were the most important things under the sun; he gives impudent hints with regard to his theme, as if it were too good for this worldl. Ah, how suspicious he is! Lest we might get tired! So he wraps his melodies in sweetness—How he even appeals to our coarser senses, in order to excite us, and thereby to get us again into his power. Listen, how he conjures up the elementary force of tempestuous and thundering rhythms! And now that he perceives how they take hold of us, throttling, and almost crushing us, he again ventures to intertwine his theme with the play of the elements, and to persuade when half-confused and agitated, that our confusion and agitation are the effects of his wondrous theme. And henceforth the audience believe it: on its first repetition they are reminded of that thrilling elementary effect—this reminiscence now comes to the aid of the theme—it has now become “demoniac." What a great discerner of the soul he is! He masters us with the arts of a demagogue. But the music ceases!—B.: I am glad that it does; for I can no longer endure your observations. I should ten times rather be deceived than know the truth after your fashion!—A.: That is what I wanted to learn from you. Just like you, so are all the best minds. You are satisfied with being deceived! You come with coarse, sensuous ears, you have left behind you the conscience of the art of listening, you have, on your way, cast off the finest portion of your honesty. And thereby you spoil both art and artists. Every time you applaud and cheer you have the conscience of the artists in your hands—and alas! if they should notice that you cannot distinguish between inoffensive and offensive music! I do not indeed mean "good" and “bad” music-- in either kind we meet the one and the other. But I call an inoffensive music that winch altogether thinks but of itself and has forgotten the world on account of itself— the spontaneous resounding of the deepest solitude, which speaks of itself to itself, quite forgetful of the fact that there are hearers, listeners, effects, misunderstandings, and failures in the outside world. In fact, the music, which we have just heard, is indeed of this noble and rare kind; and everything that I said about it was a fiction—pardon my little trick, if you feel illclineil.—B.: Ah, then you too are an admirer of this music? Then many things shall be forgiven you.
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Felicity of the evil.—These silent, gloomy, evil people possess a something which you cannot deny: a rare and strange delight in the dolce far nieute, an evening —add sunset—rest, such as none but a heart can enjoy which only too often has been consumed, lacerated, poisoned by passions.
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Coaxing the dog.—You have only once to stroke this dog's coat to make him forthwith sputter and throw out sparks like any other flatterer—and to make him clever in his own way. Why should we not endure him thus?
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The whilom panegyrist.—"His lips are scaled with regard to me, although now he knows the truth and might tell it. But it would sound like revenge—and he values truth too highly, the honourable man!
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Amulet of the dependent.—Whoever is utterly dependent on a master must have a something whereby to inspire fear and hold his master in control: integrity, for instance, or sincerity, or an evil tongue.
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Why so superior!—I know them well, these animals! They certainly are better pleased with themselves when walking on two legs "like gods,"—but I like them better when they have fallen back on their four legs: they then appear so infinitely more natural.
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The demon of power.—Neither necessity or desire— nay, the love of power is the demon of mankind. Give them anything you like, health, food, abode, enjoyment —they are and will ever be unhappy and whimsical : for the demon is ever on the alert and longing to be gratified. Take everything from them and gratify this craving: then they will almost be happy—as happy, at least, as men and demons can be. But why do I say this? Luther has already said it, and better than I, in the verses: "And though they take our life, goods, honour, children, wife ; yet is their profit small, these things shall vanish all. The kingdom of God remaineth." Ay, ay! The kingdom!
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Contradiction, embodied and animated.—There is a physiological contradiction in the so-called genius : in the first place he is possessed of many wild, disorderly, involuntary emotions, and then again of many highly efficient ones at the same time he owns it mirror which shows both emotions side by side and within each other, and pretty often in opposition to each other. In consequence of this sight he is often happy, and if he feels happiest at work it is because he forgets that just then he is, with the utmost efficiency, doing—and cannot help doing something fantastical and irrational (for such is every art).
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Wishing to be mistaken.—Jealous people with more discriminative scent refuse to become more intimately acquainted with their rivals in order to feel superior to them.
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There is time for the theatre.—The decline of a nation's fancy evokes in it a longing to have its legends represented on the stage; then it tolerates the coarse substitutes of fancy. But in that age which is the age of the epic rhapsodist, the theatre and the actor of heroic parts are an obstacle to instead of a wing of fancy : too near, too definite, too heavy, with too little of dream-land and eagle-flight.
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Void of charm.—He is void of charm and knows it: ah, how skilled he is in veiling it! By stern virtue, gloomy looks, affected suspicion against mankind and existence, by coarse jests, by contempt of a more refined mode of life, by pathos and pretensions, by cynical philosophy—nay, in the constant consciousness of his deficiency he las developed into a character.
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The orator's Scylla and Charybdis.—How difficult it was at Athens to speak in such a way as to prevail upon the audience in favour of the cause without repelling them by the form or diverting their attention from the cause. How difficult it is even now in France to write thus.
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Invalids and art.—Against any kind of affliction and mental misery we ought to try first of all, a change of diet and hard manual labour. But men have, in these cases, acquired the habit of resorting to intoxicating means: to art, for instance to their own detriment and to that of art. Are you not aware that by clamouring for art in your invalid state you transfer your disease on the artists?
270
Apparent toleration.—These are good, kindly, rational words on and in favour of science; but alas! I see through this, your toleration of science. In your heart's core you think despite all this that you do not stand in need of it, that you are generous in admitting, any, in advocating it, the more so, because science does not show the same generosity to your opinions. Do you know that you have no right whatever to this show of toleration that this gracious demeanour is a sererer derogation of science than an open scorn in which any presumptuous priest or artist indulges? You fall short of the strong sense of truth and reality; you do not feel grieved and worried when discovering that science is opposed to your feelings; you do not know the intense longing for knowledge, ruling as law over you; you are not conscious of a duty in the craving to be ever present with your eyes wherever knowledge prevails, to secure all things that have been discerned. You do not know that which you treat with such toleration! And only because you do not know it you succeed in affecting such gracious airs. You, forsooth you, would cast about exasperate and fanatical glances if science would for once cast its flashing eyes upon your faces. What then do we care whether you are showing toleration to a phantom, and not even to us? Never mind us!
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Festive mood.—Those very people who are most eager in the aspiration after power experience an indescribably pleasant sensation when feeling themselves overpowered. Sinking suddenly and deeply into a feeling as into a whirlpool! Suffering the reins to be snatched from our hands and watching a movement whose end is unknown. Who is it, what is it that renders is this service ?—for it is a great service; we are so happy and breathless, and conscious of an exceptional silence all around, as though we were in the central bottom of the earth. For once altogether destitute of power! The sport of elementary powers! This blissful state implies a repose, a flinging off the great burden, a rolling downhill without effort as though by force of blind gravity. It is the dream of the moun taineer who, although having set his goal on high, falls asleep on the road from sheer exhaustion and dreams of the bliss of the contrast—the very rolling downhill without the least effort. I describe happiness such as I presume it in our present hunted, ambitious society both in Europe and America. Here and there they show signs of falling back into impotence: wars, arts, religions, geniuses offer them this enjoyment. If once we have temporarily indulged in a sensation which swallows and crushes everything--such is our modern festive mood—we grow freer, more refreshed, colder, sterner, and do not weary in striving after the contrary: after power.
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The purification of races.—In all probability there do not exist any pure, but only purified races, and these even are very rare. The more common are crossed races, amongst whom, in addition to a disharmony of bodily forms (when, for instance, the eye and mouth are not in harmony with each other), we always meet with a disharmony of habits and valuations. ( Livingstone overheard somebody saying, “God created white and black men, but the devil created the half-casts.") Crossed races are at the same time crossed cultures, crossed moralities: they are in most cases more evil, more cruel and more restless. Purity is the last outcome of countless adaptations, absorptions and separations, and the advance towards purity is shown by the fact that the power latent in some race or other is more and more restricted to special, selected functions, whilst in former times it had to transact too many and often contradictory things: such a restriction will, at the same time, always appear is an impoverishment, and requires a cautious and wild judgment. But in the end, in case of a successful process of purification, all that power which was formerly wasted in the contest of the disharmonious qualities is at the disposal of the entire organism; for which reason purified races have ever grow stronger and more beautiful. The Greeks are to us a model of a purified race and culture; and I trust that some day also a pure European race and culture may prosper.
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Praise.—Here is a person in whom you detect a design to praise you: you bite your lips, brace your heart; oh, for this cup to pass! But it does not pass, it comes! Therefore drink the sweet impudence of the panegyrist, conquer the disgust and profound contempt of the quintessence of his praise, veil your face in grateful joy!—for he really wished to please you. Am since he has done so we know that he feels greatly exalted; he has trampled over us—yes, and over himself too, the villain for he did not make light account of wresting this praise from himself.
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Human right anul privilege.—We human beings are the only creatures who, when degenerated, may blot ourselves out like an unsatisfactory sentence—be it that we do so in honour of or out of pity with humanity or from spite against ourselves.
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The transformed.—Now he becomes virtuous, for the sole purpose of hurting others. Do not take so much notice of him.
276
How often! how unexpected!—Many a married man has one morning awakened to the consciousness that his young wife is anything but attractive, although she believes herself to be so. Not to mention those women whose flesh is willing but whose intellect is weak.
277
Hot and cold virtues.—Courage, to wit, cold valour and intrepidity, and courage, to wit, fiery, rash braveryis, in both instances, called by one name. How widely different are cold and hot virtues! And a fool he who presumes that "goodness”, is only subjoined by warmth: and more fool he who would describe it to coldness only. The truth is that mankind has found both hot and cold courage exceedingly useful, yet not frequently enough to be able to place either in the category of precious stones.
278
The benevolent memory.—A man of high rank will do well to provide himself with a benevolent memory, that is, to remember all the good qualities of people and put a full-stop behind them: in so doing he keeps them in a pleasant dependence. In like manner man may lead with himself: the fact whether he has or has not a benevolent memory finally determines his own attitude towards himself, his superior, gentle, or distrustful observation of his inclinations and purposes, and again, in the end, the nature of these very inclinations and purposes.
279
Therein we become artists.—Whoever idolises a person tries to justify himself in his own eyes by idealising him; he thus becomes an artist in order to have a safe conscience. If he suffers, he does not suffer from ignorance, but from belying himself, as though he were ignorant. The innermost misery and bliss of such man—all passionate lovers belong to this class—are boundless.
280
Childlike.---Those who live like children who do not struggle for their daily bread or believe that their actions are of final importance—will ever be childlike.
281
Our "ego" claims everything.—It seems as though the motor force of human actions was the desire of possession: the languages, at least, suggest this idea, viewing all accomplished actions in the light of having put us into possession of something. ("I have spoken, struggled, conquered"; that is, I am now in full possession of the spoken word, of the struggle, of the victory.) What a covetous figure man represents in this light! Even to adhere with might and main to the past! to wish to have even that!
282
Danger in beauty. This woman is beautiful and clever; alas! how much cleverer she would have become if she were not beautiful!
283
Domestic and mental peace.—Our average mood depends on the mood in which we maintain our surroundings
284
Producing a news as though it were stale.—Many seen irritated when they are informed of a news; they realise the ascendency which the news gives to him who knows it first.
285
There are the final limits of our “eggo"?—The majority take a fact which they know under their special protection, just as if the knowledge thereof were sufficient to make it their own. The egoity's desire of appropriation is boundless: great men speak in such a manner as if they had outrun all ages and were the head of this long body; and good women glorify in the beauty of their children, their dresses, their dog, their physician, their town; and the only thing they are afraid of saying is, "All that, I am." Chi non ha, non é , goes the Italian saying.
286
Domestic and pet animals and the like.—Can we conceive anything more repulsive than the sentimental affection shown to plants and animals—on the part of a creature who from the very first raged amongst then as their fiercest enemy and finishes by even claiming affectionate feelings from his enfeebled and mutilated victims! In the face of such a "nature" man ought to strive above all after dignity, provided he be a rational being
287
Two friends.—They were friends, but they are no longer such, and both at the same time severed the tie of friendship: the one, because he believed himself grossly misunderstood; the other, because he deemed himself found out—and both were mistaken! For neither of them knew himself well enough.
288
A comely of the nobles.—Those who fail in showing a noble, sincere intimacy, endeavour to give a glimpse of their noble dispositions by reserve and severity and a certain contempt of intimacy: just as though their strong feeling of confidence was ashamed of showing itself.
289
Where we may not raise our voices against virtue.— Cowards consider it wrong and contemptible to raise their voices against valour, and inconsiderate people are provoked when pity is criticised.
290
An extravagance.—The first words and actions of excitable an abrupt natures generally do not afford any clue as to their true character (they are prompted by circumstances, and, as it were, imitating the spirit of the circumstances); but since they have actually been uttered and done, the subsequent truly characteristic words and actions have frequently to be wasted in balancing, reconciling, and blotting them from memory.
291
Presumption.—Presumption is an artificial and simulated pride; yet it is peculiar to pride to be incapable of and averse to any simulation, disguise and hypocrisy, hence presumption is the simulation incapacity of simulation, a very difficult thing, and in most cases a failure. But suppose that, as usually happens, it betrayed itself, then a treble annoyance awaits the presumptuous person: are angry with him because he is bent upon deceiving us, and again, because he wished to show himself superior to us—and, last not least, we even laugh at him because he failed in either of these endeavours. How earnestly ought we therefore to enjoin upon our fellow-men to beware of presumptuousness!
292
A kind of misconception.—When we hear somebody speak, the enunciation of a single consonant (an r, for instance) very often suffices to fill is with misgivings as to the honesty of his feelings: we are not familiar with this enunciation and should have to make it, arbitrarily—it sounds "affected” to us. This is a sphere of the grossest misconception: and the same applies to the style of writer whose habits are not universal habits. His artlessness is felt as such only by him, owing to the very thing which he himself considers "affected"; because he has therein yielded to fashion and the so-called “good taste," he may perhaps give pleasure and inspire confidence.
293
Thankful.—One superfluous grain of gratitude and piety makes one suffer as from a vice, and incur a evil conscience, despite all one's independence and honesty.
294
Saints.—It is the most sensual men who have to shun women and torture their bodies.
295
Art or serving.—It is one of the most difficult tasks of the great art of serving, to serve an excessively ambitious man who, though being in every respect intensely selfish, is thoroughly averse to being considered as such (this is indeed part of his ambition), who wants to be gratified and humoured in all things, yet in such wise as to give himself the appearance of sacrifi cing his own person and rarely claiming anything for himself.
296
The duel.—I consider a duel to be of great advantage, somebody said, provided of course it be absolutely necessary; for I have, at all times, brave comrades among my associates. The duel is the last remaining and perfectly honourable road to suicide; unfortunately a circuitous road, and not even a safe one.
297
Pernicious.—The surest way of corrupting a young man is to teach him to esteem the like-minded more highly than the different-minded.
298
Hero-worship and its fanatics.—The fanatic of an ideal made of flesh and blood is usually right as long as he preserves a negative attitude; and in so doing he is terrible: he knows that which he denies as well as himself, for the simple reason that he comes thence, is at home there and is for ever in secret dread of having some day to return there—he wants to make his return an impossibility by the manner of his negation. But as soon as he agrees he shuts his eyes and begins to idealise (frequently for the sole purpose of hurting those who have stayed at home): we might call this something artistic—greed, but there is also something dishonest in it. The idealist of a person imagines the same at such a distance that he cannot possibly obtain a clear view of the outlines, and he misinterprets that which he is just able to see as something “beautiful," which means something symmetrical, of soft lineaments, vague. Since he also longs to adore his ideal, which is floating on high in the far distance, he must necessarily build a temple for the purpose of his worship and out of the reach of the profanon vulgus. Into this temple he brings all the other venerable and consecrated objects which he possesses in order that their charm may reflect on liis ideal and that, with such nourishment, it may grow more and more divine. At last he has actually succeeded in forming his god, —but alas ! there is one who knows how this has been brought about,— his intellectual conscience and there is one besides who quite unconsciously protests against these proceedings, namely, the deified person himself, becoming unbearable in consequence of the worship, the hymns of praise and incense, and showing himself in an abominable manner as non-divine and more than human. In such a case there is but one escape left to the fanatic: he patiently suffers himself and his kin to be maltreated, interpreting even their misery in maiorem dei gloriam by a now kind of self-deceit and noble fiction: he takes sides against himself and in so doing experiences, in his capacity of an ill-treated person and interpreter, something like martyrdom—climbing thus to the height of his conceit. People of this kind were to be found in the entourage of Napoleon, nay, perhaps it is really he who instilled into the soul of our century the romantic prostration before "genius" and "hero," so foreign to the spirit of enlightenment; about whom a man like Byron was not ashamed of saying that he was "a worm compared with such a being." (The formula of this prostration have been discovered by that old, arrogant, busybody and grumbler, Thomas Carlyle, who spent a long life in trying to romanticize the sound commonsense of his Englishmen; but in vain !)
299
Semblance of heroism.—Throwing ourselves into the thick of our enemies may be a sign of cowardice.
300
Condescending to the flatterer.— It is the final prudence of the representatives of craving ambition to hide from others their contempt of mankind, caused by the sight of the flatterers: and to appear condescending to them, like unto a god who cannot be other than condescending.
301
"Strength of character.”—"What I have said once, that I will do, this mode of thinking is considered to show great strength of character. How many actions are accomplished, not because they have been selected as the most rational, but because they, when they occurred in our minds, in some way or other tickled our ambition and vanity so that we persist in them and rashly accomplish them. Thus they strengthen in us the belief in our character and our safe conscience, hence, generally speaking, in our strength: whilst the choice of the most rational acts maintains scepticism against us and a sense of weakness in us.
302
Once, trice, and thrice true.—Men lie unspeakably often, but they do not trouble to think of it, and generally do not believe it.
303
304
The destroyers of the world.—Suppose some failed in something; in the end he will angrily exclaim: “Would that the whole world came to rack and ruin!” This abominable wish is the height of envy, which reasons because I cannot have a something, the whole world shall have nothing! the whole world shall be nothing.
305
Avarice.—Our avarice in purchasing increases with the cheapness of the objects—why? Is it that the small differences in price constitute the small eye of avarice?
306
307
Faeta! Ay, Faeta fieta!—A historian has not to deal with actual facts, but only with imaginary events: for none but the latter have been instrumental. In the same way he has only to deal with imaginary heroes. His subject, the so-called world's history, is made up of opinions on imaginary actions and their imaginary motives, which in their turn give rise to opinions and actions, the truth of which, however, evaporates at once and is only effective as vapour,— continuous generating and teeming of phantoms above the dense mists of unfathomable truth. All historians record things that have never existed except in their imagination.
308
To be a stranger to trade is noble.—To sell one's virtue only at the highest price, or eren to carry on usury with it—as teacher, civil officer, artist, for instance—lowers genius and talent to matters of common trade. We should, once for all, refrain from being clever, thanks to our wisdom.
309
Fear and love.—The general knowledge of mankind has been more effectively promoted by fear than by love; for fear tries to find out who the other is, what he knows, what he wants: it would be hazardous and detrimental to be deceived on this head. Love, on the other hand, has a secret craving to discover in the loved object as many beautiful qualities as possible, or to raise him as highly as possible: to be thus deceived would be delightful and propitious, —wherefore love indulges in it.
310
The good-natured.—The good-natured have acquired their character from the constant dread of foreign encroachments in which their ancestors lived; who were in the habit of mitigating, appeasing, apologising, preventing, diverting, flattering, humbling themselves, concealing both grief and anger, smoothing their features,—and ultimately bequenthed this whole delicate and successful mechanism to their children and grandchildren. These, thanks to a more propitious fate, had no occasion for that permanent dread: nevertheless they continue in the same groove.
311
312
The forgetful.—In the outbursts of passion, and the will fancies of clean and insanity, man recovers his own pre-history and that of humanity: the animal world with its savage grimaces. His memory, for once, reflects on the past; while his civilised state evolves from the oblivion of these primitive experiences, hence, from the failing of that memory. Whoever, as one exceedingly forgetful, has always kept aloof from all this, does not understand mankind, yet it is in the interest of all, now and then, to meet some such individuals who “do not understand them," and who are, as it were, procreated from divine seed and born of reason.
313
The friend we want no more.—The friend whose hopes we cannot satisfy, we would prefer to have for an enemy.
314
From the academy of thinkers.—In the midst of the ocean of genesis we adventurers and birds of passage wake up on an islet not larger than a canoe, and here glance around for a short while as furtively and as curiously as possible; for how quickly may some wind blow us away or some wave sweep over the islet and nothing be left of us! But here, on this small space, we meet other birds of passage and hear of former ones,—and so we live together one precious minute of recognition and divinity, amid cheerful fluttering of the wings and joyous chirping, and, in our imagination, go to seek adventures for out on the ocean not less proud than he is himself.
315
To strip onsely.—To part with some of our property, to waive our rights, gives delight if it denotes great wealth. In that category we must place generosity.
316
Weak sects.—Those sects which are conscious that they will ever be weak but after a few intelligent adherents, wishing to make up in quality for what they lack in quantity. This involves a great danger for intelligent minds.
317
Evening judgment.—He who reviews his day's and life's work when he is weary and worn out, generally arrives at a melancholy conclusion: this, however, is not the fault of day and life, but of weariness. In the midst of our work, and even our pleasures, we usually find no leisure to muse over life and existence: but should this for once actually happen, we should no longer concede the point to him who was waiting for the seventh day and for rest to find all things in existence very beautiful—he had missed the right moment.
318
Beware of systematists.—We sometimes meet a certain amount of false pretence in systematists: in trying to complete a system and round off its horizon, they have to endeavour to make their weaker qualities appear in the light of their stronger ones. They wish to personate complete and uniformly strong characters.
319
Hospitality.—The purport of the rites of hospitality is to paralyse any hostile feeling in a stranger. As soon as we cease looking upon the stranger as upon our enemy, hospitality decreases; whereas it flourishes as long as its evil supposition prevails.
320
About weather.—A very unusual and unsettled weather makes men suspicious, even of one another; at the same time they grow fond of innovations, having to part with their old habits. Wherefore despots fancy those regions where the weather is moral.
321
Danger in innocence.—Innocent people are easy victims, because their ignorance prevents them from distinguishing between moderation and excess, and from being betimes cautious against themselves. Hence innocent, that is ignorant, young wives grow familiar with the frequent enjoyment of veneries, and miss them very much in after yours when their husbands will have fallen ill or grown prematurely old. That harmless and devout conception, as though this frequent intercourse with them be right and proper, fills them with a craving which afterwards exposes them to the severest trials, and even worse things than these. But, taken quite generally and critically, whoever loves a person or a thing without knowing him or it, falls a prey to something which he would not love if he could see it. Wherever experience, caution, and measured steps are required, it is the innocent who will be most thoroughly corrupted, for he has to drink with blindfolded eyes the dregs and the nethermost poison of everything. Let us review the practice of all princes, churches, sects, parties, corporations: is not the innocent always used as the sweetest bait for the most dangerous and infamous cases? Just as Ulysses used innocent Neoptolemos for the purpose of tricking the old, infirm anchorite and wizard of Lemnos out of his bow and arrows, Christianity, with its contempt of the world, has made it virtue of ignorance—the Christian innocence; perhaps, because the most frequent result of this innocence is, as above stated, guilt, the sense of guilt, and despair; hence a virtue which leads to heaven along the roundabout—way of hell: for only then the gloomy propylees of Christian salvation are thrown open, only then the promise of a posthumous second imecence will tell: it is one of the noblest inventions of Christianity.
322
To live without a physician, if possible.—It well-nigh seems to me that an invalid is more careless when he is under the supervision of a physician than when he looks after his own health. In the first instance le is satisfied with strictly obeying all the prescriptions; in the second, we more conscientiously keep our eye upon that which these prescriptions have in view, namely, our health, observing much more, putting ourselves under greater restraint than would be done by the directions of a physician. All precepts have this effect, that they abstract from the purpose implied in then and render us more careless. And to what height of immoderation and destruction would human carelessness have risen if ever men had honestly trusted everything to the Godhead as to their physician, according to the words, "as God may ordain"!
323
Obscuration of the heavens.—Do you know the revenge of timid people who behave in society as though they had stolen their members? The revenge of the humble, Christian-like souls, who just manage to slink through the world? The revenge of those who always judge rashly, and are always rashly declared to be in the wrong? The revenge of the drunkards of all classes, to whom the morning is the most dismal part of the day? Of all kinds of invalids, of the sickly and depressed, who no longer have the courage to recover ? The number of these petty revengeful people and of their mean little acts of revenge is immense; the very air is constantly whizzing with the discharged arrows of their malignity, so that the sun and the sky of their lives are often obscured thereby,—alas! not only theirs, but more often ours, other men's; ah, this is worse than the frequent pricks and wounds inflicted on our skins and hearts! Do we not sometimes deny the existence of the sun and the sky for the sole reason that we have not seen them for such a long time? Therefore, solitude! Even in this case, solitude !
324
The philosophy of actors.—It is the blissful illusion of all great actors that the historical persons represented by them really have felt as they do during their performance;—but in this they are greatly mistaken. Their power of imitation and divination which they are desirous of representing as a clear-sighted faculty, only penetrates far enough to explain gestures, accents, and looks—in short, the exterior; that is, they grasp the phantom soul of a great hero, statesman, warrior, of ambitious, jealous, desperate person; they come pretty near the soul, but fail to arrive at the spirit of their objects. It would, indeed, be a truly valuable thing to discover that, instead of thinkers, discerners, experts, we only required clear-sighted actors to throw light upon the essence of any condition. Whenever such pre- sumptuous notions become prevalent, we should never forget that the actor is nothing but an ape, indeed so much of an ape that he is utterly unable to believe in “nature" and "essence"; all he aims at is acting, accent, gesture, stage, scenery, and audience.
325
326
Knowledge of our circumstances.—We may estimate our forces but not our force. Circumstances do not only conceal it from and show it to us—nay, they even exaggerate and diminish it. We ought to consider ourselves variable quantities whose active power may, under specially favourable circumstances, become equivalent to that of the highest order. We ought, therefore, to weigh the circumstances, and spare no effort in studying them.
327
A fable.—No philosopher or poet has, as yet, succeeded in discovering the Don Juan of knowledge. The latter lacks love for the things which he apprehends, but he possesses wit, longing for and pleasure in the pursuit and intrigues of knowledge—up to the highest and most distant stars of knowledge!—until in the end nothing but the absolutely injurious part of knowledge is left to his pursuit, like unto the drunkard who finishes by partaking of absinthum and nitric acid; and ultimately he feels a longing for hell—it is the last knowledge which misleads him. Perhaps this even will disappoint him, as all things apprehended do. And then he will have to halt for ever and ever, nailed to disappointment and turned into a stony knight, with a longing for an evening repast of knowledge which never more will fall to his share. For the whole world of things has not a morsel left to offer to his famished soul.
328
What idealistic theories seem to disclose.—We may me sure to find ideal theories among the unscrupulous experts, for their reputation stands in need of the former's Iustre. They instinctively have recourse to them, without in so doing feeling in the least hypocritical—no more than Englishmen do in their Christian Sabbath observance. Conversely, contemplative natures who have to keep themselves under discipline in all sorts of fantastic dreams, and thread the repute of reverie, are only satisfied with hard, realistic theories; they seize them with the same instinctive compulsion and without losing their honesty.
329
The slanderers of cheerfulness.—Men who are deeply wounded by the disappointments of life look with suspicion on all cheerfulness, as though it were childlike and childish and betraying a want of common-sense which moves them to pity and sympathy, just us would a dying child that is still fondling his toys on on his death- bed. They detect hidden graves under every rose : festivitics, bustle, joyful music seem to them as the determined self-delusion of the hopeless invalid who longs to take a list draught from the intoxicating cup of life. But this judgment of cheerfulness is nothing but its refraction on the gloomy background of weariness and disease; it is itself something touching, irrational, pitiable, nay, even childlike and childish, but belonging to that second childhood which follows in the wake of old age and is the forerunner of death.
330
It is not enough.—It is not enough to prove a case, we must also mislead and lead others to it. Wherefore the wise man ought to learn how to impart his wisdom —and often to do so in such a manner as to make it savour of folly.
331
Right and limits.—Asceticism is the right mode of thinking for those who have to extirpate their sensual cravings, because these are ferocious beasts. Only such should practise asceticism.
332
The bombastic style.—An artist who does not wish to rent his highly pent-up feelings in his work, thus unburdening himself, but who, on the contrary, is desirous of imparting these very feelings to others, is pompous; and his style is the bombastic style.
333
Humanity.—We do not look upon animals as upon moral beings. But to you for a moment suppose that animals consider us to be moral beings? An animal, which could speak, has said: "Humanity is a prejudice we animals at least do not suffer from,"
334
The charitable man.—The charitable man gratifies a natural desire of his heart when he confers his benefit on others. The stronger this desire is, the less he enters into the feelings of him who serves the purpose of gratifying this desire; he becomes indelicate and occasionally even offensive. (This applies to the charity and liberality of the Jews, which, as is well known, is somewhat more effusive than that of other nations.)
335
That love may be felt as love.—We must be honest towards ourselves and thoroughly acquainted with our inmost hearts, so as to be able to practise upon others that humane dissimulation which is called love and kindliness.
336
What we are capable of.—A man who had been provoked all day long by his degenerated and wicked son, slew him in the evening, and drawing a long breath, exclaimed to the rest of his family, "Now we can sleep in safety." Who knows but what circumstances might drive us to?
337
”Natural."—To be natural at least in his deficiencies is perhaps the highest eulogium that can be bestowed on an artificial and in all other respects theatrical and ungenuine artist. For this very reason he will boldly display his deficiencies.
338
Conscience-substitute.—One man is the other's conscience: a fact which is of special importance if the other has no conscience.
339
Transformation of duties.—When duty ceases to be a burden, when, after long practice, it becomes a delight and a necessity, then the rights of others to whom our duties, now our inclinations, refer, change into occasions for pleasant sensations. The other, in the force of his rights, henceforth becomes to us an object of love instead of an object of reverence and awe, We seek our own pleasure when we acknowledge and maintain the extent of his power. When the Quietists no longer felt their Christian faith as a burden, and found their only delight in God, they adopted the motto: “Do all to the glory of God"; whatever they performed in this direction ceased to be a sacrifice; it was tantamount to : "Everything for the sake of our pleasure." To demand that duty shoudl always be more or less a burden—as Kanthas it—is to demand: that it should never develop into a habit or custom: this demand savours of a slight residuum of ascetic cruelty.
340
Appearances are against the historian.—It is a wellproven fact that human beings originate in the womb : nevertheless grown-up children, when standing at their mother's side, place the hypothesis in a most absurd light: it has all appearances against it.
341
Advantage of ignorant.—Somebody has said that in his childhood he had entertained such a strong contempt for the capricious whims of the melancholy temperament that, until the time when he became a man, he was kept in ignorance about his own temperament, which, indeed, was melancholy. He declares this kind of ignorance to be most profitable.
342
Unmistakable.—True, he examines the matter from every side, and you think him to be a man of thorough knowledge. But he only wishes to lower its price he wants to buy it.
343
Moral pretence.—You refuse to be dissatisfied with yourselves or to suffer through yourselves—and this you call your moral tendency. Very well! another may perhaps call it your cowardice. But one thing is certain you will never manage to get through the world (and you are your own world) and you will for ever be in yourselves a casualty and a clod on the clod. Do you imagine that we, who hold different views, expose ourselves for mere folly's sake to the journey through our own deserts, marshes, and ice-regions, and voluntarily choose pain and the surfeit of ourselves, after the fashion of the Stylites?
344
Subtlety in mistake.—If, as they say, Homer has been able to sleep at times, he was wiser than all artists of restless ambition. We have to allow the admirers time to recover their breath by periodically converting them into critics; for nobody can abide an uninterrupted brilliant and untiring productiveness; and instead of doing good, such a master would turn into a task-master whom we hate whilst he precedes us.
345
Our happiness is no argument either pro or con.— Many people are only capable of a small share of happiness: it is no more an argument against their wisdom that the latter is unable to give them greater happiness, tha against medical skill that my people are incurable and others always ailing. May everybody have the good fortune to discover that more of life which may enable him to realise his greatest share of happiness: yet, for all that, his life may be miserable and not worth envying.
346
Misoginists.—“Woman is our enemy"—the who speaks thus to men betrays an unbridled Iust which does not only loathe itself, but even its means.
347
School of the orator.—By keeping silence for a whole year we learn to prate and learn to discourse. The Pythagoreans were the best statesman of their age.
348
349
Not so very important.—At any deathbed at which are standing there always arises in us a certain thought which we promptly suppress from a false sense of propriety: the thought that the act of dying is not so significant as general reverence maintains and that the dying person has probably lost in life things more important than he is about to lose in the hour of death. The end, in this case, is certainly not the goal.
350
The safest way to promise.—When a promise is made, it is not the word which is binding, but that which is implied in the word. Forsooth, words render a promise invalid, by discharging and wasting a power which is part of that power which makes the promise. Therefore proffer your land but place your finger on your lips—thus you will make the safest promises.
351
Misunderstood as a rule.—In conversation we sometimes notice people endeavouring to set a trap wherein to catch others—not from any base motive, as one might think, but from sheer delight in their own shrewdness: some again prepare a joke and leave it to others to utter it, they tie the loop for the other to pull out the knot: not from goodwill, as one might be induced to think, but from wickedness and contempt of coarse intellects.
352
Centre.—The feeling: “I am the centre of the world," springs up with full force when we are suddenly overtaken by same. We feel dazed and, as it were, standing in the midst of a surge, dazzled by one great piercing eye, which from all sides gazes down upon us and looks straight through and through us.
353
Freedom of speech.—"The truth should be told, even though the world should go to rack and ruin"—thus says great, outspoken Fichte! Yes, certainly! But we must first of all love it. But he means to say that everybody ought to speak out his mind, even though everything were to be turned upside clown. This point, however, is still open to argument.
354
355
Admirers.—He who goes so far in his admiration as to crucify the non-admirer, is one of the hangmen of his party; beware of shaking hands with him, though he be of your party.
356
Effect of happiness.—The first effect of happiness is the sense of power: which longs to manifest itself either to us or to others, to ideas or imaginary beings. The most ordinary ways of manifestation are: Gifts, derision, destruction—all these three with a common, deep-seated impulse.
357
Moral stinging-flies.—Those moralists who lack the love of knowledge and who only know the pleasure of giving pain to others, have the temper and tediousness of townsfolk. It is their pastime, which is as cruel as it is mean, closely to watch their neighbour and quite imperceptibly to put a pin in such a way that he cannot help pricking himself with it. This is their last residuum of the schoolboy's naughtiness, who cannot be merry without hunting and torturing both the living and dead.
358
Reasons and their groundlessness.—You feel a dislike for him, and adduce ample reasons for this dislike, but I only believe in your dislike and not in your reasons. It is a flattery in your own eyes to interpret as a syllogism that which instinctively happens both to yourself and to me.
359
Approving of a thing.—We approve of marriage, first, because we are still strangers to it: secondly, because we have grown familiar with it; thirdly, because we have contracted it—that is, almost in all cases. For all that nothing is proved in favour of the general value of marriage.
360
No Utilitarians.—"Power which is greatly wronged both in deeds and thoughts is worth more than impotence which only meets with kindly feelings "—this was the Greek way of reasoning. That is: they valued power more highly than any utility or fair fame..
361
Ugly in appearance.—Moderation sees itself in a rosy light; it is unaware of the fact that in the eye of the immoderate it appears harsh and sober and consequently ugly.
362
Different hatred.—Many do not hate until they feel weak and tired: ill other respects they are fair-minded and forgiving. Others do not hate until they discover an occasion for revenge: in other respects they refrain from all secret and open wrath, and whenever there is occasion, they overlook it.
363
People favoured by chance.—The constituent parts of every invention are affected by chance, but the majority of people do not meet with their chance.
364
Choice of one's surroundings.—Let us beware of living in a company in whose presence we are unable either to observe a dignified silence or to communicate our loftier thoughts, so that our complaints and wants and the whole tale of our distress remain to be told. We grow dissatisfied both with ourselves and these surroundings; nay, we even add to the distress which gives rise to our complaints, the displeasure of feeling ourselves always the plaintiff's. But where we should be ashamed to speak of ourselves and have no need to speak of ourselves, there it is that we should live. But who thinks of such things, of a selection in such things ? We speak of our "fatality," turn our broad backs and sigh: "Woe to me, ill-starred Atlas!"
365
Vanity.—Vanity is the dread of appearing original ; hence it is a lack of pride, but not necessarily a lack of originality.
366
The criminal's grief.—The detected criminal does not suffer because of the crime committed, but rather because of the disgrace or the annoyance at having committed a blunder, or because of the craving created by the familiar element, and it requires acute discernment to distinguish in these cases. Every visitor of prisons and penitentiaries is astonished at the rare instances of genuine “remorse": and the frequent yearning after the evil, beloved old crime.
367
Always to appear happy.—When, in the third century, Greek philosophy became a matter of public emulation, a considerable number of philosoplıcrs were happy in the secret thought that others who lived according to different principles and derived no satisfaction from them, could not but feel provoked by their happiness; they believed that this happiness was the surest argument to refuting the others; wherefore it suſliced them to make a continuous display of happiness, and in so doing they ended by being happy themselves. Such was, for instance, the fate of the cynics.
368
Cause of much misunderstanding.—The morality of the increasing nerve-power is joyous and restless, whereas the morality of the diminishing nerve-power, in the evening, or in invalids and aged people, is painful, calm, patient, melancholy, often even gloomy. In proportion as we possess the one or the other, we do not understand that which we do not have, and we often call it in others immorality and weakness.
369
To raise oneself above one's own worthlessness.—Proud fellows indeed those who, in order to re-establish the consciousness of their dignity and importance, need others whom they may tyrannise and oppress: whose impotence and cowardice permit the impunity wherewith some display in their pressure a haughty or angry demeanour, so that they need the worthlessness of their surroundings to raise themselves for a short while above their own worthlessness. For this purpose one requires a dog; another a friend; a third a wife; a fourth a party; and another, again, one rarely to be met with, a whole century.
370
371
The evil in strength.—Violence, as the outcome of passion—of rage, for instance is psychologically to be understood as an attempt to prevent an imminent fit of suffocation. Innumerable deeds of insolence, vented on others, have acted as so many outlets for a sudden congestion by a vigorous muscular exertion; and perchance the "evil in strength" may be looked upon from this point of view. (The evil in strength wounds others quite unintentionally—it has to find an outlet; the evil in weakness wishes to wound and to see signs of suffering.)
372
To the credit of the connoisseur.—As soon as somebody poses as judge, although he be no connoisseur, we ought forthwith to remonstrate, be he man or woman. Enthusiasm or delight in a thing or a human being are no arguments, neither are grudge and hatred against them.
373
Ambiguous blame.—"He has no knowledge of mankind" means on the lips of some, "He does not know what corruption is"; on those of others, "He does not know the exception, but knows only too well what corruption means."
374
Value of sacrifice.—The more the rights of states and princes are called in question as to the sacrifice of the individual (as, for instance, in the administration of justice, compulsory military service, &c.), the higher the value of self-sacrifice will rise.
375
Speaking fon distinctly.—For various reasons we, at times, articulate our words too distinctly; once, from distrust of ourselves, when obliged to converse in a new and practised language; secondly, from distrust of others, of their stupidity and slow comprehension. The same holds good with regard to intellectual matters; our coinmunications are sometimes too distinct, too minute, because those to whom we communicate our ideas would not understand is otherwise. Wherefore the perfect and easy-flowing style is only permissible in the presence of a perfect audience.
376
Plenty of sleep.—What are we to do to rouse ourselves when we are weary and sick of our ego? Some recommend the gambling-table; others, the Christian religion, or electricity. The best remedy, however, my clear, melancholy friend, is, and will ever be, plenty of sleep, in the literal and figurative sense of the word. Thus another morning will dawn upon us. True worldly wisdom will know to find the proper line for applying this sleep-remedy.
377
What fantastic ideals seem to point at.—The seat of our deficiencies is likewise that of our enthusiasm. The enthusiastic principle, "Love your enemies," and to be invented by the Jews, the greatest haters that ever existed; and the most sublime glorification of chastity was written by men who, in their youth, had led dissolute and licentious lives.
378
Clean hands and clean walls.—Do not paint the likenesses of either God or the devil on your walls—i.e., Do not talk of either God or the devil—for in so doing you will spoil your walls as well as your surroundings.
379
Probable and improbable.—A woman secretly loved a man and raised him high above herself, saying a hundred of times in her heart of hearts, "If such a man were to love me, I should deem it a condescension which would make me grovel in the dust."—And the man entertained the same feelings for the woman, and in the inmost recesses of his heart he fostered the very same thought. When, at last, their tongues were loosened and they had told each other all the secret and inmost thoughts of their hearts, a deep and thoughtful silence ensued. Then the woman began in a chilled voice, “It is as clear as day, we are neither of us what we have loved. If you are such and no other than you say, it is in win that I have humbled myself and loved you; the demon misled me as well as you." This very probable story never happens and why not?
380
Tested advice.—Of all means of solace none is so consolatory to those who are in need of comfort as the assertion that, in their case, no comfort can be bestowed. This implies such distinction that they will raise their heads again.
381
To know one’s individuality.—We are too apt to forget that, in the eyes of strangers who see us for the first time, we are beings quite different from those we consider ourselves to be: viz., in some cases nothing more than some prominent individuality that determines the impression we make on them. Thus the gentlest and most fair-minded man, provided he have a formidable moustache, may as it were quietly repose in its shade.—ordinary eyes behold in him the accessory to a formidable moustache, viz., a military, irascible, occasionally violent temper—and behave to him accordingly.
382
Gardeners and gardens.—Out of dark, dreary days, out of loneliness and unkind words, there grow up within us conclusions like fungi; one fine morning they have sprung up—we do not know whence and they scowl at us with sullen, morose eyes. Woe to the thinker who, instead of being the gardener of his plants, is but the soil in which they grow.
383
The insincerity of sympathy.—Much as we may sympathise with our brother when he is unhappy, in his presence we more or less act with insincerity; we refrain from uttering all that we think or the way we think about it, with that prudence of the physician who is standing by the bedside of a patient who is seriously ill.
384
On saints.—There are pusillanimous people who have a very poor opinion of their best works and efforts and who are at the same time bad commentators and interpreters of the same; also by way of revenge they do not value the sympathy of others, or altogether do not believe ill sympathy; they are ashamed of appearing carried away by themselves and take a defiant comfort in becoming ridiculous. Such notions we find in the souls of melancholy artists.
385
386
The pathetic and the noïve.—It may be an ignoble habit to neglect no opportunity for assuming a pathetic air, for the sake of the enjoyment of fancying the spectator striking his breast and feeling miserable and small. Consequently it may also be a characteristic of a noble mind to make fun of pathetic conditions and to behave in an undignified manner in them. The old warlike nobility of France possessed that kind of stateliness and refinement.
387
Instance of a deliberation before marriage.—Supposing she loved me, what a nuisance she would become to me in the long run! And supposing she did not love me, how much more of a nuisance she would be to me in the long run! It is a matter of two different sorts of nuisances; therefore let us marry.
388
Villainy committed with a good conscience.—In many countries—in the Tyrol, for instance—it is annoying to be cheated, for we have to accept into the bad bargain the fraudulent vendor's mean face and coarse greediness along with his bad conscience and hostile feeling against At Venice, ou the other hand, the cheater is genuinely delighted with his successful fraud and not in the least angry with his dupe, nay, even inclined to show him some kindness and to have a hearty laugh with him in case he should feel so disposed. Hence it follows that one must possess wit and a good conscience successfully to commit a knavery: this will almost reconcile the dupe to the dupery.
389
Somewhat too awkward.—Excellent people, who, however, are too awkward to be civil and amable, seek promptly to return an act of civility by a kind service or a contribution out of their store of faculties. It is touching to see them diffidently produce their gold coins when others have offered them their gilt pennies!
390
Concealing intellect—When we take somebody in the act of concealing his intellect from us, we call him evil: all the more so when we suspect that civility and humanity have prompted him to do so.
391
The evil moment.—Lively dispositions only lie on the spur of the moment: afterwards they have deceived themselves and are convinced and honest.
392
Stipulation of civility).—Civility is a very good thing, in fact, one of the four principal virtues (though the last): but lest it prove a means of boring me, the person with whom I have to deal must be either one degree more or less civil than I,—else we shall never get on and the ointment will not only anoint us but plaster us together.
393
Dangerous virtues.—”He forgets nothing but forgives everything.” Wherefore he will be doubly detested, for he puts us doubly to shame, both by his memory and his magnanimity.
394
Free from vanity.—Passionate people little think of what others may think; their frame of mind raises them above vanity.
395
Contemplation.—In some thinkers the contemplative state peculiar to a thinker is always the consequence of a state of fear; in others always that of desire. Wherefore to the former contemplativeness seems combined with the sense of security, to the Iatter with that of surfeit:—that is, the former is spirited, the latter despondent and neutral.
396
397
Education.—Education is a continuation of veneration, and frequently a kind of supplementary embellishment of it.
398
The characteristic of the choleric.—Of two persons who are fighting, loving or admiring each other, the more choleric will always be at a disadvantage. The same applies to two nations.
399
Self-excuse.—Many have the best possible right to act either in this or that mamer. But as soon as they begin to excuse themselves, we no longer believe in their rightand are mistaken.
400
Moral coddling.—There are characters of a delicate moral disposition who blush at every success and feel remorse after every failure.
401
402
Another kind of toleration.—To have been left one minute too long on red-hot coals, and to be just a little burnt, will do no harm, either to men or to chestnuts. This slight bitterness and hardness make the kernel taste all the sweeter. Yes, this is what you say, you who only know enjoyment. Oh, ye sublime cannibals!
403
Different pride.—Women burn pale at the thought that their lover night be unworthy of them; men turn pale at the thought that they might be worthy of the woman they love. I allude to perfect women, perfect well. Men, as a rule sanguine and self-confident, when under the influence of a strong passion grow diffident, doubtful of themselves: women, on the other hand, though generally conscious of being the weak, devoted sex, in the great exception of love become proud and conscious of their power, they ask, Who is worthy of me?
404
To whom we rarely do justice.—Many a man is unable to feel enthusiasm for any great and good cause without, in some quarter or other, committing a grievous wrong: this is his kind of morality.
405
Luxury.—The love of luxury roots in the depth of the human heart, betraying that all that is superfluous and immoderate is the sea wherein the soul of man delights to float.
406
To immortalise.—May he, who wishes to kill his opponent, first consider whether he will not in so doing immortalize him to himself.
407
Against our character.—If our character rebels against the trutlı which we have to say,—as happens very often,— we behave in a way as though we clumsily uttered an untruth, and thus we arouse suspicion.
408
There a great deal of clemency is ruled.—Many characters have but the one alternative left: either to become public evil-doers or secret mourners.
409
Illness.—Illness implies an untimely approach of old age, of ugliness and of pessimistic opinions, which fall under the same cognisance.
410
The timid.—It is the awkward and the timid who frequently become murderers: they do not understand slight but efficient defence or revenge; their hatred, in the absence of intelligence and presence of mind, does not hit upon any other expedient but destruction.
411
Without hatred.—You wish to bid farewell to your passion? Very well, but do so without hatred against it. Else you will have to contend with a second passion. The Christian's soul which has freed itself from sin is in most cases ruined by the hatred against sin. Look at the faces of great Christians. They are the faces of great haters.
412
Ingenious and narrow-minded.—He does not know how to appreciate anything except himself; and when he wishes to appreciate others he has first to transform them into himself. In this, howererm, he is ingenious.
413
414
Blind of one's own free will.—There is a kind of enthusiastic, excessive devotion to some person or party which betrays that in our inmost hearts we feel superior to the objects of our devotion, and, for that reason, feel indignant with ourselves. We, as it were, blind ourselves of our own free will, to punish our eyes for having seen too much.
415
Remedium amoris.—In most cases love is now as ever relieved by that ancient, radical remedy: love in return.
416
Where is our worst enemy!—We, who are and are conscious of being good managers of our own affairs, are generally conciliatory towards our adversary. But the belief that we have the right on our side, and the knowledge that we are incapable of pleading it.—rouses a fierce an implacable hatred against the opponent of our cause. May everybody judge thereby in what direction he has to look for his worst enemies.
417
Limit of all humility.—Many a man may indeed have attained that humility which says, Credo quia absurdum est, and sacrifices its reason: but not one, for aught I know, has ever attained that humility, which, after all, is but one step further, and which says, Credo, quia Absurdum sum.
418
Acting the truth.—Many a man is truthful,—not because he detests playing the hypocrite, but because he would ill-succeed in gaining credence for his hypocrisy. In short, he has no confidence in his talent as actor and therefore prefers to be honest : acting the truth.
419
Party-courage.—The poor sheep say to their shepherd, "Lead us and we shall never be wanting in courage to follow you." And the poor shepherd thinks in his heart : “You only follow me, and I shall never lack courage to lead you."
420
Shrewdness of the victim.—What distressing shrewd. ness lies in the wish to deceive ourselves with regard to the person for whose sake we have sacrificed ourselves, and to give him an opportunity of appearing such as we would wish him to be.
421
422
Making others happy—Why does nothing make us so happy as the making of the happiness of others?—Because, in so doing, we at once gratify our fifty cravings. Taken severally, they would be very little pleasures : but when taken all into one hand, the land will be fuller than ever, and the heart likewise.