of it as infinite, whether in extent or power—such a view seems to him an unwarranted extravagance. Though immense and practically immeasurable, it is none the less a definite quantity, something capable neither of increase nor of diminution, surrounded by nothing, for there is nothing outside of it, terms of this sort being applicable only to relations within it and empty space being but a name.[1] In no way does he more radically depart from modern, romantic, Christian notions and return to old Greek habits of thought, than in this view of a finite rather than infinite world. As Zarathustra sees it in a dream, the world is something measurable, weighable, compassable, divinable—not, indeed, simple enough to put men's minds to sleep, and yet not enigmatic enough to scare away human love, a kind of humanly good thing, like a perfect apple, or a broad-boughed tree, or a treasure-box open for the delight of modest revering eyes.[2] It is, indeed, of such measured scope that the things which once happened in it are likely, or even bound in the course of time, to happen again—there cannot be ever new things. Sometime the possibilities of change will be exhausted, and then the new things will be old things over again. This becomes a special doctrine which we shall consider in the next chapter. Suffice it now to say that by this recurrence, and, supposing that time goes on forever, ever renewed recurrence of the past, a semblance of succession or order arises in the world, despite its chance nature—or rather just because of this, for the recurrence is entirely a matter of accident and necessity, not the result of any design or ordering will.
Nietzsche's attitude to chaos and accident is a double one. Because of what may come out of it, and partly because it represents the actual conditions of existence which a brave man will accept anyway, he speaks at times of "beautiful chaos," "dear accident." In this mood amor fati is his motto. He writes on the opening of a new year, "I will ever more learn to recognize the necessary in things as the beautiful,—so shall I be one of those who make things beautiful: let this be from now on my love!"[3] Zarathustra calls (by a play on words
