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Title: Ecce Homo - Complete Works, Volume Seventeen
Author: Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm
Language: English
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HYMN TO LIFE (_composed by F. NIETZSCHE_)

The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche

The First Complete and Authorised English Translation

Edited by Dr Oscar Levy

Volume Seventeen






The Birth of Tragedy
Thoughts out of Season
Human, All-too-Human
The Dawn of Day
The Joyful Wisdom
Thus spake Zarathustra
Beyond Good and Evil
The Genealogy of Morals
The Twilight of the Idols
The Case of Wagner
Songs, Epigrams, etc.
Fragments of Dionysus-Dithyrambs


_Ecce Homo_ is the last prose work that Nietzsche wrote. It is true
that the pamphlet _Nietzsche contra Wagner_ was prepared a month
later than the Autobiography; but we cannot consider this pamphlet as
anything more than a compilation, seeing that it consists entirely of
aphorisms drawn from such previous works as _Joyful Wisdom, Beyond
Good and Evil, The Genealogy of Morals,_ etc. Coming at the end of a
year in which he had produced the _Case of Wagner, The Twilight of the
Idols,_ and _The Antichrist, Ecce Homo_ is not only a coping-stone
worthy of the wonderful creations of that year, but also a fitting
conclusion to his whole life, in the form of a grand summing up of his
character as a man, his purpose as a reformer, and his achievement
as a thinker. As if half conscious of his approaching spiritual end,
Nietzsche here bids his friends farewell, just in the manner in which,
in the _Twilight of the Idols_ (Aph. 36, Part ix.), he declares that
every one should be able to take leave of his circle of relatives and
intimates when his time seems to have come--that is to say, while he
is still _himself_ while he still knows what he is about, and is able
to measure his own life and life in general, and speak of both in a
manner which is not vouchsafed to the groaning invalid, to the man
lying on his back, decrepit and exhausted, or to the moribund victim
of some wasting disease. Nietzsche's spiritual death, like his whole
life, was in singular harmony with his doctrine: he died suddenly
and proudly,--sword in hand. War, which he--and he alone among all
the philosophers of Christendom--had praised so whole-heartedly, at
last struck him down in the full vigour of his manhood, and left him
a victim on the battlefield--the terrible battlefield of thought, on
which there is no quarter, and for which no Geneva Convention has yet
been established or even thought of.

To those who know Nietzsche's life-work, no apology will be needed
for the form and content of this wonderful work. They will know, at
least, that a man either is, or is not, aware of his significance and
of the significance of what he has accomplished, and that if he is
aware of it, then self-realisation, even of the kind which we find
in these pages, is neither morbid nor suspicious, but necessary and
inevitable. Such chapter headings as "Why I am so Wise," "Why I am a
Fatality," "Why I write such Excellent Books,"--however much they may
have disturbed the equanimity, and "objectivity" in particular, of
certain Nietzsche biographers, can be regarded as pathological only
in a democratic age in which people have lost all sense of graduation
and rank and in which the virtues of modesty and humility have to be
preached far and wide as a corrective against the vulgar pretensions of
thousands of wretched nobodies. For little people can be endured only
as modest citizens; or humble Christians. If, however, they demand a
like modesty on the part of the truly great; if they raise their voices
against Nietzsche's lack of the very virtue they so abundantly possess
or pretend to possess, it is time to remind them of Goethe's famous
remark: "_Nur Lumpe sind bescheiden_" (Only nobodies are ever modest).

It took Nietzsche barely three weeks to write this story of his life.
Begun on the 15 th of October 1888, his four-and-fourtieth birthday,
it was finished on the 4th of November of the same year, and, but
for a few trifling modifications and additions, is just as Nietzsche
left it. It was not published in Germany until the year 1908, eight
years after Nietzsche's death. In a letter dated the 27th of December
1888, addressed to the musical composer Fuchs, the author declares
the object of the work to be to dispose of all discussion, doubt, and
inquiry concerning his own personality, in order to leave the public
mind free to consider merely "the things for the sake of which he
existed" ("_die Dinge, derentwegen ich da bin_"). And, true to his
intention, Nietzsche's honesty in these pages is certainly one of
the most remarkable features about them. From the first chapter, in
which he frankly acknowledges the decadent elements within him, to
the last page, whereon he characterises his mission, his life-task,
and his achievement, by means of the one symbol, _Dionysus_ versus
_Christ,_--everything comes straight from the shoulder, without
hesitation, without fear of consequences, and, above all, without
concealment. Only in one place does he appear to conceal something, and
then he actually leads one to understand that he is doing so. It is in
regard to Wagner, the greatest friend of his life. "Who doubts," he
says, "that I, old artillery-man that I am, would be able if I liked to
point my heavy guns at Wagner?"--But he adds: "Everything decisive in
this question I kept to myself--I have loved Wagner" (p. 122).

To point, as many have done, to the proximity of all Nietzsche's autumn
work of the year 1888 to his breakdown at the beginning of 1889, and
to argue that in all its main features it foretells the catastrophe
that is imminent, seems a little too plausible, a little too obvious
and simple to require refutation. That Nietzsche really was in a state
which in medicine is known as _euphoria_--that is to say, that state
of highest well-being and capacity which often precedes a complete
breakdown, cannot, I suppose, be questioned; for his style, his
penetrating vision, and his vigour, reach their zenith in the works
written in this autumn of 1888; but the contention that the matter, the
substance, of these works reveals any signs whatsoever of waning mental
health, or, as a certain French biographer has it, of an inability to
"hold himself and his judgments in check," is best contradicted by
the internal evidence itself. To take just a few examples at random,
examine the cold and calculating tone of self-analysis in Chapter I. of
the present work; consider the reserve and the restraint with which the
idea in Aphorism 7 of that chapter is worked out,--not to speak of the
restraint and self-mastery in the idea itself, namely:--

"To be one's enemy's equal--this is the first condition of an
honourable duel. Where one despises one cannot wage war. Where one
commands, where one sees something beneath one, one ought not to wage
war. My war tactics can be reduced to four principles: First, I attack
only things that are triumphant--if necessary I wait until they become
triumphant. Secondly, I attack only those things against which I find
no allies, against which I stand alone--against which I compromise
nobody but myself.... Thirdly, I never make personal attacks--I use a
personality merely as a magnifying-glass, by means of which I render a
general, but elusive and scarcely noticeable evil, more apparent....
Fourthly, I attack only those things from which all personal
differences are excluded, in which any such thing as a background of
disagreeable experiences is lacking."

And now notice the gentleness with which, in Chapter II., Wagner--the
supposed mortal enemy, the supposed envied rival to Nietzsche--is
treated. Are these the words and the thoughts of a man who Has lost, or
who is losing control?

And even if we confine ourselves simply to the substance of this work
and put the question--Is it a new Nietzsche or the old Nietzsche that
we find in these pages? Is it the old countenance with which we are
familiar, or are the features distorted, awry, disfigured? What will
the answer be? Obviously there is no new or even deformed Nietzsche
here, because he is still faithful to the position which he assumed
in _Thus spake Zarathustra,_ five years previously, and is perfectly
conscious of this fidelity (see p. 141); neither can he be even on the
verge of any marked change, because the whole of the third chapter,
in which he reviews his life-work, is simply a reiteration and a
confirmation of his old points of view, which are here made all the
more telling by additional arguments suggested, no doubt, by maturer
thought. In fact, if anything at all is new in this work, it is its
cool certainty, its severe deliberateness, and its extraordinarily
incisive vision, as shown, for instance, in the summing up of the
genuine import of the third and fourth essays in the _Thoughts out of
Season_ (pp. 75-76, 80, 81, 82), a summing up which a most critical
analysis of the essays in question can but verify. Romanticism,
idealism, Christianity, are still scorned and despised; another
outlook, a nobler, braver, and more earthly outlook, is still upheld
and revered; the great yea to life, including all that it contains
that is terrible and questionable, is still pronounced in the teeth of
pessimists, nihilists, anarchists, Christians, and other decadents; and
Germany, "Europe's flatland," is still subjected to the most relentless
criticism. If there are any signs of change, besides those of mere
growth, in this work, they certainly succeed in eluding the most
careful search, undertaken with a full knowledge of Nietzsche's former
opinions, and it would be interesting to know precisely where they are
found by those writers whom the titles of the chapters, alone, seem so
radically to have perturbed.

But the most striking thing of all, the miracle, so to speak, of this
autobiography, is the absence from it of that loathing, that suggestion
of surfeit, with which a life such as the one Nietzsche had led, would
have filled any other man even of power approximate to his own. This
anchorite, who, in the last years of his life as a healthy human being,
suffered the experience of seeing even his oldest friends, including
Rhode, show the most complete indifference to his lot, this wrestler
with Fate, for whom recognition, in the persons of Brandes, Taine, and
Strindberg, had come all too late, and whom even support, sympathy, and
help, arriving as it did at last, through Deussen and from Madame de
Salis Marschlins, could no longer cheer or comfort,--this was the man
who was able notwithstanding to inscribe the device _amor fati_ upon
his shield on the very eve of his final collapse as a victim of the
unspeakable suffering he had endured.

And this final collapse might easily have been foreseen. Nietzsche's
sensorium, as his autobiography proves, was probably the most delicate
instrument ever possessed by a human being; and with this fragile
structure--the prerequisite, by the bye, of all genius,--his terrible
will compelled him to confront the most profound and most recondite
problems. We happen to know from another artist and profound thinker,
Benjamin Disraeli, who himself had experienced a dangerous breakdown,
what the consequences precisely are of indulging in excessive activity
in the sphere of the spirit, more particularly when that spirit is
highly organised. Disraeli says in _Contarini Fleming_ (Part iv. chap.

    "I have sometimes half believed, although the suspicion is
    mortifying, that there is only one step between his state
    who deeply indulges in imaginative meditation, and insanity;
    for I well remember that at this period of my life, when
    I indulged in meditation to a degree that would now be
    impossible, and I hope unnecessary, my senses sometimes
    appeared to be wandering."

And artists are the proper judges of artists,--not Oxford Dons, like
Dr. Schiller, who, in his imprudent attempt at dealing with something
for which his pragmatic hands are not sufficiently delicate, eagerly
av-ails himself of popular help in his article on Nietzsche in the
eleventh edition of the _Encyclopedia Britannica,_ and implies the
hackneyed and wholly exploded belief that Nietzsche's philosophy is
madness in the making. As German philosophies, however, are said to
go to Oxford only when they die, we may, perhaps, conclude from this
want of appreciation in that quarter, how very much alive Nietzsche's
doctrine still is.

Not that Nietzsche went mad so soon, but that he went mad so late is
the wonder of wonders. Considering the extraordinary amount of work
he did, the great task of the transvaluation of all values, which he
actually accomplished, and the fact that he endured such long years
of solitude, which to him, the sensitive artist to whom friends were
everything, must have been a terrible hardship, we can only wonder at
his great health, and can well believe his sister's account of the
phenomenal longevity and bodily vigour of his ancestors.

No one, however, who is initiated, no one who reads this work with
understanding, will be in need of this introductory note of mine; for,
to all who know, these pages must speak for themselves. We are no
longer in the nineteenth century. We have learned many things since
then, and if caution is only one of these things, at least it will
prevent us from judging a book such as this one, with all its apparent
pontifical pride and surging self-reliance, with undue haste, or with
that arrogant assurance with which the ignorance of "the humble" and
"the modest" has always confronted everything truly great.




As it is my intention within a very short time to confront my
fellow-men with the very greatest demand that has ever yet been made
upon them, it seems to me _above_ all necessary to declare here who
and what I am. As a matter of fact, this ought to be pretty well
known already, for I have not "held my tongue" about myself. But
the disparity which obtains between the greatness of my task and the
smallness of my contemporaries, is revealed by the fact that people
have neither heard me nor yet seen me. I live on my own self-made
credit, and it is probably only a prejudice to suppose that I am alive
at all. I do but require to speak to any one of the scholars who come
to the Ober-Engadine in the summer in order to convince myself that I
am _not_ alive.... Under these circumstances, it is a duty--and one
against which my customary reserve, and to a still greater degree the
pride of my instincts, rebel--to say: _Listen! for I am such and such a
person. For Heaven's sake do not confound me with any one else!_


I am, for instance, in no wise a bogey man, or moral monster. On the
contrary, I am the very opposite in nature to the kind of man that
has been honoured hitherto as virtuous. Between ourselves, it seems
to me that this is precisely a matter on which I may feel proud. I
am a disciple of the philosopher Dionysus, and I would prefer to be
even a satyr than a saint. But just read this book! Maybe I have here
succeeded in expressing this contrast in a cheerful and at the same
time sympathetic manner--maybe this is the only purpose of the present

The very last thing I should promise to accomplish would be to
"improve" mankind. I do not set up any new idols; may old idols only
learn what it costs to have legs of clay. To overthrow idols (idols
is the name I give to all ideals) is much more like my business. In
proportion as an ideal world has been falsely assumed, reality has been
robbed of its value, its meaning, and its truthfulness.... The "true
world" and the "apparent world"--in plain English, the fictitious world
and reality.... Hitherto the _lie_ of the ideal has been the curse of
reality; by means of it the very source of mankind's instincts has
become mendacious and false; so much so that those values have come to
be worshipped which are the exact _opposite_ of the ones which would
ensure man's prosperity, his future, and his great right to a future.


He who knows how to breathe in the air of my writings is conscious
that it is the air of the heights, that it is bracing. A man must be
built for it, otherwise the chances are that it will chill him. The
ice is near, the loneliness is terrible--but how serenely everything
lies in the sunshine! how freely one can breathe! how much, one feels,
lies beneath one! Philosophy, as I have understood it hitherto, is
a voluntary retirement into regions of ice and mountain-peaks--the
seeking--out of everything strange and questionable in existence,
everything upon which, hitherto, morality has set its ban. Through
long experience, derived from such wanderings in forbidden country, I
acquired an opinion very different from that which may seem generally
desirable, of the causes which hitherto have led to men's moralising
and idealising. The secret history of philosophers, the psychology of
their great names, was revealed to me. How much truth can a certain
mind endure; how much truth can it dare?--these questions became for
me ever more and more the actual test of values. Error (the belief in
the ideal) is not blindness; error is cowardice.... Every conquest,
every step forward in knowledge, is the outcome of courage, of hardness
towards one's self, of cleanliness towards one's self. I do not refute
ideals; all I do is to draw on my gloves in their presence.... _Nitimur
in vetitum;_ with this device my philosophy will one day be victorious;
for that which has hitherto been most stringently forbidden is, without
exception, Truth.


In my lifework, my _Zarathustra_ holds a place apart. With it, I gave
my fellow-men the greatest gift that has ever been bestowed upon them.
This book, the voice of which speaks out across the ages, is not only
the loftiest book on earth, literally the book of mountain air,--the
whole phenomenon, mankind, lies at an incalculable distance beneath
it,--but it is also the deepest book, born of the inmost abundance of
truth; an inexhaustible well, into which no pitcher can be lowered
without coming up again laden with gold and with goodness. Here it is
not a "prophet" who speaks, one of those gruesome hybrids of sickness
and Will to Power, whom men call founders of religions. If a man would
not do a sad wrong to his wisdom, he must, above all give proper
heed to the tones--the halcyonic tones--that fall from the lips of

"The most silent words are harbingers of the storm; thoughts that come
on dove's feet lead the world.

"The figs fall from the trees; they are good and sweet, and, when they
fall, their red skins are rent.

"A north wind am I unto ripe figs.

"Thus, like figs, do these precepts drop down to you, my friends; now
drink their juice and their sweet pulp.

"It is autumn all around, and clear sky, and afternoon."

No fanatic speaks to you here; this is not a "sermon"; no faith is
demanded in these pages. From out an infinite treasure of light and
well of joy, drop by drop, my words fall out--a slow and gentle gait
is the cadence of these discourses. Such things can reach only the
most elect; it is a rare privilege to be a listener here; not every?
one who likes can have ears to hear Zarathustra. I Is not Zarathustra,
because of these things, a _seducer?_ ... But what, indeed, does he
himself say, when for the first time he goes back to his solitude? Just
the reverse of that which any "Sage," "Saint," "Saviour of the world,"
and other decadent would say.... Not only his words, but he himself is
other than they.

"Alone do I now go, my disciples! Get ye also hence, and alone! Thus
would I have it.

"Verily, I beseech you: take your leave of me and arm yourselves
against Zarathustra! And better still, be ashamed of him! Maybe he hath
deceived you.

"The knight of knowledge must be able not only to love his enemies, but
also to hate his friends.

"The man who remaineth a pupil requiteth his teacher but ill. And why
would ye not pluck at my wreath?

"Ye honour me; but what if your reverence should one day break down?
Take heed, lest a statue crush you.

"Ye say ye believe in Zarathustra? But of; what account is Zarathustra?
Ye are my believers: but of what account are all believers?

"Ye had not yet sought yourselves when ye found me. Thus do all
believers; therefore is all believing worth so little.

"Now I bid you lose me and find yourselves; and only when ye have all
denied me will I come back unto you."


On this perfect day, when everything is ripening, and not only the
grapes are getting brown, a ray of sunshine has fallen on my life: I
looked behind me, I looked before me, and never have I seen so many
good things all at once. Not in vain have I buried my four-and-fortieth
year to-day; I had the _right_ to bury it--that in it which still
had life, has been saved and is immortal. The first book of the
_Transvaluation of all Values, The Songs of Zarathustra, The Twilight
of the Idols,_ my attempt, to philosophise with the hammer--all these
things are the gift of this year, and even of its last quarter. _How
could I help being thankful to the whole of my life?_

That is why I am now going to tell myself the story of my life.





The happiness of my existence, its unique character perhaps, consists
in its fatefulness: to speak in a riddle, as my own father I am already
dead, as my own mother I still live and grow old. This double origin,
taken as it were from the highest and lowest rungs of the ladder of
life, at once a decadent and a beginning, this, if anything, explains
that neutrality, that freedom from partisanship in regard to the
general problem of existence, which perhaps distinguishes me. To the
first indications of ascending or of descending life my nostrils are
more sensitive than those of any man that has yet lived. In this domain
I am a master to my backbone--I know both sides, for I am both sides.
My father died in his six-and-thirtieth year: he was delicate, lovable,
and morbid, like one who is preordained to pay simply a flying visit--a
gracious reminder of life rather than life itself. In the same year
that his life declined mine also declined: in my six-and-thirtieth year
I reached the lowest point in my vitality,--I still lived, but my eyes
could distinguish nothing that lay three paces away from me. At that
time--it was the year 1879--I resigned my professorship at Bâle, lived
through the summer like a shadow in St. Moritz, and spent the following
winter, the most sunless of my life, like a shadow in Naumburg. This
was my lowest ebb. During this period I wrote _The Wanderer and His
Shadow._ Without a doubt I was conversant with shadows then. The winter
that followed, my first winter in Genoa, brought forth that sweetness
and spirituality which is almost inseparable from extreme poverty
of blood and muscle, in the shape of _The Dawn of Day,_ The perfect
lucidity and cheerfulness, the intellectual exuberance even, that this
work reflects, coincides, in my case, not only with the most profound
physiological weakness, but also with an excess of suffering. In the
midst of the agony of a headache which lasted three days, accompanied
by violent nausea, I was possessed of most singular dialectical
clearness, and in absolutely cold blood I then thought out things, for
which, in my more healthy moments, I am not enough of a climber, not
sufficiently subtle, not sufficiently cold. My readers perhaps know
to what extent I consider dialectic a symptom of decadence, as, for
instance, in the most famous of all cases--the case of Socrates. All
the morbid disturbances of the intellect, even that semi-stupor which
accompanies fever, have, unto this day, remained completely unknown to
me; and for my first information concerning their nature and frequency,
I was obliged to have recourse to the learned works which have been
compiled on the subject. My circulation is slow. No one has ever been
able to detect fever in me. A doctor who treated me for some time as
a nerve patient finally declared: "No! there is nothing wrong with
your nerves, it is simply I who am nervous." It has been absolutely
impossible to ascertain any local degeneration in me, nor any organic
stomach trouble, however much I may have suffered from profound
weakness of the gastric system as the result of general exhaustion.
Even my eye trouble, which sometimes approached so parlously near
to blindness, was only an effect and not a cause; for, whenever my
general vital condition improved, my power of vision also increased.
Having admitted all this, do I need to say that I am experienced in
questions of decadence? I know them inside and out. Even that filigree
art of prehension and comprehension in general, that feeling for
delicate shades of difference, that psychology of "seeing through brick
walls," and whatever else I may be able to do, was first learnt then,
and is the specific gift of that period during which everything in
me was subtilised,--observation itself, together with all the organs
of observation. To look upon healthier concepts and values from the
standpoint of the sick, and conversely to look down upon the secret
work of the instincts of decadence from the standpoint of him who is
laden and self-reliant with the richness of life--this has been my
longest exercise, my principal experience. If in anything at all, it
was in this that I became a master. To-day my hand knows the trick, I
now have the knack of reversing perspectives: the first reason perhaps
why a _Transvaluation of all Values_ has been possible to me alone.


For, apart from the fact that I am a decadent, I am also the reverse of
such a creature. Among other things my proof of this is, that I always
instinctively select the proper remedy when my spiritual or bodily
health is low; whereas the decadent, as such, invariably chooses those
remedies which are bad for him. As a whole I was sound, but in certain
details I was a decadent. That energy with which I sentenced myself
to absolute solitude, and to a severance from all those conditions in
life to which I had grown accustomed; my discipline of myself, and my
refusal to allow myself to be pampered, to be tended hand and foot, and
to be doctored--all this betrays the absolute certainty of my instincts
respecting what at that time was most needful to me. I placed myself
in my own hands, I restored myself to health: the first condition of
success in such an undertaking, as every physiologist will admit, is
that at bottom a man should be sound. An intrinsically morbid nature
cannot become healthy. On the other hand, to an intrinsically sound
nature, illness may even constitute a powerful stimulus to life, to
a surplus of life. It is in this light that I now regard the long
period of illness that I endured: it seemed as if I had discovered
life afresh, my own self included. I tasted all good things and even
trifles in a way in which it was not easy for others to taste them--out
of my Will to Health and to Life I made my philosophy.... For this
should be thoroughly understood; it was during those years in which my
vitality reached its lowest point that I ceased from being a pessimist:
the instinct of self-recovery forbade my holding to a philosophy of
poverty and desperation. Now, by what signs are Nature's lucky strokes
recognised among men? They are recognised by the fact that any such
lucky stroke gladdens our senses; that he is carved from one integral
block, which is hard, sweet, and fragrant as well. He enjoys that only
which is good for him; his pleasure, his desire, ceases when the limits
of that which is good for him are overstepped. He divines remedies for
injuries; he knows how to turn serious accidents to his own advantage;
that which does not kill him makes him stronger. He instinctively
gathers his material from all he sees, hears, and experiences. He is a
selective principle; he rejects much. He is always in his own company,
whether his intercourse be with books, with men, or with natural
scenery; he honours the things he chooses, the things he acknowledges,
the things he trusts. He reacts slowly to all kinds of stimuli, with
that tardiness which long caution and deliberate pride have bred in
him--he tests the approaching stimulus; he would not dream of meeting
it half-way. He believes neither in "ill-luck" nor "guilt"; he can
digest himself and others; he knows how to forget--he is strong enough
to make everything turn to his own advantage.

Lo then! I am the very reverse of a decadent, for he whom I have just
described is none other than myself.


This double thread of experiences, this means of access to two worlds
that seem so far asunder, finds in every detail its counterpart in my
own nature--I am my own complement: I have a "second" sight, as well
as a first. And perhaps I also have a third sight. By the very nature
of my origin I was allowed an outlook beyond all merely local, merely
national and limited horizons; it required no effort on my part to be
a "good European." On the other hand, I am perhaps more German than
modern Germans--mere Imperial Germans--can hope to be,--I, the last
anti-political German. Be this as it may, my ancestors were Polish
noblemen: it is owing to them that I have so much race instinct in my
blood--who knows? perhaps even the _liberum veto_[1] When I think of
the number of times in my travels that I have been accosted as a Pole,
even by Poles themselves, and how seldom I have been taken for a German,
it seems to me as if I belonged to those only who have a sprinkling
of German in them. But my mother, Franziska Oehler, is at any rate
something very German; as is also my paternal grandmother, Erdmuthe
Krause. The latter spent the whole of her youth in good old Weimar,
not without coming into contact with Goethe's circle. Her brother,
Krause, the Professor of Theology in Königsberg, was called to the
post of General Superintendent at Weimar after Herder's death. It is
not unlikely that her mother, my great grandmother, is mentioned in
young Goethe's diary under the name of "Muthgen." She married twice,
and her second husband was Superintendent Nietzsche of Eilenburg.
In 1813, the year of the great war, when Napoleon with his general
staff entered Eilenburg on the 10th of October, she gave birth to a
son. As a daughter of Saxony she was a great admirer of Napoleon, and
maybe I am so still. My father, born in 1813, died in 1849. Previous
to taking over the pastorship of the parish of Röcken, not far from
Lützen, he lived for some years at the Castle of Altenburg, where he
had charge of the education of the four princesses. His pupils are the
Queen of Hanover, the Grand-Duchess Constantine, the Grand-Duchess of
Oldenburg, and the Princess Theresa of Saxe-Altenburg. He was full of
loyal respect for the Prussian King, Frederick William the Fourth, from
whom he obtained his living at Röcken; the events of 1848 saddened him
extremely. As I was born on the 15 th of October, the birthday of the
king above mentioned, I naturally received the Hohenzollern names of
Frederick William. There was at all events one advantage in the choice
of this day: my birthday throughout the whole of my childhood was a day
of public rejoicing. I regard it as a great privilege to have had such
a father: it even seems to me that this embraces all that I can claim
in the matter of privileges--life, the great yea to life, excepted.
What I owe to him above all is this, that I do not need any special
intention, but merely a little patience, in order involuntarily to
enter a world of higher and more delicate things. There I am at home,
there alone does my inmost passion become free. The fact that I had
to pay for this privilege almost with my life, certainly does not
make it a bad bargain. In order to understand even a little of _my
Zarathustra,_ perhaps a man must be situated and constituted very much
as I am myself--with one foot beyond the realm of the living.


I have never understood the art of arousing ill-feeling against
myself,--this is also something for which I have to thank my
incomparable father,--even when it seemed to me highly desirable
to do so. However un-Christian it may seem, I do not even bear any
ill-feeling towards myself. Turn my life about as you may, you will
find but seldom--perhaps indeed only once--any trace of some one's
having shown me ill-will. You might perhaps discover, however, too
many traces of _goodwill...._ My experiences even with those on whom
every other man has burnt his fingers, speak without exception in their
favour; I tame every bear, I can make even clowns behave decently.
During the seven years in which I taught Greek to the sixth form of
the College at Bâle, I never had occasion to administer a punishment;
the laziest youths were diligent in my class. The unexpected has
always found me equal to it; I must be unprepared in order to keep my
self-command. Whatever the instrument was, even if it were as out of
tune as the instrument "man" can possibly be,--it was only when I was
ill that I could not succeed in making it express something that was
worth hearing. And how often have I not been told by the "instruments"
themselves, that they had never before heard their voices express such
beautiful things.... This was said to me most delightfully perhaps by
that young fellow Heinrich von Stein, who died at such an unpardonably
early age, and who, after having considerately asked leave to do
so, once appeared in Sils-Maria for a three days' sojourn, telling
everybody there that it was _not_ for the Engadine that he had come.
This excellent person, who with all the impetuous simplicity of a
young Prussian nobleman, had waded deep into the swamp of Wagnerism
(and into that of Dübringism[2] into the bargain!), seemed almost
transformed during these three days by a hurricane of freedom, like one
who has been suddenly raised to his full height and given wings. Again
and again I said to him that this was all owing to the splendid air;
everybody felt the same,--one could not stand 6000 feet above Bayreuth
for nothing,--but he would not believe me.... Be this as it may, if
I have been the victim of many a small or even great offence, it was
not "will," and least of all ill-will that actuated the offenders; but
rather, as I have already suggested, it was goodwill, the cause of no
small amount of mischief in f my life, about which I had to complain.
_My_ experience gave me a right to feel suspicious in regard to all
so-called "unselfish" instincts, in regard to the whole of "neighbourly
love" which is ever ready and waiting with deeds or with advice. To
me it seems that these instincts are a sign of weakness, they are an
example of the inability to withstand a stimulus--it is only among
decadents that this _pity_ is called a virtue. What I reproach the
pitiful with is, that they are too ready to forget shame, reverence,
and the delicacy of feeling which knows how to keep at a distance; they
do not remember that this gushing pity stinks of the mob, and that it
is next of kin to bad manners--that pitiful hands may be thrust with
results fatally destructive into a great destiny, into a lonely and
wounded retirement, and into the privileges with which great guilt
endows one. The overcoming of pity I reckon among the noble virtues;
In the "Temptation of Zarathustra" I have imagined a case, in which a
great cry of distress reaches his ears, in which pity swoops down upon
him like a last sin, and would make him break faith with himself. To
remain one's own master in such circumstances, to keep the sublimity
of one's mission pure in such cases,--pure from the many ignoble and
more short-sighted impulses which come into play in so-called unselfish
actions,--this is the rub, the last test perhaps which a Zarathustra
has to undergo--the actual proof of his power.


In yet another respect I am no more than my father over again, and as
it were the continuation of his life after an all-too-early death.
Like every man who has never been able to meet his equal, and unto
whom the concept "retaliation" is just as incomprehensible as the
notion of "equal rights," I have forbidden myself the use of any sort
of measure of security or protection--and also, of course, of defence
and "justification"--in all cases in which I have been made the victim
either of trifling or even _very great_ foolishness. My form of
retaliation consists in this: as soon as possible to set a piece of
cleverness at the heels of an act of stupidity; by this means perhaps
it may still be possible to overtake it. To speak in a parable: I
dispatch a pot of jam in order to get rid of a bitter experience....
Let anybody only give me offence, I shall "retaliate," he can be quite
sure of that: before long I discover an opportunity of expressing my
thanks to the "offender" (among other things even for the offence)--or
of _asking_ him for something, which can be more courteous even than
giving. It also seems to me that the rudest word, the rudest letter,
is more good-natured, more straightforward, than silence. Those--who
keep silent are almost always lacking in subtlety and refinement of
heart; silence is an objection, to swallow a grievance must necessarily
produce a bad temper--it even upsets the stomach. All silent people
are dyspeptic. You perceive that I should not like to see rudeness
undervalued; it is by far the most _humane_ form of contradiction, and,
in the midst of modern effeminacy, it is one of our first virtues; If
one is sufficiently rich for it, it may even be a joy to be wrong. If
a god were to descend to this earth, he would have to do nothing but
wrong--to take _guilt_ not punishment, on one's shoulders, is the first
proof of divinity.


Freedom from resentment and the understanding of the nature of
resentment--who knows how very much after all I am indebted to my long
illness for these two things? The problem is not exactly simple: a
man must have experienced both through his strength and through his
weakness, If illness and weakness are to be charged with anything at
all, it is with the fact that when they prevail, the very instinct of
recovery, which is the instinct of defence and of war in man, becomes
decayed. He knows not how to get rid of anything, how to come to
terms with anything, and how to cast anything behind him. Everything
wounds him. People and things draw importunately near, all experiences
strike deep, memory is a gathering wound. To be ill is a sort of
resentment in itself. Against this resentment the invalid has only
one great remedy--I call it _Russian fatalism,_ that fatalism which
is free from revolt, and with which the Russian soldier, to whom a
campaign proves unbearable, ultimately lays himself down in the snow.
To accept nothing more, to undertake nothing more, to absorb nothing
more--to cease entirely from reacting.... The tremendous sagacity
of this fatalism, which does not always imply merely the courage for
death, but which in the most dangerous cases may actually constitute
a self-preservative measure, amounts to a reduction of activity in
the vital functions, the slackening down of which is like a sort of
will to hibernate. A few steps farther in this direction we find the
fakir, who will sleep for weeks in a tomb.... Owing to the fact that
one would be used up too quickly if one reacted, one no longer reacts
at all: this is the principle. And nothing on earth consumes a man
more quickly than the passion of resentment. Mortification, morbid
susceptibility, the inability to wreak revenge, the desire and thirst
for revenge, the concoction of every sort of poison--this is surely the
most injurious manner of reacting which could possibly be conceived by
exhausted men. It involves a rapid wasting away of nervous energy, an
abnormal increase of detrimental secretions, as, for instance, that
of bile into the stomach. To the sick man resentment ought to be more
strictly forbidden than anything else--it is _his_ special danger:
unfortunately, however, it is also his most natural propensity. This
was fully grasped by that profound physiologist Buddha. His "religion,"
which it would be better to call a system of hygiene, in order to avoid
confounding it with a creed so wretched as Christianity, depended
for its effect upon the triumph over resentment: to make the soul
free therefrom was considered the first step towards recovery. "Not
through hostility is hostility put to flight; through friendship does
hostility end": this stands at the beginning of Buddha's teaching--this
is not a precept of morality, but of physiology. Resentment born of
weakness is not more deleterious to anybody than it is to the weak
man himself--conversely, in the case of that man whose nature is
fundamentally a rich one, resentment is a superfluous feeling, a
feeling to remain master of which is almost a proof of riches. Those
of my readers who know the earnestness-with which my philosophy wages
war against the feelings of revenge and rancour, even to the extent of
attacking the doctrine of "free will" (my conflict with Christianity
is only a particular instance of it), will understand why I wish to
focus attention upon my own personal attitude and the certainty of
my practical instincts precisely in this matter. In my moments of
decadence I forbade myself the indulgence of the above feelings,
because they were harmful; as soon as my life recovered enough riches
and pride, however, I regarded them again as forbidden, but this time
because they were _beneath_ me. That "Russian fatalism" of which I have
spoken manifested itself in me in such a way that for years I held
tenaciously to almost insufferable conditions, places, habitations,
and companions, once chance had placed them on my path--it was better
than changing them, than feeling that they could be changed, than
revolting against them.... He who stirred me from this fatalism, he
who violently tried to shake me into consciousness, seemed to me then
a mortal enemy--in point of fact, there was danger of death each time
this was done. To regard one's self as a destiny, not to wish one's
self "different"--this, in such circumstances, is sagacity, itself.


War, on the other hand, is something different. At heart I am a
warrior. Attacking belongs to my instincts. To _be able to be_ an
enemy, to _be_ an enemy--maybe these things presuppose a strong nature;
in any case all strong natures involve these things. Such natures need
resistance, consequently they go in search of obstacles: the pathos of
aggression belongs of necessity to strength as much as the feelings
of revenge and of rancour belong to weakness. Woman, for instance, is
revengeful; her weakness involves this passion, just as it involves
her susceptibility in the presence of other people's suffering. The
strength of the aggressor can be measured by the opposition which
he needs; every increase of growth betrays itself by a seeking out
of more formidable opponents--or problems: for a philosopher who
is combative challenges even problems to a duel. The task is not
to overcome opponents in general, but only those opponents against
whom one has to summon all one's strength, one's skill, and one's
swordsmanship--in fact, opponents who are one's equals.... To be one's
enemy's equal--this is the first condition of an honourable duel. Where
one despises, one cannot wage war. Where one commands, where one sees
something _beneath_ one, one _ought_ not to wage war. My war tactics
can be reduced to four principles A First, I attack only things that
are triumphant--if necessary I wait until they become triumphant.
Secondly, I attack only those things against which I find no allies,
against which I stand alone--against which I compromise nobody but
myself.... I have not yet taken one single step before the public eye,
which did not compromise me: that is _my_ criterion of a proper mode
of action. Thirdly, I never make personal attacks--I use a personality
merely as a magnifying-glass, by means of which I render a general,
but elusive and scarcely noticeable evil, more apparent. In this way I
attacked David Strauss, or rather the success given to a senile book by
the cultured classes of Germany--by this means I caught German culture
red-handed. In this way I attacked Wagner, or rather the falsity or
mongrel instincts of our "culture" which confounds the super-refined
with the strong, and the effete with the great. Fourthly, I attack
only those things from which all personal differences are excluded, in
which any such thing as a background of disagreeable experiences is
lacking. On the contrary, attacking is to me a proof of goodwill and,
in certain circumstances, of gratitude. By means of it, I do honour to
a thing, I distinguish a thing; whether I associate my name with that
of an institution or a person, by being _against_ or _for_ either,
is all the same to me. If I wage war against Christianity, I feel
justified in doing so, because in that quarter I have met with no fatal
experiences and difficulties--the most earnest Christians have always
been kindly disposed to me. I, personally, the most essential opponent
of Christianity, am far from holding the individual responsible for
what is the fatality of long ages.

May I be allowed to hazard a suggestion concerning one last trait
in my character, which in my intercourse with other men has led me
into some difficulties? I am gifted with a sense of cleanliness the
keenness of which is phenomenal; so much so, that I can ascertain
physiologically--that is to say, smell--the proximity, nay, the inmost
core, the "entrails" of every human soul.... This sensitiveness of mine
is furnished with psychological antennæ, wherewith I feel and grasp
every secret: the quality of concealed filth lying at the base of many
a human character which may be the inevitable outcome of base blood,
and which education may have veneered, is revealed to me at the first
glance. If my observation has been correct, such people, whom my sense
of cleanliness rejects, also become conscious, on their part, of the
cautiousness to which my loathing prompts me: and this does not make
them any more fragrant.... In keeping with a custom which I have long
observed,--pure habits and honesty towards myself are among the first
conditions of my existence, I would die in unclean surroundings,--I
swim, bathe, and splash about, as it were, incessantly in water, in
any kind of perfectly transparent and shining element. That is why
my relations with my fellows try my patience to no small extent; my
humanity does not consist in the fact that I understand the feelings
of my fellows, but that I can endure to understand.... My humanity
is a perpetual process of self-mastery. But I need solitude--that is
to say, recovery, return to myself, the breathing of free, crisp,
bracing air.... The whole of my _Zarathustra_ is a dithyramb in honour
of solitude, or, if I have been understood, in honour of purity. Thank
Heaven, it is not in honour of "pure foolery"![3] He who has an eye for
colour will call him a diamond. The loathing of mankind, of the rabble,
was always my greatest danger.... Would you hearken to the words spoken
by Zarathustra concerning deliverance from loathing?

"What forsooth hath come unto me? How did I deliver myself from
loathing? Who hath made mine eye younger? How did I soar to the height,
where there are no more rabble sitting about the well?

"Did my very loathing forge me wings and the strength to scent
fountains afar off? Verily to the loftiest heights did I need to fly,
to find once more the spring of joyfulness.

"Oh, I found it, my brethren! Up here, on the loftiest height, the
spring of joyfulness gusheth forth for me. And there is a life at the
well of which no rabble can drink with you.

"Almost too fiercely dost thou rush, for me, thou spring of joyfulness!
And ofttimes dost thou empty the pitcher again in trying to fill it.

"And yet must I learn to draw near thee more humbly. Far too eagerly
doth my heart jump to meet thee.

"My heart, whereon my summer burneth, my short, hot, melancholy,
over-blessed summer: how my summer heart yearneth for thy coolness!

"Farewell, the lingering affliction of my spring! Past is the
wickedness of my snowflakes in June! Summer have I become entirely, and
summer noontide!

"A summer in the loftiest heights, with cold springs and blessed
stillness: oh come, my friends, that the stillness may wax even more

"For this is our height and our home: too high and steep is our
dwelling for all the unclean and their appetites.

"Do but cast your pure eyes into the well of my joyfulness, my friends!
How could it thus become muddy! It will laugh back at you with its

"On the tree called Future do we build our nest: eagles shall bring
food in their beaks unto us lonely ones!

"Verily not the food whereof the unclean might partake. They would
think they ate fire and would burn their mouths!

"Verily, no abodes for the unclean do we here hold in readiness! To
their bodies our happiness would seem an ice-cavern, and to their
spirits also!

"And like strong winds will we live above them, neighbours to the
eagles, companions of the snow, and playmates of the sun: thus do
strong winds live.

"And like a wind shall I one day blow amidst them, and take away their
soul's breath with my spirit: thus my future willeth it.

"Verily, a strong wind is Zarathustra to all low lands; and this is
his counsel to his foes and to all those who spit and spew: 'Beware of
spitting against the wind!'"

[Footnote 1: The right which every Polish deputy, whether a great or an
inferior nobleman, possessed of forbidding the passing of any measure
by the Diet, was called in Poland the _liberum veto_ (in Polish _nie
pozwalam_), and brought all legislation to a standstill.--TR.]

[Footnote 2: Eugen Dübring is a philosopher and political economist
whose general doctrine might be characterised as a sort of abstract
Materialism with an optimistic colouring.--TR.]

[Footnote 3: This, of course, is a reference to Wagner's _Parsifal._
See my note on p. 96 of _The Will to Power_ vol. i.--TR.]



Why do I know more things than other people? Why, in fact, am I so
clever? I have never pondered over questions that are not questions. I
have never squandered my strength. Of actual religious difficulties,
for instance, I have no experience. I have never known what it is to
feel "sinful." In the same way I completely lack any reliable criterion
for ascertaining what constitutes a prick of conscience: from all
accounts a prick of conscience does not seem to be a very estimable
thing.... Once it was done I should hate to leave an action of mine
in the lurch; I should prefer completely to omit the evil outcome,
the consequences, from the problem concerning the value of an action.
In the face of evil consequences one is too ready to lose the proper
standpoint from which one's deed ought to be considered. A prick of
conscience strikes me as a sort of "evil eye." Something that has
failed should be honoured all the more jealously, precisely because
it has failed--this is much more in keeping with my morality.--"God,"
"the immortality of the soul," "salvation," a "beyond"--to all these
notions, even as a child, I never paid any attention whatsoever, nor
did I waste any time upon them,--maybe I was never _naif_ enough for
that?--I am quite unacquainted with atheism as a result, and still
less as an event in my life: in me it is inborn, instinctive. I am
too inquisitive, too incredulous, too high spirited, to be satisfied
with such a palpably clumsy solution of things. God is a too palpably
clumsy solution of things; a solution which shows a lack of delicacy
towards us thinkers--at bottom He is really no more than a coarse
and rude _prohibition_ of us: ye shall not think!... I am much more
interested in another question,--a question upon which the "salvation
of humanity" depends to a far greater degree than it does upon any
piece of theological curiosity: I refer to nutrition. For ordinary
purposes, it may be formulated as follows: "How precisely must _thou_
feed thyself in order to attain to thy maximum of power, or _virtù_
in the Renaissance style,--of virtue free from moralic acid?" My
experiences in regard to this matter have been as bad as they possibly
could be; I am surprised that I set myself this question so late in
life, and that it took me so long to draw "rational" conclusions
from my experiences. Only the absolute worth-_1_ lessness of German
culture--its "idealism"--can to some extent explain how it was that
precisely in this matter I was so backward that my ignorance was almost
saintly. This "culture," which from first to last teaches one to lose
sight of actual things and to hunt after thoroughly problematic and
so-called ideal aims, as, for instance, "classical culture"--as if it
were not hopeless from the start to try to unite "classical" and
"German" in one concept. It is even a little comical--try and imagine
a "classically cultured" citizen of Leipzig!--Indeed, I can say, that
up to a very mature age, my food was entirely bad--expressed morally,
it was "impersonal," "selfless," "altruistic," to the glory of cooks
and all other fellow-Christians. It was through the cooking in vogue
at Leipzig, for instance, together with my first study of Schopenhauer
(1865), that I earnestly renounced my "Will to Live." To spoil one's
stomach by absorbing insufficient nourishment--this problem seemed to
my mind solved with admirable felicity by the above-mentioned cookery.
(It is said that in the year 1866 changes were introduced into this
department.) But as to German cookery in general--what has it not got
on its conscience! Soup _before_ the meal (still called _alla tedesca_
in the Venetian cookery books of the sixteenth century); meat boiled
to shreds, vegetables cooked with fat and flour; the degeneration of
pastries into paper-weights! And, if you add thereto the absolutely
bestial post-prandial drinking habits of the _ancients,_ and not alone
of the ancient Germans, you will understand where German intellect
took its origin--that is to say, in sadly disordered intestines....
German intellect is indigestion; it can assimilate nothing. But even
English diet, which in comparison with German, and indeed with French
alimentation, seems to me to constitute a "return to Nature,"--that is
to say, to cannibalism,--is profoundly opposed to my own instincts. It
seems to me to give the intellect heavy feet, in fact, Englishwomen's
feet.... The best cooking is that of Piedmont. Alcoholic drinks do
not agree with me; a single glass of wine or beer a day is amply
sufficient to turn life into a valley of tears for me;--in Munich live
my antipodes. Although I admit that this knowledge came to me somewhat
late, it already formed part of my experience even as a child. As a boy
I believed that the drinking of wine and the smoking of tobacco were at
first but the vanities of youths, and later merely bad habits. Maybe
the poor wine of Naumburg was partly responsible for this poor opinion
of wine in general. In order to believe that wine was exhilarating, I
should have had to be a Christian--in other words, I should have had to
believe in what, to my mind, is an absurdity. Strange to say, whereas
small quantities of alcohol, taken with plenty of water, succeed in
making me feel out of sorts, large quantities turn me almost into a
rollicking tar. Even as a boy I showed my bravado in this respect. To
compose a long Latin essay in one night, to revise and recopy it, to
aspire with my pen to emulating the exactitude and the terseness of my
model, Sallust, and to pour a few very strong grogs over it all--this
mode of procedure, while I was a pupil at the venerable old school of
Pforta, was not in the least out of keeping with my physiology, nor
perhaps with that of Sallust, however much it may have been alien to
dignified Pforta. Later on, towards the middle of my life, I grew more
and more opposed to alcoholic drinks: I, an opponent of vegetarianism,
who have experienced what vegetarianism is,--just as Wagner, who
converted me back to meat, experienced it,--cannot with sufficient
earnestness advise all more _spiritual_ natures to abstain absolutely
from alcohol. Water answers the purpose.... I have a predilection in
favour of those places where in all directions one has opportunities
of drinking from running brooks (Nice, Turin, Sils). _In vino Veritas_:
it seems that here once more I am at variance with the rest of the
world about the concept "Truth"--with me spirit moves on the face of
the waters.... Here are a few more indications as to my morality. A
heavy meal is digested more easily than an inadequate one. The first
principle of a good digestion is that the stomach should become active
as a whole. A man ought, therefore, to know the size of his stomach.
For the same reasons all those interminable meals, which I call
interrupted sacrificial feasts, and which are to be had at any table
d'hôte, are strongly to be deprecated. Nothing should be eaten between
meals, coffee should be given up--coffee makes one gloomy. Tea is
beneficial only in the morning. It should be taken in small quantities,
but very strong. It may be very harmful, and indispose you for the
whole day, if it be taken the least bit too weak. Everybody has his own
standard in this matter, often between the narrowest and most delicate
limits. In an enervating climate tea is not a good beverage with which
to start the day: an hour before taking it an excellent thing is to
drink a cup of thick cocoa, feed from oil. Remain seated as little as
possible, put no trust in any thought that is not born in the open, to
the accompaniment of free bodily motion--nor in one in which even the
muscles do not celebrate a feast. All prejudices take their origin in
the intestines. A sedentary life, as I have already said elsewhere, is
the real sin against the Holy Spirit.


To the question of nutrition, that of locality and climate is next of
kin. Nobody is so constituted as to be able to live everywhere and
anywhere; and he who has great duties to perform, which lay claim
to all his strength, has, in this respect, a very limited choice.
The influence of climate upon the bodily functions, affecting their
acceleration or retardation, extends so far, that a blunder in the
choice of locality and climate is able not only to alienate a man from
his actual duty, but also to withhold it from him altogether, so that
he never even comes face to face with it. Animal vigour never acquires
enough strength in him in order to reach that pitch of artistic freedom
which makes his own soul whisper to him: I, alone, can do that.... Ever
so slight a tendency to laziness in the intestines, once it has become
a habit, is quite sufficient to make something mediocre, something
"German" out of a genius; the climate of Germany, alone, is enough to
discourage the strongest and most heroically disposed intestines. The
tempo of the body's functions is closely bound up with the agility or
the clumsiness of the spirit's feet; spirit itself is indeed only a
form of these organic functions. Let anybody make a list of the places
in which men of great intellect have been found, and are still found;
where wit, subtlety, and malice constitute happiness; where genius
is almost necessarily at home: all of them rejoice in exceptionally
dry air. Paris, Provence, Florence, Jerusalem, Athens--these names
prove something, namely: that genius is conditioned by dry air, by a
pure sky--that is to say, by rapid organic functions, by the constant
and ever-present possibility of procuring for one's self great and
even enormous quantities of strength. I have a certain case in mind
in which a man of remarkable intellect and independent spirit became
a narrow, craven specialist and a grumpy old crank, simply owing to
a lack of subtlety in his instinct for climate. And I myself might
have been an example of the same thing, if illness had not compelled
me to reason, and to reflect upon reason realistically. Now that I
have learnt through long practice to read the effects of climatic and
meteorological influences, from my own body, as though from a very
delicate and reliable instrument, and that I am able to calculate the
change in degrees of atmospheric moisture by means of physiological
observations upon myself, even on so short a journey as that from
Turin to Milan; I think with horror of the ghastly fact that my
whole life, until the last ten years,--the most perilous years,--has
always been spent in the wrong, and what to me ought to have been
the most forbidden, places. Naumburg, Pforta, Thuringia in general,
Leipzig, Bâle, Venice--so many ill-starred places for a constitution
like mine. If I cannot recall one single happy reminiscence of my
childhood and youth, it is nonsense to suppose that so-called "moral"
causes could account for this--as, for instance, the incontestable
fact that I lacked companions that could have satisfied me; for this
fact is the same to-day as it ever was, and it does not prevent me
from being cheerful and brave. But it was ignorance in physiological
matters--that confounded "Idealism"--that was the real curse of my
life. This was the superfluous and foolish element in my existence;
something from which nothing could spring, and for which there can be
no settlement and no compensation. As the outcome of this "Idealism"
I regard all the blunders, the great aberrations of instinct, and
the "modest specialisations" which drew me aside from the task of my
life; as, for instance, the fact that I became a philologist--why
not at least a medical man or anything else which might have opened
my eyes? My days at Bâle, the whole of my intellectual routine,
including my daily time-table, was an absolutely senseless abuse of
extraordinary powers, without the slightest compensation for the
strength that I spent, without even a thought of what I was squandering
and how its place might be filled. I lacked all subtlety in egoism,
all the fostering care of an imperative instinct; I was in a state
in which one is ready to regard one's self as anybody's equal, a
state of "disinterestedness," a forgetting of one's distance from
others--something, in short, for which I can never forgive myself.
When I had well-nigh reached the end of my tether, simply because I
had almost reached my end, I began to reflect upon the fundamental
absurdity of my life--"Idealism." It was _illness_ that first brought
me to reason.


After the choice of nutrition, the choice of climate and locality, the
third matter concerning which one must not on any account make a
blunder, is the choice of the manner in which one _recuperates one's
strength._ Here, again, according to the extent to which a spirit is
_sui generis,_ the limits of that which he can allow himself--in other
words, the limits of that which is beneficial to him--become more and
more confined. As far as I in particular am concerned, _reading_ in
general belongs to my means of recuperation; consequently it belongs
to that which rids me of myself, to that which enables me to wander
in strange sciences and strange souls--to that, in fact, about which
I am no longer in earnest. Indeed, it is while reading that I recover
from _my_ earnestness. During the time that I am deeply absorbed in
my work, no books are found within my reach; it would never occur
to me to allow any one to speak or even to think in my presence.
For that is what reading would mean.... Has any one ever actually
noticed, that, during the period of profound tension to which the
state of pregnancy condemns not only the mind, but also, at bottom,
the whole organism, accident and every kind of external stimulus acts
too acutely and strikes too deep? Accident and external stimuli must,
as far as possible, be avoided: a sort of walling-of-one's-self-in is
one of the primary instinctive precautions of spiritual pregnancy.
Shall I allow a strange thought to steal secretly over the wall?
For that is what reading would mean.... The periods of work and
fruit-fulness are followed by periods of recuperation: come hither,
ye delightful, intellectual, intelligent books! Shall I read German
books?... I must go back six months to catch myself with a book in
my hand. What was it? An excellent study by Victor Brochard upon the
Greek sceptics, in which my Laertiana[1] was used to advantage. The
sceptics!--the only _honourable_ types among that double-faced and
sometimes quintuple-faced throng, the philosophers!.... Otherwise I
almost always take refuge in the same books: altogether their number
is small; they are books which are precisely my proper fare. It is
not perhaps in my nature to read much, and of all sorts: a library
makes me ill. Neither is it my nature to love much or many kinds of
things. Suspicion or even hostility towards new books is much more
akin to my instinctive feeling than "toleration," _largeur de cœur,_
and other forms of "neighbour-love." ... It is to a small number of
old French authors, that I always return again and again; I believe
only in French culture, and regard everything else in Europe which
calls itself "culture" as a misunderstanding. I do not even take
the German kind into consideration.... The few instances of higher
culture with which I have met in Germany were all French in their
origin. The most striking example of this was Madame Cosima Wagner,
by far the most decisive voice in matters of taste that I have ever
heard. If I do not read, but literally love Pascal? as the most
instinctive sacrifice to Christianity, killing himself inch by inch,
first bodily, then spiritually, according to the terrible consistency
of this most appalling form of inhuman cruelty; if I have something
of Montaigne's mischievousness in my soul, and--who knows?--perhaps
also in my body; if my artist's taste endeavours to defend the names
of Molière, Corneille, and Racine, and not without bitterness, against
such a wild genius as Shakespeare--all this does not prevent me from
regarding even the latter-day Frenchmen also as charming companions.
I can think of absolutely no century in history, in which a netful of
more inquisitive and at the same time more subtle psychologists could
be drawn up together than in the Paris of the present day. Let me
mention a few at random--for their number is by no means small--Paul
Bourget, Pierre Loti, Gyp, Meilhac, Anatole France, Jules Lemaitre;
or, to point to one of strong race, a genuine Latin, of whom I am
particularly fond, Guy de Maupassant. Between ourselves, I prefer this
generation even to its masters, all of whom were corrupted by German
philosophy (Taine, for instance, by Hegel, whom he has to thank for
his misunderstanding of great men and great periods). Wherever Germany
extends her sway, she _ruins_ culture. It was the war which first saved
the spirit of France.... Stendhal is one of the happiest accidents of
my life--for everything that marks an epoch in it has been brought
to me by accident and never by means of a recommendation. He is quite
priceless, with his psychologist's eye, quick at forestalling and
anticipating; with his grasp of facts, which is reminiscent of the same
art in the greatest of all masters of facts (_ex ungue Napoleonem_);
and, last but not least, as an honest atheist--a specimen which is
both rare and difficult to discover in France--all honour to Prosper
Mérimée!... Maybe that I am even envious of Stendhal? He robbed
me of the best atheistic joke, which I of all people could have
perpetrated: "God's only excuse is that He does not exist" ... I myself
have said somewhere--What has been the greatest objection to Life


It was Heinrich Heine who gave me the most perfect idea of what a
lyrical poet could be. In vain do I search through all the kingdoms of
antiquity or of modern times for anything to resemble his sweet and
passionate music. He possessed that divine wickedness, without which
perfection itself becomes unthinkable to me,--I estimate the value of
men, of races, according to the extent to which they are unable to
conceive of a god who has not a dash of the satyr in him. And with
what mastery he wields his native tongue! One day it will be said of
Heine and me that we were by far the greatest artists of the German
language that have ever existed, and that we left all the efforts that
mere Germans made in this language an incalculable distance behind
us. I must be profoundly related to Byron's _Manfred:_ of all the
dark abysses in this work I found the counterparts in my own soul--at
the age of thirteen I was ripe for this book. Words fail me, I have
only a look, for those who dare to utter the name of _Faust_ in the
presence of _Manfred._ The Germans are _incapable_ of conceiving
anything sublime: for a proof of this, look at Schumann! Out of anger
for this mawkish Saxon, I once deliberately composed a counter-overture
to _Manfred,_ of which Hans von Bülow declared he had never seen the
like before on paper: such compositions amounted to a violation of
Euterpe. When I cast about me for my highest formula of Shakespeare,
I find invariably but this one: that he conceived the type of Cæsar.
Such things a man cannot guess--he either is the thing, or he is not.
The great poet draws his creations only from out of his own reality.
This is so to such an extent, that often after a lapse of time he
can no longer endure his own work.... After casting a glance between
the pages of my _Zarathustra,_ I pace my room to and fro for half
an hour at a time, unable to overcome an insufferable fit of tears.
I know of no more heartrending reading than Shakespeare: how a man
must have suffered to be so much in need of playing the clown! Is
Hamlet _understood_? It is not doubt, but certitude that drives one
mad.... But in order to feel this, one must be profound, one must be
an abyss, a philosopher.... We all fear the truth.... And, to make a
confession; I feel instinctively certain and convinced that Lord Bacon
is the originator, the self-torturer, of this most sinister kind of
literature: what do I care about the miserable gabble of American
muddlers and blockheads? But the power for the greatest realism in
vision is not only compatible with the greatest realism in deeds,
with the monstrous in deeds, with crime--_it actually presupposes the
latter._ ... We do not know half enough about Lord Bacon--the first
realist in all the highest acceptation of this word--to be sure of
everything he did, everything he willed, and everything he experienced
in his inmost soul.... Let the critics go to hell! Suppose I had
christened my _Zarathustra_ with a name not my own,--let us say with
Richard Wagner's name,--the acumen of two thousand years would not have
sufficed to guess that the author of _Human, all-too-Human_ was the
visionary of _Zarathustra._


As I am speaking here of the recreations of my life, I feel I must
express a word or two of gratitude for that which has refreshed me by
far the most heartily and most profoundly. This, without the slightest
doubt, was my intimate relationship with Richard Wagner. All my other
relationships with men I treat quite lightly; but I would not have the
days I spent at Tribschen--those days of confidence, of cheerfulness,
of sublime flashes, and of profound moments--blotted from my life
at any price. I know not what Wagner may have been for others; but
no cloud ever darkened _our_ sky. And this brings me back again to
France,--I have no arguments against Wagnerites, and _hoc genus omne_
who believe that they do honour to Wagner by believing him to be
like themselves; for such people I have only a contemptuous curl of
my lip. With a nature like mine, which is so strange to everything
Teutonic, that even the presence of a German retards my digestion, my
first meeting with Wagner was the first moment in my life in which I
breathed freely: I felt him, I honoured him, as a foreigner, as the
opposite and the incarnate contradiction of all "German virtues." We
who as children breathed the marshy atmosphere of the fifties, are
necessarily pessimists in regard to the concept "German"; we cannot
be anything else than revolutionaries--we can assent to no state of
affairs which allows the canting bigot to be at the top. I care not
a jot whether this canting bigot acts in different colours to-day,
whether he dresses in scarlet or dons the uniform of a hussar.[2] Very
well, then! Wagner was a revolutionary--he fled from the Germans....
As an artist, a man has no home in Europe save in Paris; that subtlety
of all the five senses which Wagner's art presupposes, those fingers
that can detect slight gradations, psychological morbidity--all these
things can be found only in Paris. Nowhere else can you meet with
this passion for questions of form, this earnestness in matters of
_mise-en-scène,_ which is the Parisian earnestness _par excellence._
In Germany no one has any idea of the tremendous ambition that fills
the heart of a Parisian artist. The German is a good fellow. Wagner was
by no means a good fellow.... But I have already said quite enough
on the subject of Wagner's real nature (see _Beyond Good and Evil,_
Aphorism 269), and about those to whom he is most closely related.
He is one of the late French romanticists, that high-soaring and
heaven-aspiring band of artists, like Delacroix and Berlioz, who in
their inmost nacres are sick and incurable, and who are all fanatics
of _expression,_ and virtuosos through and through.... Who, in sooth,
was the first intelligent follower of Wagner? Charles Baudelaire, the
very man who first understood Delacroix--that typical decadent, in whom
a whole generation of artists saw their reflection; he was perhaps the
last of them too.... What is it that I have never forgiven Wagner?
The fact that he condescended to the Germans--that he became a German
Imperialist.... Wherever Germany spreads, she _ruins_ culture.


Taking everything into consideration, I could never have survived my
youth without Wagnerian music. For I was condemned to the society
of Germans. If a man wish to get rid of a feeling of insufferable
oppression, he has to take to hashish. Well, I had to take to Wagner.
Wagner is the counter-poison to everything essentially German--the fact
that he is a poison too, I do not deny. From the moment that _Tristan_
was arranged for the piano--all honour to you, Herr von Bülow!--I was
a Wagnerite. Wagner's previous works seemed beneath me--they were too
commonplace, too "German." ... But to this day I am still seeking for a
work which would be a match to _Tristan_ in dangerous fascination, and
possess the same gruesome and dulcet quality of infinity; I seek among
all the arts in vain. All the quaint features of Leonardo da Vinci's
work lose their charm at the sound of the first bar in _Tristan._
This work is without question Wagner's _non plus ultra_; after its
creation, the composition of the _Mastersingers_ and of the _Ring_ was
a relaxation to him. To become more healthy--this in a nature like
Wagner's amounts to going backwards. The curiosity of the psychologist
is so great in me, that I regard it as quite a special privilege
to have lived at the right time, and to have lived precisely among
Germans, in order to be ripe for this work. The world must indeed be
empty for him who has never been unhealthy enough for this "infernal
voluptuousness": it is allowable, it is even imperative, to employ a
mystic formula for this purpose. I suppose I know better than any one
the prodigious feats of which Wagner was capable, the fifty worlds of
strange ecstasies to which no one else had wings to soar; and as I am
alive to-day and strong enough to turn even the most suspicious and
most dangerous things to my own advantage, and thus to grow stronger,
I declare Wagner to have been the greatest benefactor of my life. The
bond which unites us is the fact that we have suffered greater agony,
even at each other's hands, than most men are able to bear nowadays,
and this will always keep our names associated in the minds of men.
For, just as Wagner is merely a misunderstanding among Germans, so, in
truth, am I, and ever will be. Ye lack two centuries of psychological
and artistic discipline, my dear countrymen!... But ye can never
recover the time lost.


To the most exceptional of my readers I should like to say just one
word about what I really exact from music. It must be cheerful and yet
profound, like an October afternoon. It must be original, exuberant,
and tender, and like a dainty, soft woman in roguishness and grace ... I
shall never admit that a German _can_ understand what music is. Those
musicians who are called German, the greatest and most famous foremost,
are all foreigners, either Slavs, Croats, Italians, Dutchmen--or Jews;
or else, like Heinrich Schütz, Bach, and Händel, they are Germans of
a strong race which is now extinct. For my own part, I have still
enough of the Pole left in me to let all other music go, if only I
can keep Chopin. For three reasons I would except Wagner's _Siegfried
Idyll,_ and perhaps also one or two things of Liszt, who excelled all
other musicians in the noble tone of his orchestration; and finally
everything that has been produced beyond the Alps_--this side_ of the
Alps.[3] I could not possibly dispense with Rossini, and still less
with my Southern soul in music, the work of my Venetian maestro, Pietro
Gasti. And when I say beyond the Alps, all I really mean is Venice.
If I try to find a new word for music, I can never find any other
than Venice. I know not how to draw any distinction between tears
and music. I do not know how to think either of joy, or of the south,
without a shudder of fear.

On the bridge I stood
Lately, in gloomy night.
Came a distant song:
In golden drops it rolled
Over the glittering rim away.
Music, gondolas, lights--
Drunk, swam far forth in the gloom....

A stringed instrument, my soul,
Sang, imperceptibly moved,
A gondola song by stealth,
Gleaming for gaudy blessedness.
--Hearkened any thereto?


In all these things--in the choice of food, place, climate, and
recreation--the instinct of self-preservation is dominant, and this
instinct manifests itself with least ambiguity when it acts as an
instinct of defence. To close one's eyes to much, to seal one's ears to
much, to keep certain things at a distance--this is the first principle
of prudence, the first proof of the fact that a man is not an accident
but a necessity. The popular word for this instinct of defence is
_taste._ A man's imperative command is not only to say "no" in cases
where "yes" would be a sign of "disinterestedness," but also to say
"no" _as seldom as possible._ One must part with all that which compels
one to repeat "no," with ever greater frequency. The rationale of this
principle is that all discharges of defensive forces, however slight
they may be, involve enormous and absolutely superfluous losses when
they become regular and habitual. Our greatest expenditure of strength
is made up of those small and most frequent discharges of it. The act
of keeping things off, of holding them at a distance, amounts to a
discharge of strength,--do not deceive yourselves on this point!--and
an expenditure of energy directed at purely negative ends. Simply by
being compelled to keep constantly on his guard, a man may grow so weak
as to be unable any longer to defend himself. Suppose I were to step
out of my house, and, instead of the quiet and aristocratic city of
Turin, I were to find a German provincial town, my instinct would have
to brace itself together in order to repel all that which would pour in
upon it from this crushed-down and cowardly world. Or suppose I were
to find a large German city--that structure of vice in which nothing
grows, but where every single thing, whether good or bad, is squeezed
in from outside. In such circumstances should I not be compelled to
become a hedgehog? But to have prickles amounts to a squandering of
strength; they even constitute a twofold luxury, when, if we only chose
to do so, we could dispense with them and open our hands instead....

Another form of prudence and self-defence consists in trying to
react as seldom as possible, and to keep one's self aloof from those
circumstances and conditions wherein one would be condemned, as it
were, to suspend one's "liberty" and one's initiative, and become a
mere reacting medium. As an example of this I point to the intercourse
with books. The scholar who, in sooth, does little else than handle
books--with the philologist of average attainments their number may
amount to two hundred a day--ultimately forgets entirely and completely
the capacity of thinking for himself. When he has not a book between
his fingers he cannot think. When he thinks, he responds to a stimulus
(a thought he has read),--finally all he does is to react. The scholar
exhausts his whole strength in saying either "yes" or "no" to matter
which has already been thought out, or in criticising it--he is no
longer capable of thought on his own account.... In him the instinct
of self-defence has decayed, otherwise he would defend himself against
books. The scholar is a decadent. With my own eyes I have seen gifted,
richly endowed, and free-spirited natures already "read to ruins" at
thirty, and mere wax vestas that have to be rubbed before they can give
off any sparks--or "thoughts." To set to early in the morning, at the
break of day, in all the fulness and dawn of one's strength, and to
read a book--this I call positively vicious!


At this point I can no longer evade a direct answer to the question,
_how one becomes what one is._ And in giving it, I shall have to
touch upon that masterpiece in the art of self-preservation, which is
_selfishness._ ... Granting that one's life-task--the determination and
the fate of one's life-task--greatly exceeds the average measure of
such things, nothing more dangerous could be conceived than to come
face to face with one's self by the side of this life-task. The fact
that one becomes what one is, presupposes that one has not the remotest
suspicion of what one is. From this standpoint even the blunders of
one's life have their own meaning and value, the temporary deviations
and aberrations, the moments of hesitation and of modesty, the
earnestness wasted upon duties which lie outside the actual life-task.
In these matters great wisdom, perhaps even the highest wisdom, comes
into activity: in these circumstances, in which _nosce teipsum_ would
be the sure road to ruin, forgetting one's self, misunderstanding
one's self, belittling one's self, narrowing one's self, and making
one's self mediocre, amount to reason itself. Expressed morally, to
love one's neighbour and to live for others and for other things
_may_ be the means of protection employed to maintain the hardest
kind of egoism. This is the exceptional case in which I, contrary
to my principle and conviction, take the side of the altruistic
instincts; for here they are concerned in subserving selfishness
and self-discipline. The whole surface of consciousness--for
consciousness _is_ a surface--must be kept free from any one of the
great imperatives. Beware even of every striking word, of every
striking attitude! They are all so many risks which the instinct runs
of "understanding itself" too soon. Meanwhile the organising "idea,"
which is destined to become master, grows and continues to grow into
the depths,--it begins to command, it leads you slowly back from your
deviations and aberrations, it prepares individual qualities and
capacities, which one day will make themselves felt as indispensable
to the whole of your task,--step by step it cultivates all the
serviceable faculties, before it ever whispers a word concerning the
dominant task, the "goal," the "object," and the "meaning" of it all.
Looked at from this standpoint my life is simply amazing. For the task
of _transvaluing values,_ more capacities were needful perhaps than
could well be found side by side in one individual; and above all,
antagonistic capacities which had to be free from the mutual strife
and destruction which they involve. An order of rank among capacities;
distance; the art of separating without creating hostility; to refrain
from confounding things; to keep from reconciling things; to possess
enormous multifariousness and yet to be the reverse of chaos--all
this was the first condition, the long secret work, and the artistic
mastery of my instinct. Its superior guardianship manifested itself
with such exceeding strength, that not once did I ever dream of what
was growing within me--until suddenly all my capacities were ripe, and
one day burst forth in all the perfection of their highest bloom. I
cannot remember ever having exerted myself, I can point to no trace of
_struggle_ in my life; I am the reverse of a heroic nature. To "will"
something, to "strive" after something, to have an "aim" or a "desire"
in my mind--I know none of these things from experience. Even at this
moment I look out upon my future--a _broad_ future!--as upon a calm
sea: no sigh of longing makes a ripple on its surface. I have not the
slightest wish that anything should be otherwise than it is: I myself
would not be otherwise.... But in this matter I have always been the
same. I have never had a desire. A man who, after his four-and-fortieth
year, can say that he has never bothered himself about _honours,
women,_ or _money_!--not that they did not come his way.... It was
thus that I became one day a University Professor--I had never had
the remotest idea of such a thing; for I was scarcely four-and-twenty
years of age. In the same way, two years previously, I had one day
become a philologist, in the sense that my _first_ philological work,
my start in every way, was expressly obtained by my master Ritschl for
publication in his _Rheinisches Museum._[4] (Ritschl--and I say it
in all reverence--was the only genial scholar that I have ever met.
He possessed that pleasant kind of depravity which distinguishes us
Thuringians, and which makes even a German sympathetic--even in the
pursuit of truth we prefer to avail ourselves of roundabout ways. In
saying this I do not mean to underestimate in any way my Thuringian
brother, the intelligent Leopold von Ranke....)


You may be wondering why I should actually have related all these
trivial and, according to traditional accounts, insignificant details
to you; such action can but tell against me, more particularly if I
am fated to figure in great causes. To this I reply that these trivial
matters--diet, locality, climate, and one's mode of recreation, the
whole casuistry of; self-love--are inconceivably more important than,
all that which has hitherto been held in high esteem! It is precisely
in this quarter that we must begin to learn afresh. All those things
which mankind has valued with such earnestness heretofore are not even
real; they are mere creations of fancy, or, more strictly speaking,
_lies_ born of the evil instincts of diseased and, in the deepest
sense, noxious natures--all the concepts, "God," "soul," "virtue,"
"sin," "Beyond," "truth," "eternal life." ... But the greatness of
human nature, its "divinity," was sought for in them.... All questions
of politics, of social order, of education, have been falsified, root
and branch, owing to the fact that the most noxious men have been
taken for great men, and that people were taught to despise the small
things, or rather the fundamental things, of life. If I now choose to
compare myself with those creatures who have hitherto been honoured as
the first among men, the difference becomes obvious. I do not reckon
the so-called "first" men even as human beings--for me they are the
excrements of mankind, the products of disease and of the instinct
of revenge: they are so many monsters laden with rottenness, so many
hopeless incurables, who avenge themselves on life.... I wish to be
the opposite of these people: it is my privilege to have the very
sharpest discernment for every sign of healthy instincts. There is no
such thing as a morbid trait in me; even in times of serious illness
I have never grown morbid, and you might seek in vain for a trace of
fanaticism in my nature. No one can point to any moment of my life
in which I have assumed either an arrogant or a pathetic attitude.
Pathetic attitudes are not in keeping with greatness; he who needs
attitudes is false.... Beware of all picturesque men! Life was easy--in
fact easiest--to me, in those periods when it exacted the heaviest
duties from me. Whoever could have seen me during the seventy days of
this autumn, when, without interruption, I did a host of things of
the highest rank--things that no man can do nowadays--with a sense of
responsibility for all the ages yet to come, would have noticed no sign
of tension in my condition, but rather a state of overflowing freshness
and good cheer. Never have I eaten with more pleasant sensations,
never has my sleep been better. I know of no other manner of dealing
with great tasks, than as _play_: this, as a sign of greatness, is
an essential prerequisite. The slightest constraint, a sombre mien,
any hard accent in the voice--all these things are objections to a
man, but how much more to his work!... One must not have nerves....
Even to _suffer_ from solitude is an objection--the only thing I have
always suffered from is "multitude."[5] At an absurdly tender age, in
fact when I was seven years old, I already knew that no human speech
would ever reach me: did any one ever see me sad on that account? At
present I still possess the same affability towards everybody, I am
even full of consideration for the lowest: in all this there is not
an atom of haughtiness or of secret contempt. He whom I despise soon
guesses that he is despised by me: the very fact of my existence is
enough to rouse indignation in all those who have polluted blood in
their veins. My formula for greatness in man is! _amor fati_: the fact
that a man wishes nothing to be different, either in front of him or
behind him, or for all eternity. Not only must the necessary be borne,
and on no account concealed,--all idealism is falsehood in the face of
necessity,--but it must also be _loved...._

[Footnote 1: Nietzsche, as is well known, devoted much time when a
student at Leipzig to the study of three Greek philosophers, Theognis,
Diogenes Laertius, and Democritus. This study first bore fruit in the
case of a paper, _Zur Geschichte der Theognideischen Spruchsammlung_,
which was subsequently published by the most influential journal of
classical philology in Germany. Later, however, it enabled Nietzsche to
enter for the prize offered by the University of Leipzig for an essay,
_De fontibus Diogenis Laertii._ He was successful in gaining the prize,
and the treatise was afterwards published in the _Rheinisches Museum,_
and is still quoted as an authority. It is to this essay, written when
he was twenty-three years of age, that he here refers.--TR.]

[Footnote 2: The favourite uniform of the German Emperor, William

[Footnote 3: In the latter years of his life, Nietzsche practically
made Italy his home.--TR.]

[Footnote 4: See note on page 37.]

[Footnote 5: The German words are, _Einsamkeit_ and _Vielsamkeit._ The
latter was coined by Nietzsche. The English word "multitude" should,
therefore, be understood as signifying multifarious instincts and
gifts, which in Nietzsche strove for ascendancy and caused him more
suffering than any solitude. Complexity of this sort, held in check
by a dominant instinct, as in Nietzsche's case, is of course the only
possible basis of an artistic nature.--TR.]



I am one thing, my creations are another. Here, before I speak of the
books themselves, I shall touch upon the question of the understanding
and misunderstanding with which they have met. I shall proceed to
do this in as perfunctory a manner as the occasion demands; for the
time has by no means come for this question. My time has not yet
come either; some are born posthumously. One s day institutions will
be needed in which men will live and teach, as I understand living
and teaching; maybe, also, that by that time, chairs will be founded
and endowed for the interpretation of _Zarathustra. _ But I should
regard it as a complete contradiction of myself, if I expected to
find ears and eyes for my truths to-day: the fact that no one listens
to me, that no one knows how to receive at my hands to-day, is not
only comprehensible, it seems to me quite the proper thing. I do not
wish to be mistaken for another--and to this end I must not mistake
myself. To repeat what I have already said, I can point to but few
instances of ill-will in my life: and as for literary ill-will, I
could mention scarcely a single example of it. On the other hand, I
have met with far too much _pure foolery_!... It seems to me that to
take up one of my books is one of the rarest honours that a man can
pay himself--even supposing that he put his shoes from off his feet
beforehand, not to mention boots.... When on one occasion Dr. Heinrich
von Stein honestly complained that he could not understand a word of
my _Zarathustra,_ I said to him that this was just as it should be: to
have understood six sentences in that book--that is to say, to have
lived them--raises a man to a higher level among mortals than "modern"
men can attain. With this feeling of distance how could I even wish to
be read by the "moderns" whom I know! My triumph is just the opposite
of what Schopenhauer's was--I say "_Non_ legor, _non_ legar."--Not
that I should like to underestimate the pleasure I have derived from
the innocence with which my works have frequently been contradicted.
As late as last summer, at a time when I was attempting, perhaps by
means of my weighty, all-too-weighty literature, to throw the rest of
literature off its balance, a certain professor of Berlin University
kindly gave me to understand that I ought really to make use of a
different form: no one could read such stuff as I wrote.--Finally, it
was not Germany, but Switzerland that presented me with the two most
extreme cases. An essay on _Beyond Good and Evil,_ by Dr. V. Widmann in
the paper called the _Bund,_ under the heading "Nietzsche's Dangerous
Book," and a general account of all my works, from the pen of Herr
Karl Spitteler, also in the _Bund,_ constitute a maximum in my life--I
shall not say of what.... The latter treated my _Zarathustra,_ for
instance as "_advanced exercises in style_," and expressed the wish
that later on I might try and attend to the question of substance as
well; Dr. Widmann assured me of his respect for the courage I showed
in endeavouring to abolish all decent feeling. Thanks to a little
trick of destiny, every sentence in these criticisms seemed, with
a consistency that I could but admire, to be an inverted truth. In
fact it was most remarkable that all one had to do was to "transvalue
all values," in order to hit the nail on the head with regard to me,
instead of striking my head with the nail.... I am more particularly
anxious therefore to discover an explanation. After all, no one can
draw more out of things, books included, than he already knows. A man
has no ears for that to which experience has given him no access. To
take an extreme case, suppose a book contains simply incidents which
lie quite outside the range of general or even rare experience--suppose
it to be the _first_ language to express a whole series of experiences.
In this case nothing it contains will really be heard at all, and,
thanks to an acoustic delusion, people will believe that where nothing
is heard there is nothing to hear.... This, at least, has been my
usual experience, and proves, if you will, the originality of my
experience. He who thought he had understood something in my work, had
as a rule adjusted something in it to his own image--not infrequently
the very opposite of myself, an "idealist," for instance. He who
understood nothing in my work, would deny that I was worth considering
at all.--The word "Superman," which designates a type of man that
would be one of nature's rarest and luckiest strokes, as opposed to
"modern" men, to "good" men, to Christians and other Nihilists,--a
word which in the mouth of Zarathustra, the annihilator of morality,
acquires a very profound meaning,--is understood almost everywhere, and
with perfect innocence, in the light of those values to which a flat
contradiction was made manifest in the figure of Zarathustra--that is
to say, as an "ideal" type, a higher kind of man, half "saint" and half
"genius." ... Other learned cattle have suspected me of Darwinism on
account of this word: even the "hero cult" of that great unconscious
and involuntary swindler, Carlyle,--a cult which I repudiated with
such roguish malice,--was recognised in my doctrine. Once, when I
whispered to a man that he would do better I to seek for the Superman
in a Cæsar Borgia than in a Parsifal, he could not believe his ears.
The fact that I am quite free from curiosity in regard to criticisms of
my books, more particularly when they appear in newspapers, will have
to be forgiven me. My friends and my publishers know this, and never
speak to me of such things. In one particular case, I once saw all the
sins that had been committed against a single book--it was _Beyond Good
and Evil;_ I could tell you a nice story about it. Is it possible that
the _National-Zeitung_--a Prussian paper (this comment is for the sake
of my foreign readers--for my own part, I beg to state, I read only _Le
Journal des Débats_)--really and seriously regarded the book as a "sign
of the times," or a genuine and typical example of Tory philosophy,[1]
for which the _Kreuz-Zeitung_ had not sufficient courage?...


This was said for the benefit of Germans: for everywhere else I have
my readers--all of them exceptionally intelligent men, characters that
have won their spurs and that have been reared in high offices and
superior duties; I have even real geniuses among my readers. In Vienna,
in St Petersburg, in Stockholm, in Copenhagen, in Paris, and New
York--I have been discovered everywhere: I have not yet been discovered
in Europe's flatland--Germany.... And, to make a confession, I rejoice
much more heartily over those who do not read me, over those who have
neither heard of my name nor of the word philosophy. But whithersoever
I go, here in Turin, for instance, every face brightens and softens
at the sight of me. A thing that has flattered me more than anything
else hitherto, is the fact that old market-women cannot rest until
they have picked out the sweetest of their grapes for me. To this
extent must a man be a philosopher.... It is not in vain that the
Poles are considered as the French among the Slavs. A charming Russian
lady will not be mistaken for a single moment concerning my origin.
I am not successful at being pompous, the most I can do is to appear
embarrassed.... I can think in German, I can feel in German--I can do
most things; but this is beyond my powers.... My old master Ritschl
went so far as to declare that I planned even my philological treatises
after the manner of a Parisian novelist--that I made them absurdly
thrilling. In Paris itself people are surprised at "_toutes mes audaces
et finesses_";--the words are Monsieur Taine's;--I fear that even in
the highest forms of the dithyramb, that salt will be found pervading
my work which never becomes insipid, which never becomes "German"--and
that is, wit.... I can do nought else. God help me! Amen.--We all know,
some of us even from experience, what a "long-ears" is. Well then, I
venture to assert that I have the smallest ears that have ever been
seen. This fact is not without interest to women--it seems to me they
feel that I understand them better!... I am essentially the anti-ass,
and on this account alone a monster in the world's history--in Greek,
and not only in Greek, I am the _Antichrist._


I am to a great extent aware of my privileges as a writer: in one
or two cases it has even been brought home to me how very much the
habitual > reading of my works "spoils" a man's taste. Other books
simply cannot be endured after mine, and least of all philosophical
ones. It is an incomparable distinction to cross the threshold of
this noble and subtle world--in order to do so one must certainly
not be a German; it is, in short, a distinction which one must have
deserved. He, however, who is related to me through loftiness of
will, experiences genuine raptures of understanding in my books:
for I swoop down from heights into which no bird has ever soared; I
know abysses into which no foot has ever slipped. People have told
me that it is impossible to lay down a book of mine--that I disturb
even the night's rest.... There is no prouder or at the same time more
subtle kind of books: they sometimes attain to the highest pinnacle
of earthly endeavour, cynicism; to capture their thoughts a man must
have the tenderest fingers as well as the most intrepid fists. Any
kind of spiritual decrepitude utterly excludes all intercourse with
them--even any kind of dyspepsia: a man must have no nerves, but he
must have a cheerful belly. Not only the poverty of a man's soul and
its stuffy air excludes all intercourse with them, but also, and to a
much greater degree, cowardice, uncleanliness, and secret intestinal
revengefulness; a word from my lips suffices to make the colour of
all evil instincts rush into a face. Among my acquaintances I have
a number of experimental subjects, in whom I see depicted all the
different, and instructively different, reactions which follow upon
a perusal of my works. Those who will have nothing to do with the
contents of my books, as for instance my so-called friends, assume an
"impersonal" tone concerning them: they wish me luck, and congratulate
me for having produced another work; they also declare that my writings
show progress, because they exhale a more cheerful spirit.... The
thoroughly vicious people, the "beautiful souls," the false from top to
toe, do not know in the least what to do with my books--consequently,
with the beautiful consistency of all beautiful souls, they regard
my work as beneath them. The cattle among my acquaintances, the mere
Germans, leave me to understand, if you please, that they are not
always of my opinion, though here and there they agree with me.... I
have heard this said even about _Zarathustra._ "Feminism," whether in
mankind or in man, is likewise a barrier to my writings; with it, no
one could ever enter into this labyrinth of fearless knowledge. To
this end, a man must never have spared himself, he must have been hard
in his habits, in order to be good-humoured and merry among a host of
inexorable truths. When I try to picture the character of a perfect
reader, I always imagine a monster of courage and curiosity, as well as
of suppleness, cunning, and prudence--in short, a born adventurer and
explorer. After all, I could not describe better than _Zarathustra_ has
done unto whom I really address myself: unto whom alone would he reveal
his riddle?

"Unto you, daring explorers and experimenters, and unto all who have
ever embarked beneath cunning sails upon terrible seas;

"Unto you who revel in riddles and in twilight, whose souls are lured
by flutes unto every treacherous abyss:

"For ye care not to grope your way along a thread with craven fingers;
and where ye are able to _guess,_ ye hate to _argue_?"


I will now pass just one or two general remarks about my _art of
style._ To communicate a state an inner tension of pathos by means
of signs, including the tempo of these signs,--that is the meaning of
every style; and in view of the fact that the multiplicity of inner
states in me is enormous, I am capable of many kinds of style--in
short, the most multifarious art of style that any man has ever had at
his disposal. Any style is _good_ which genuinely communicates an inner
condition, which does not blunder over the signs, over the tempo of the
signs, or over _moods_--all the laws of phrasing are the outcome of
representing moods artistically. Good style, in itself, is a piece of
sheer foolery, mere idealism, like "beauty in itself," for instance,
or "goodness in itself," or "the thing-in-itself." All this takes for
granted, of course, that there exist ears that can hear, and such men
as are capable and worthy of a like pathos, that those are not wanting
unto whom one may communicate one's self. Meanwhile my Zarathustra,
for instance, is still in quest of such people--alas! he will have to
seek a long while yet! A man must be worthy of listening to him....
And, until that time, there will be no one who will understand the art
that has been squandered in this book. No one has ever existed who has
had more novel, more strange, and purposely created art forms to fling
to the winds. The fact that such things were possible in the German
language still awaited proof; formerly, I myself would have denied
most emphatically that it was possible. Before my time people did not
know what could be done with the German language--what could be done
with language in general. The art of grand rhythm, of grand style in
periods, for expressing the tremendous fluctuations of sublime and
superhuman passion, was first discovered by me: with the dithyramb
entitled "The Seven Seals," which constitutes the last discourse of
the third part of _Zarathustra,_ I soared miles above all that which
heretofore has been called poetry.


The fact that the voice which speaks in my works is that of a
psychologist who has not his peer, is perhaps the first conclusion
at which a good reader will arrive--a reader such as I deserve, and
one who reads me just as the good old philologists used to read their
Horace. Those propositions about which all the world is fundamentally
agreed--not to speak of fashionable philosophy, of moralists and
other empty-headed and cabbage-brained people--are to me but ingenuous
blunders: for instance, the belief that "altruistic" and "egoistic";
are opposites, while all the time the "ego" itself is merely a "supreme
swindle," an "ideal." ... There are no such things as egoistic or
altruistic actions: both concepts are psychological nonsense. Or
the proposition that "man pursues happiness"; or the proposition
that "happiness is the reward of virtue." ... Or the proposition
that "pleasure and pain are opposites." ... Morality, the Circe of
mankind, has falsified everything psychological, root and branch--it
has demoralised everything, even to the terribly nonsensical point
of calling love "unselfish." A man must first be firmly poised, he
must stand securely on his two legs, otherwise he cannot love at
all. This indeed the girls know only too well: they don't care two
pins about unselfish and merely objective men.... May I venture to
suggest, incidentally, that I know women? This knowledge is part of my
Dionysian patrimony. Who knows? maybe I am the first psychologist of
the eternally feminine. Women all like me.... But that's an old story:
save, of course, the abortions among them, the emancipated ones, those
who lack the where-withal to have children. Thank goodness I am not
willing to let myself be torn to pieces! the perfect woman tears you
to pieces when she loves you: I know these amiable Mænads.... Oh! what
a dangerous, creeping, subterranean little beast of prey she is! And
so agreeable withal! ... A little woman, pursuing her vengeance, would
force open even the iron gates of Fate itself. Woman is incalculably
more wicked than man, she is also cleverer. Goodness in a woman is
already a sign of _degeneration._ All cases of "beautiful souls" in
women may be traced to a faulty physiological condition--but I go no
further, lest I should become medicynical. The struggle for equal
rights is even a symptom of disease; every doctor knows this. The more
womanly a woman is, the more she fights tooth and nail against rights
in general: the natural order of things, the eternal war between the
sexes, assigns to her by far the foremost rank. Have people had ears
to hear my definition of love? It is the only definition worthy of a
philosopher. Love, in its means, is war; in its foundation, it is the
mortal hatred of the sexes. Have you heard my reply to the question
how a woman can be cured, "saved" in fact?--Give her a child! A woman
needs children, man is always only a means, thus spake Zarathustra.
"The emancipation of women,"--this is the instinctive hatred of
physiologically botched--that is to say, barren--women for those of
their sisters who are well constituted: the fight against "man" is
always only a means, a pretext, a piece of strategy. By trying to rise
to "Woman _per se_," to "Higher Woman," to the "Ideal Woman," all they
wish to do is to lower the general level of women's rank: and there are
no more certain means to this end than university education, trousers,
and the rights of voting cattle. Truth to tell, the emancipated are
the anarchists in the "eternally feminine" world, the physiological
mishaps, the most deep-rooted instinct of whom is revenge. A whole
species of the most malicious "idealism"--which, by the bye, also
manifests itself in men, in Henrik Ibsen for instance, that typical
old maid--whose object is to poison the clean conscience, the natural
spirit, of sexual love.... And in order to leave no doubt in your minds
in regard to my opinion, which, on this matter, is as honest as it
is severe, I will reveal to you one more clause out of my moral code
against vice--with the word "vice" I combat every kind of! opposition
to Nature, or, if you prefer fine words, idealism. The clause reads:
"Preaching of chastity is a public incitement to unnatural practices.
All depreciation of the sexual life, all the sullying of it by means
of the concept 'impure,' is the essential crime against Life--is the
essential crime against the Holy Spirit of Life."

In order to give you some idea of myself as a psychologist, let me
take this curious piece of psychological analysis out of the book
_Beyond Good and Evil,_ in which it appears. I forbid, by the bye, any
guessing as to whom I am describing in this passage. "The genius of
the heart, as that great anchorite possesses it, the divine tempter
and born Pied Piper of consciences, whose voice knows how to sink into
the inmost depths of every soul, who neither utters a word nor casts a
glance, in which some seductive motive or trick does not lie: a part
of whose masterliness is that he understands the art of seeming--not
what he is, but that which will place a fresh constraint upon his
followers to press ever more closely upon him, to follow him ever more
enthusiastically and whole-heartedly.... The genius of the heart,
which makes all loud and self-conceited things hold their tongues and
lend their ears, which polishes all rough souls and makes them taste a
new longing--to lie placid as a mirror, that the deep heavens may be
reflected in them.... The genius of the heart which teaches the clumsy
and too hasty hand to hesitate and grasp more tenderly; which scents
the hidden and forgotten treasure, the pearl of goodness and sweet
spirituality, beneath thick black ice, and is a divining rod for every
grain of gold, long buried and imprisoned in heaps of mud and sand....
The genius of the heart, from contact with which every man goes away
richer, not 'blessed' and overcome, not as though favoured and crushed
by the good things of others; but richer in himself, fresher to
himself than before, opened up, breathed upon and sounded by a thawing
wind; more uncertain, perhaps, more delicate, more fragile, more
bruised; but full of hopes which as yet lack names, full of a new will
and striving, full of a new unwillingness and counter-striving." ...

[Footnote 1: _Junker-Philosophie._ The landed proprietors constitute
the dominating class in Prussia, and it is from this class that all
officers and higher officials are drawn. The _Kreuz-Zeitung_ is the
organ of the Junker party.--TR.]



In order to be fair to the _Birth of Tragedy_ (1872) it is necessary
to forget a few things. It created a sensation and even fascinated by
means of its mistakes--by means of its application to Wagnerism, as
if the latter were the sign of an ascending tendency. On that account
alone, this treatise was an event in Wagner's life: thenceforward
great hopes surrounded the name of Wagner. Even to this day, people
remind me, sometimes in the middle of _Parsifal,_ that it rests on
my conscience if the opinion, that this movement is of great value
to culture, at length became prevalent I have often seen the book
quoted as "The Second Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music":
people had ears only for new formulæ for Wagner's art, his object
and his mission--and in this way the real hidden value of the book
was overlooked. "Hellenism and Pessimism"--this would have been a
less equivocal title, seeing that the book contains the first attempt
at showing how the Greeks succeeded in disposing: of pessimism--in
what manner they overcame it. ... Tragedy itself is the proof of
the fact that the Greeks were not pessimists: Schopenhauer blundered
here as he blundered in everything else.--Regarded impartially,
_The Birth of Tragedy_ is a book quite strange to its age: no one
would dream that it was begun in the thunder of the battle of Wörth.
I thought out these problems on cold September nights beneath the
walls of Metz, in the midst of my duties as nurse to the wounded; it
would be easier to think that it was written fifty years earlier. Its
attitude towards politics is one of indifference,--"un-German,"[1]
as people would say to-day,--it smells offensively of Hegel; only in
one or two formulæ is it infected with the bitter odour of corpses
which is peculiar to Schopenhauer. An idea--the antagonism of the two
concepts Dionysian and Apollonian--is translated into metaphysics;
history itself is depicted as the development of this idea; in tragedy
this antithesis has become unity; from this standpoint things which
theretofore had never been face to face are suddenly confronted, and
understood and illuminated by each other.... Opera and revolution,
for instance.... The two decisive innovations in the book are, first,
the comprehension of the Dionysian phenomenon among the Greeks--it
provides the first psychological analysis of this phenomenon, and
sees in it the single root of all Greek art; and, secondly, the
comprehension of Socraticism--Socrates being presented for the first
time as the instrument of Greek dissolution, as a typical decadent.
"Reason" _versus_ Instinct. "Reason" at any cost, as a dangerous,
life-undermining force. The whole book is profoundly and politely
silent concerning Christianity: the latter is neither Apollonian nor
Dionysian; it denies all æsthetic values, which are the only values
that _The Birth of Tragedy_ recognises. Christianity is most profoundly
nihilistic, whereas in the Dionysian symbol, the most extreme limits of
a yea-saying attitude to life are attained. In one part of the book the
Christian priesthood is referred to as a "perfidious order of goblins,"
as "subterraneans."

This start of mine was remarkable beyond measure. As a confirmation of
my inmost personal experience I had discovered the only example of this
fact that history possesses,--with this I was the first to understand
the amazing Dionysian phenomenon. At the same time, by recognising
Socrates as a decadent, I proved most conclusively that the certainty
of my psychological grasp of things ran very little risk at the hands
of any sort of moral idiosyncrasy: to regard morality itself as a
symptom of degeneration is an innovation, a unique event of the first
order in the history of knowledge. How high I had soared above the
pitifully foolish gabble about Optimism and Pessimism with my two new
doctrines! I was the first to see the actual contrast: the degenerate
instinct which turns upon life with a subterranean lust of vengeance
(Christianity, Schopenhauer's philosophy, and in some respects too
even Plato's philosophy--in short, the whole of idealism in its typical
forms), as opposed to a formula of the highest yea-saying to life,
born of an abundance and a superabundance of life--a I yea-saying free
from all reserve, applying even to suffering, and guilt, and all that
is questionable and strange in existence.... This last, most joyous,
most exuberant and exultant yea to life, is not only the highest,
but also the profoundest conception, and one which is most strictly
confirmed and supported by truth and science. Nothing that exists must
be suppressed, nothing can be dispensed with. Those aspects of life
which Christians and other Nihilists reject, belong to an incalculably
higher order in the hierarchy of values, than that which the instinct
of degeneration calls good, and _may_ call good. In order to understand
this, a certain courage is necessary, and, as a prerequisite of this,
a certain superfluity of strength: for a man can approach only as near
to truth as he has the courage to advance--that is to say, everything
depends strictly upon the measure of his strength. Knowledge, and
the affirmation of reality, are just as necessary to the strong man
as cowardice, the flight from reality--in fact, the "ideal"--are
necessary to the weak inspired by weakness.... These people are not
at liberty to "know,"--decadents stand in need of lies,--it is one of
their self-preservative measures. He who not only understands the word
"Dionysian," but understands _himself_ in that term, does not require
any refutation of Plato, or of Christianity, or of Schopenhauer--for
his nose _scents decomposition._


The extent to which I had by means of these doctrines discovered the
idea of "tragedy," the ultimate explanation of what the psychology of
tragedy is, I discussed finally in _The Twilight of the Idols_ (Aph.
5, part 10).... "The saying of yea to life, and even to its weirdest
and most difficult problems: the will to life rejoicing at its own
infinite vitality in the sacrifice of its highest types--that is what I
called Dionysian, that is what I meant as the bridge to the psychology
of the tragic poet. Not to cast out terror and pity, or to purge one's
self of dangerous passion by discharging it with vehemence,--this was
Aristotle's[2] misunderstanding of it,--but to be far beyond terror
and pity and to be the eternal lust of Becoming itself--that lust
which also involves the joy of destruction." ... In this sense I have
the right to regard myself as the first _tragic philosopher_--that is
to say, the most extreme antithesis and antipodes of a pessimistic
philosopher. Before my time no such thing existed as this translation
of the Dionysian phenomenon into philosophic emotion: tragic wisdom was
lacking; in vain have I sought for signs of it even among the great
Greeks in philosophy--those belonging to the two centuries before
Socrates. I still remained a little doubtful about Heraclitus, in whose
presence, alone, I felt warmer and more at ease than anywhere else.
The yea-saying to the impermanence and annihilation of things, which
is the decisive feature of a Dionysian philosophy; the yea-saying to
contradiction and war, the postulation of Becoming, together with the
radical rejection even of the concept _Being_-- in all these things, at
all events, I must recognise him who has come nearest to me in thought
hither to. The doctrine of the "Eternal Recurrence"--that is to say,
of the absolute and eternal repetition of all things in periodical
cycles--this doctrine of Zarathustra's might, it is true, have been
taught before. In any case, the Stoics, who derived nearly all their
fundamental ideas from Heraclitus, show traces of it.

A tremendous hope finds expression in this work. After all, I have
absolutely no reason to renounce the hope for a Dionysian future of
music. Let us look a century ahead, and let us suppose that my attempt
to destroy two millenniums of hostility to Nature and of the violation
of humanity be crowned with success That new party of life-advocates,
which will undertake the greatest of all tasks, the elevation and
perfection of mankind, as well as the relentless destruction of all
degenerate and parasitical elements, will make that _superabundance
of life_ on earth once more possible, out of which the Dionysian
state will perforce arise again. I promise the advent of a tragic
age: the highest art in the saying of yea to life, "tragedy," will be
born again when mankind has the knowledge of the hardest, but most
necessary of wars, behind it, without, however, suffering from that
knowledge.... A psychologist might add that what I heard in Wagnerian
music in my youth and early manhood had nothing whatsoever to do with
Wagner; that when I described Dionysian music, I described merely
what _I_ personally had heard--that I was compelled instinctively to
translate and transfigure everything into the new spirit which filled
my breast. A proof of this, and as strong a proof as you could have,
is my essay, _Wagner in Bayreuth_: in all its decisive psychological
passages I am the only person concerned--without any hesitation you may
read my name or the word "Zarathustra" wherever the text contains the
name of Wagner. The whole panorama of the _dithyrambic_ artist is the
representation of the already existing author of _Zarathustra,_ and
it is drawn with an abysmal depth which does not even once come into
contact with the real Wagner. Wagner himself had a notion of the truth;
he did not recognise himself in the essay.--In this way, "the idea of
Bayreuth" was changed into something which to those who are acquainted
with my _Zarathustra_ will be no riddle--that is to say, into the
Great Noon when the highest of the elect will consecrate themselves
for the greatest of all duties--who knows? the vision of a feast which
I may live to see.... The pathos of the first few pages is universal
history; the look which is discussed on page 105[3] of the book, is the
actual look of _Zarathustra;_ Wagner, Bayreuth, the whole of this petty
German wretchedness, is a cloud upon which an infinite Fata Morgana
of the future is reflected. Even from the psychological standpoint,
all the decisive traits in my character are introduced into Wagner's
nature--the juxtaposition of the most brilliant and most fatal forces,
a Will to Power such as no man has ever possessed--inexorable bravery
in matters spiritual, an unlimited power of learning unaccompanied by
depressed powers for action. Everything in this essay is a prophecy:
the proximity of the resurrection of the Greek spirit, the need of men
who will be counter-Alexanders, who will once more tie the Gordian knot
of Greek culture, after it has been cut. Listen to the world-historic
accent with which the concept "sense for the tragic" is introduced
on page 180: there are little else but world-historic accents in
this essay. This is the strangest kind of "objectivity" that ever
existed: my absolute certainty in regard to what I _am,_ projected
itself into any chance reality--truth about myself was voiced from out
appalling depths. On pages 174 and 175 the style of _Zarathustra_ is
described and foretold with incisive certainty, and no more magnificent
expression will ever be found than that on pages 144-147 for the event
for which _Zarathustra_ stands--that prodigious act of the purification
and consecration of mankind.

[Footnote 1: Those Germans who, like Nietzsche or Goethe, recognised
that politics constituted a danger to culture, and who appreciated the
literature of maturer cultures, such as that of France, are called
_un-deutsch_ (un-German) by Imperialistic Germans.--Tr.]

[Footnote 2: Aristotle's _Poetics_, c. vi.--Tr.]

[Footnote 3: This number and those which follow refer to _Thoughts out
of Season,_ Part I. in this edition of Nietzsche's Works.--TR.]



The four essays composing the _Thoughts out of Season_ are thoroughly
warlike in tone. They prove that I was no mere dreamer, that I delight
in drawing the sword--and perhaps, also, that my wrist is dangerously
supple. The first onslaught (1873) was directed against German culture,
upon which I looked down even at that time with unmitigated contempt
Without either sense, substance, or goal, it was simply "public
opinion." There could be no more dangerous misunderstanding than to
suppose that Germany's success at arms proved anything in favour of
German culture--and still less the triumph of this culture; over
that of France. The second essay (1874) brings to light that which
is dangerous, that which corrodes and poisons life in our manner of
pursuing scientific study: Life is diseased, thanks to this dehumanised
piece of clockwork and mechanism, thanks to the "impersonality" of
the workman, 1 and the false economy of the "division of labour." The
object, which is culture, is lost sight of: modern scientific activity
as a means thereto simply produces barbarism. In this treatise, the
"historical sense," of which this century is so proud, is for the first
time recognised as sickness, as a typical symptom of decay. In the
third and fourth essays, a sign-post is set up pointing to a higher
concept of culture, to a re-establishment of the notion "culture";
and two pictures of the hardest self-love and self-discipline are
presented, two essentially un-modern types, full of the most sovereign
contempt for all that which lay around them and was called "Empire,"
"Culture," "Christianity," "Bismarck," and "Success,"--these two types
were Schopenhauer and Wagner, _or,_ in a word, Nietzsche....


Of these four attacks, the first met with extraordinary success. The
stir which it created was in every way gorgeous. I had put my finger
on the vulnerable spot of a triumphant nation--I had told it that its
victory was not a red-letter day for culture, but, perhaps, something
very different. The reply rang out from all sides, and certainly not
only from old friends of David Strauss, whom I had made ridiculous
as the type of a German Philistine of Culture and a man of smug
self-content--in short, as the author of that suburban gospel of his,
called _The Old and the New Faith_ (the term "Philistine of Culture"
passed into the current language of Germany after the appearance of my
book). These old friends, whose vanity as Würtembergians and Swabians
I had deeply wounded in regarding their unique animal, their bird
of Paradise, as a trifle comic, replied to me as ingenuously and as
grossly as I could have wished. The Prussian replies were smarter; they
contained more "Prussian blue." The most disreputable attitude was
assumed by a Leipzig paper, the egregious _Grentzboten_; and it cost me
some pains to prevent my indignant friends in Bâle from taking action
against it. Only a few old gentlemen decided in my favour, and for
very diverse and sometimes unaccountable reasons. Among them was one,
Ewald of Göttingen, who made it clear that my attack on Strauss had
been deadly. There was also the Hegelian, Bruno Bauer, who from that
time became one of my most attentive readers. In his later years he
liked to refer to me, when, for instance, he wanted to give Herr von
Treitschke, the Prussian Historiographer, a hint as to where he could
obtain information about the notion "Culture," of which he (Herr von
T.) had completely lost sight. The weightiest and longest notice of my
book and its author appeared in Würzburg, and was written by Professor
Hoffmann, an old pupil of the philosopher von Baader. The essays made
him foresee a great future for me, namely, that of bringing about a
sort of crisis and decisive turning-point in the problem of atheism,
of which he recognised in me the most instinctive and most radical
advocate. It was atheism that had drawn me to Schopenhauer. The review
which received by far the most attention, and which excited the most
bitterness, was an extraordinarily powerful and plucky appreciation of
my work by Carl Hillebrand, a man who was usually so mild, and the last
_humane_ German who knew how to wield a pen. The article appeared in
the _Augsburg Gazette,_ and it can be read to-day, couched in rather
more cautious language, among his collected essays. In it my work was
referred to as an event, as a decisive turning-point, as the first sign
of an awakening, as an excellent symptom, and as an actual revival
of German earnestness and of German passion in things spiritual.
Hillebrand could speak only in the terms of the highest respect, of
the form of my book, of its consummate taste, of its perfect tact in
discriminating between persons and causes: he characterised it as the
best polemical work in the German language,--the best performance in
the art of polemics, which for Germans is so dangerous and so strongly
to be deprecated. Besides confirming my standpoint, he laid even
greater stress upon what I had dared to say about the deterioration of
language in Germany (nowadays writers assume the airs of Purists[1]
and can no longer even construct a sentence); sharing my contempt for
the literary stars of this nation, he concluded by expressing his
admiration for my courage--that "greatest courage of all which places
the very favourites of the people in the dock." ... The after-effects
of this essay of mine proved invaluable to me in my life. No one has
ever tried to meddle with me since. People are silent. In Germany
I am treated with gloomy caution: for years I have rejoiced in the
privilege of such absolute freedom of speech, as no one nowadays,
least of all in the "Empire," has enough liberty to claim. My paradise
is "in the shadow of my sword." At bottom all I had done was to put
one of Stendhal's maxims into practice: he advises one to make one's
entrance into society by means of a duel. And how well I had chosen my
opponent!--the foremost free-thinker of Germany. As a matter of fact,
quite a novel kind of free thought found its expression in this way:
up to the present nothing has been more strange and more foreign to my
blood than the whole of that European and American species known as
_litres penseurs._ Incorrigible blockheads and clowns of "modern ideas"
that they are, I feel much more profoundly at variance with them than
with any one of their adversaries. They also wish to "improve" mankind,
after their own fashion--that is to say, in their own image; against
that which I stand for and desire, they would wage an implacable war,
if only they understood it; the whole gang of them still believe in an
"ideal." ... I am the first _Immoralist_.


I should not like to say that the last two essays in the _Thoughts
out of Season,_ associated with the names of Schopenhauer and Wagner
respectively, serve any special purpose in throwing light upon these
two cases, or in formulating their psychological problems. This of
course does not apply to a few details. Thus, for instance, in the
second of the two essays, with a profound certainty of instinct I
already characterised the elementary factor in Wagner's nature as a
theatrical talent which in all his means and inspirations only draws
its final conclusions. At bottom, my desire in this essay was to do
something very different from writing psychology: an unprecedented
educational problem, a new understanding of self-discipline and
self-defence carried to the point of hardness, a road to greatness
and to world-historic duties, yearned to find expression. Roughly
speaking, I seized two famous and, theretofore, completely undefined
types by the forelock, after the manner in which one seizes
opportunities, simply in order to speak my mind on certain questions,
in order to have a few more formulas, signs, and means of expression
at my disposal. Indeed I actually suggest this, with most unearthly
sagacity, on page 183 of _Schopenhauer as Educator._ Plato made use
of Socrates in the same way--that is to say, as a cipher for Plato.
Now that, from some distance, I can look back upon the conditions of
which these essays are the testimony, I would be loth to deny that they
refer simply to me. The essay _Wagner in Bayreuth_ is a vision of my
own future; on the other hand, my most secret history, my development,
is written down in _Schopenhauer as Educator._ But, above all, the
_vow_ I made I What I am to-day, the place I now hold--at a height from
which I speak no longer with words but with thunderbolts!--oh, how
far I was from all this in those days! But I saw the land--I did not
deceive myself for one moment as to the way, the sea, the danger--_and_
success! The great calm in promising, this happy prospect of a future
which must not remain only a promise!--In this book every word has
been lived, profoundly and intimately; the most painful things are not
lacking in it; it contains words which are positively running with
blood. But a wind of great freedom blows over the whole; even its
wounds do not constitute an objection. As to what I understand by being
a philosopher,--that is to say, a terrible explosive in the presence
of which everything is in danger; as to how I sever my idea of the
philosopher by miles from that other idea of him which includes even a
Kant, not to speak of the academic "ruminators" and other professors of
philosophy,--concerning all these things this essay provides invaluable
information, even granting that at bottom, it is not "Schopenhauer as
Educator" but "Nietzsche as Educator," who speaks his sentiments in
it. Considering that, in those days, my trade was that of a scholar,
and perhaps, also, that I understood my trade, the piece of austere
scholar psychology which suddenly makes its appearance in this essay is
not without importance: it expresses the feeling of distance, and my
profound certainty regarding what was my real life-task, and what were
merely means, intervals, and accessory work to me. My wisdom consists
in my having been many things, and in many places, in order to become
one thing--in order to be able to attain to one thing. It was part of
my fate to be a scholar for a while.

[Footnote 1: The Purists constitute a definite body in Germany, which
is called the _Deutscher Sprach-Verein._ Their object is to banish
every foreign word from the language, and they carry this process of
ostracism even into the domain of the menu, where their efforts at
rendering the meaning of French dishes are extremely comical. Strange
to say, their principal organ, and their other publications, are by
no means free either from solecisms or faults of style, and it is
doubtless to this curious anomaly that Nietzsche here refers.--TR.]



_Human all-too-Human,_ with its two sequels, is the memorial of a
crisis. It is called a book for free spirits: almost every sentence in
it is the expression of a triumph--by means of it I purged myself of
everything in me which was foreign to my nature. Idealism is foreign
to me: the title of the book means: "Where ye see ideal things I
see--human, alas! all-too-human things!" ... I know men better. The
word "free spirit" in this book must not be understood as anything
else than a spirit that has become free, that has once more taken
possession of itself. My tone, the pitch of my voice, has completely
changed; the book will be thought clever, cool, and at times both
hard and scornful. A certain spirituality, of noble taste, seems to
be ever struggling to dominate a passionate torrent at its feet. In
this respect there is some sense in the fact that it was the hundredth
anniversary of Voltaire's death that served, so to speak, as an excuse
for the publication of the book as early as 1878. For Voltaire, as the
opposite of every one who wrote after him, was above all a grandee of
the intellect; precisely what I am also. The name of Voltaire on one
of my writings--that was verily a step forward--in my direction....
Looking into this book a little more closely, you perceive a pitiless
spirit who knows all the secret hiding-places in which ideals are wont
to skulk--where they find their dungeons, and, as it were, their last
refuge. With a torch in my hand, the light of which is not by any
means a flickering one, I illuminate this nether world with beams that
cut like blades. It is war, but war without powder and smoke, without
warlike attitudes, without pathos and contorted limbs--all these things
would still be "idealism." One error after the other is quietly laid
upon ice; the ideal is not refuted,--it freezes. Here, for instance,
"genius" freezes; round the corner the "saint" freezes; under a thick
icicle the "hero" freezes; and in the end "faith" itself freezes.
So-called "conviction" and also "pity" are considerably cooled--and
almost everywhere the "thing in itself" is freezing to death.


This book was begun during the first musical festival at Bayreuth; a
feeling of profound strangeness towards everything that surrounded
me there, is one of its first conditions. He who has any notion of
the visions which even at that time had flitted across my path, will
be able to guess what I felt when one day I came to my senses in
Bayreuth. It was just as if I had been dreaming. Where on earth was I?
I recognised nothing that I saw; I scarcely recognised Wagner. It was
in vain that I called up reminiscences. Tribschen--remote island of
bliss: not the shadow of a resemblance! The incomparable days devoted
to the laying of the first stone, the small group of the initiated
who celebrated them, and who were far from lacking fingers for the
handling of delicate things: not the shadow of a resemblance! _What
had happened?_--Wagner had been translated into German! The Wagnerite
had become master of Wagner!_--German_ art! the German master! German
beer!... We who know only too well the kind of refined artists and
cosmopolitanism in taste, to which alone Wagner's art can appeal, were
beside ourselves at the sight of Wagner bedecked with German virtues.
I think I know the Wagnerite, I have experienced three generations
of them, from Brendel of blessed memory, who confounded Wagner with
Hegel, to the "idealists" of the _Bayreuth Gazette,_ who confound
Wagner with themselves,--I have been the recipient of every kind of
confession about Wagner, from "beautiful souls." My kingdom for just
one intelligent word I--In very truth, a blood-curdling company! Nohl,
Pohl, and _Kohl_[1] and others of their kidney to infinity! There
was not a single abortion that was lacking among them--no, not even
the anti-Semite.--Poor Wagner! Into whose hands had he fallen? If
only he had gone into a herd of swine! But among Germans! Some day,
for the edification of posterity, one ought really to have a genuine
Bayreuthian stuffed, or, better still, preserved in spirit,--for
it is precisely spirit that is lacking in this quarter,--with this
inscription at the foot of the jar: "A sample of the spirit whereon
the 'German Empire' was founded." ... But enough! In the middle of
the festivities I suddenly packed my trunk and left the place for a
few weeks, despite the fact that a charming Parisian lady sought to
comfort me; I excused myself to Wagner simply by means of a fatalistic
telegram. In a little spot called Klingenbrunn, deeply buried in the
recesses of the Bohmerwald, I carried my melancholy and my contempt of
Germans about with me like an illness--and, from time to time, under
the general title of "The Plough-share," I wrote a sentence or two down
in my note-book, nothing but severe psychological stuff, which it is
possible may have found its way into _Human, all-too-Human._


That which had taken place in me, then, was not only a breach with
Wagner--I was suffering from a general aberration of my instincts,
of which a mere isolated blunder, whether it were Wagner or my
professorship at Bâle, was nothing more than a symptom. I was seized
with a fit of impatience with myself; I saw that it was high time that
I should turn my thoughts upon my own lot. In a trice I realised, with
appalling clearness, how much time had already been squandered--how
futile and how senseless my whole existence as a philologist appeared
by the side of my life-task. I was ashamed of this false modesty....
Ten years were behind me, during which, to tell the truth, the
nourishment of my spirit had been at a standstill, during which I had
added not a single useful fragment to my knowledge, and had forgotten
countless things in the pursuit of a hotch-potch of dry-as-dust
scholarship. To crawl with meticulous care and short-sighted eyes
through old Greek metricians--that is what I had come to!... Moved to
pity I saw myself quite thin, quite emaciated: realities were only too
plainly absent from my stock of knowledge, and what the "idealities"
were worth the devil alone knew! A positively burning thirst overcame
me: and from that time forward I have done literally nothing else than
study physiology, medicine, and natural science--I even returned to
the actual study of history only when my life-task compelled me to. It
was at that time, too, that I first divined the relation between an
instinctively repulsive occupation, a so-called vocation, which is the
last thing to which one is "called" and that need of lulling a feeling
of emptiness and hunger, by means of an art which is a narcotic--by
means of Wagner's art, for instance. After looking carefully about
me, I have discovered that a large number of young men are all in the
same state of distress: one kind of unnatural practice perforce leads
to another. In Germany, or rather, to avoid all ambiguity, in the
Empire,[2] only too many are condemned to determine their choice too
soon, and then to pine away beneath a burden that they can no longer
throw off.... Such creatures crave for Wagner as for an opiate,--they
are thus able to forget themselves, to be rid of themselves for a
moment.... What am I saying!--for five or six hours.


At this time my instincts turned resolutely against any further
yielding or following on my part, and any further misunderstanding
of myself. Every kind of life, the most unfavourable circumstances,
illness, poverty--anything seemed to me preferable to that undignified
"selfishness" into which I had fallen; in the first place, thanks to my
ignorance and youth, and in which I had afterwards remained owing to
laziness--the so-called "sense of duty." At this juncture there came to
my help, in a way that I cannot sufficiently admire, and precisely at
the right time, that evil heritage which I derive from my father's side
of the family, and which, at bottom, is no more than a predisposition
to die young. Illness slowly liberated me from the toils, it spared me
any sort of sudden breach, any sort of violent and offensive step. At
that time I lost not a particle of the good will of others, but rather
added to my store. Illness likewise gave me the right completely to
reverse my mode of life; it not only allowed, it actually commanded,
me to forget; it bestowed upon me the necessity of lying still, of
having leisure, of waiting, and of exercising patience.... But all
this means thinking!... The state of my eyes alone put an end to all
book-wormishness, or, in plain English--philology: I was thus delivered
from books; for years I ceased from reading, and this was the greatest
boon I ever conferred upon myself! That nethermost self, which was,
as it were, entombed, and which had grown dumb because it had been
forced to listen perpetually to other selves (for that is what reading
means!), slowly awakened; at first it was shy and doubtful, but at
last it _spoke again_ Never have I rejoiced more over my condition
than during the sickest and most painful moments of my life. You have
only to examine _The Dawn of Day,_ or, perhaps, _The Wanderer and
his Shadow,_[3] in order to understand what this "return to myself"
actually meant: in itself it was the highest kind of recovery!... My
cure was simply the result of it.


_Human, all-too-Human,_ this monument of a course of vigorous
self-discipline, by means of which I put an abrupt end to all the
"Superior Bunkum," "Idealism," "Beautiful Feelings," and other
effeminacies that had percolated into my being, was written principally
in Sorrento; it was finished and given definite shape during a winter
at Bâle, under conditions far less favourable than those in Sorrento.
Truth to tell, it was Peter Gast, at that time a student at the
University of Bâle, and a devoted friend of mine, who was responsible
for the book. With my head wrapped in bandages, and extremely painful,
I dictated while he wrote and corrected as he went along--to be
accurate, he was the real composer, whereas I was only the author.
When the completed book ultimately reached me,--to the great surprise
of the serious invalid I then was,--I sent, among others, two copies
to Bayreuth. Thanks to a miraculous flash of intelligence on the part
of chance, there reached me precisely at the same time a splendid copy
of the _Parsifal_ text, with the following inscription from Wagner's
pen: "To his dear friend Friedrich Nietzsche, from Richard Wagner,
Ecclesiastical Councillor." At this crossing of the two books I seemed
to hear an ominous note. Did it not sound as if two swords had crossed?
At all events we both felt this was so, for each of us remained silent.
At about this time the first Bayreuth Pamphlets appeared: and I then
understood the move on my part for which it was high time. Incredible!
Wagner had become pious.


My attitude to myself at that time (1876), and the unearthly certitude
with which I grasped my life-task and all its world-historic
consequences, is well revealed throughout the book, but more
particularly in one very significant passage, despite the fact that,
with my instinctive cunning, I once more circumvented the use of
the little word "I,"--not however, this time, in order to shed
world-historic glory on the names of Schopenhauer and Wagner, but on
that of another of my friends, the excellent Dr. Paul Rée--fortunately
much too acute a creature to be deceived--others were less subtle.
Among my readers I have a number of hopeless people, the typical
German professor for instance, who can always be recognised from the
fact that, judging from the passage in question, he feels compelled to
regard the whole book as a sort of superior Realism. As a matter of
fact it contradicts five or six of my friend's utterances: only read
the introduction to _The Genealogy of Morals_ on this question.--The
passage above referred to reads: "What, after all, is the principal
axiom to which the boldest and coldest thinker, the author of the
book "_On the Origin of Moral Sensations_" (read Nietzsche, the first
Immoralist), "has attained by means of his incisive and decisive
analysis of human actions? 'The moral man,' he says is no nearer to the
intelligible (metaphysical) world than is the physical man, for there
is no intelligible world.' This theory, hardened and sharpened under
the hammer-blow of historical knowledge" (read _The Transvaluation
of all Values_), "may some time or other, perhaps in some future
period,--1890!--serve as the axe which is applied to the root of the
'metaphysical need' of man,--whether more as a blessing than a curse to
the general welfare it is not easy to say; but in any case as a theory
with the most important consequences, at once fruitful and terrible,
and looking into the world with that Janus-face which all great
knowledge possesses."[4]

[Footnote 1: Nohl and Pohl were both writers on music; Kohl, however,
which literally means cabbage, is a slang expression, denoting superior

[Footnote 2: Needless to say, Nietzsche distinguishes between
Bismarckian Germany and that other Germany--Austria, Switzerland, and
the Baltic Provinces--where the German language is also spoken.--TR.]

[Footnote 3: _Human, all-too-Human,_ Part II. in this edition.--TR.]

[Footnote 4: _Human, all-too-Human,_ vol. i. Aph. 37.]




With this book I open my campaign against morality. Not that it is at
all redolent of powder--you will find quite other and much nicer smells
in it, provided that you have any keenness in your nostrils. There
is nothing either of light or of heavy artillery in its composition,
and if its general end be a negative one, its means are not so--means
out of which the end follows like a logical conclusion, _not_ like a
cannon-shot. And if the reader takes leave of this book with a feeling
of timid caution in regard to everything which has hitherto been
honoured and even worshipped under the name of morality, it does not
alter the fact that there is not one negative word, not one attack,
and not one single piece of malice in the whole work--on the contrary,
it lies in the sunshine, smooth and happy, like a marine animal,
basking in the sun between two rocks. For, after all, I was this marine
animal: almost every sentence in the book was thought out, or rather
_caught,_ among that medley of rocks in the neighbourhood of Genoa,
where I lived quite alone, and exchanged secrets with the ocean. Even
to this day, when by chance I happen to turn over the leaves of this
book, almost every sentence seems to me like a hook by means of which I
draw something incomparable out of the depths; its whole skin quivers
with delicate shudders of recollection. This book is conspicuous for no
little art in gently catching things which whisk rapidly and silently
away, moments which I call godlike lizards--not with the cruelty of
that young Greek god who simply transfixed the poor little beast;
but nevertheless with something pointed--with a pen. "There are so
many dawns which have not yet shed their light"--this Indian maxim is
written over the doorway of this book. Where does its author seek that
new morning, that delicate red, as yet undiscovered, with which another
day--ah! a whole series of days, a whole world of new days!--will
begin? In the _Transvaluation of all Values,_ in an emancipation from
all moral values, in a saying of yea, and in an attitude of trust, to
all that which hitherto has been forbidden, despised, and damned. This
yea-saying book projects its light, its love, its tenderness, over all
evil things, it restores to them their soul, their clear conscience,
and their superior right and privilege to exist on earth. Morality is
not assailed, it simply ceases to be considered. This book closes with
the word "or?"--it is the only book which closes with an "or?".


My life-task is to prepare for humanity one supreme moment in which it
can come to its senses, a Great Noon in which it will turn its gaze
backwards and forwards, in which it will step from under the yoke
of accident and of priests, and for the first time set the question
of the Why and Wherefore of humanity as a whole--this life-task
naturally follows out of the conviction that mankind does _not_ get
on the right road of its own accord, that it is by no means divinely
ruled, but rather that it is precisely under the cover of its most
holy valuations that the instinct of negation, of corruption, and of
degeneration has held such a seductive sway. The question concerning
the origin of moral valuations is therefore a matter of the highest
importance to me because it determines the future of mankind. The
demand made upon us to believe that everything is really in the best
hands, that a certain book, the Bible, gives us the definite and
comforting assurance that there is a Providence that wisely rules the
fate of man,--when translated back into reality amounts simply to this,
namely, the will to stifle the truth which maintains the reverse of
all this, which is that hitherto man has been in the _worst possible_
hands, and that he has been governed by the physiologically botched,
the men of cunning and burning revengefulness, and the so-called
"saints"--those slanderers of the world and traducers of humanity.
The definite proof of the fact that the priest (including the priest
in disguise, the philosopher) has become master, not only within a
certain limited religious community, but everywhere, and that the
morality of decadence, the will to nonentity, has become morality
_per se,_ is to be found in this: that altruism is now an absolute
value, and egoism is regarded with hostility everywhere. He who
disagrees with me on this point, I regard as infected. But all the
world disagrees with me. To a physiologist a like antagonism between
values admits of no doubt. If the most insignificant organ within the
body neglects, however slightly, to assert with absolute certainty its
self-preservative powers, its recuperative claims, and its egoism, the
whole system degenerates. The physiologist insists upon the removal of
degenerated parts, he denies all fellow-feeling for such parts, and
has not the smallest feeling of pity for them. But the desire of the
priest is precisely the degeneration of the whole of mankind; hence his
preservation of that which is degenerate--this is what his dominion
costs humanity. What meaning have those lying concepts, those handmaids
of morality, "Soul," "Spirit," "Free will," "God," if their aim is not
the physiological ruin of mankind? When earnestness is diverted from
the instincts that aim at self-preservation and an increase of bodily
energy, _i.e._ at an _increase of life_; when anæmia is raised to an
ideal and the contempt of the body is construed as "the salvation of
the soul," what is all this if it is not a recipe for decadence? Loss
of ballast, resistance offered to natural instincts, selflessness,
in fact--this is what has hitherto been known as morality. With _The
Dawn of Day_ I first engaged in a struggle against the morality of



_Dawn of Day_ is a yea-saying book, profound, but clear and kindly. The
same applies once more and in the highest degree to _La Gaya Scienza:_
in almost every sentence of this book, profundity and playfulness go
gently hand in hand. A verse which expresses my gratitude for the most
wonderful month of January which I have ever lived--the whole book is a
gift--sufficiently reveals the abysmal depths from which "wisdom" has
here become joyful.

    "Thou who with cleaving fiery lances
    The stream of my soul from its ice dost free,
    Till with a rush and a roar it advances
    To enter with glorious hoping the sea:
    Brighter to see and purer ever,
    Free in the bonds of thy sweet constraint,--
    So it praises thy wondrous endeavour,
    January, thou beauteous saint!"[1]

Who can be in any doubt as to what "glorious hoping" means here, when
he has realised the diamond beauty of the first of Zarathustra's
words as they appear in a glow of light at the close of the fourth
book? Or when he reads the granite sentences at the end of the third
book, wherein a fate for all times is first given a formula? The songs
of Prince Free-as-a-Bird, which, for the most part, were written in
Sicily, remind me quite forcibly of that Provencal notion of "_Gaya
Scienza,_" of that union of _singer, knight, and free spirit,_ which
distinguishes that wonderfully early culture of the Provencals from
all ambiguous cultures. The last poem of all, "To the Mistral,"--an
exuberant dance song in which, if you please, the new spirit dances
freely upon the corpse of morality,--is a perfect Provençalism.

[Footnote 1: Translated for _Joyful Wisdom_ by Paul V. Cohn.--TR.]



I now wish to relate the history of _Zarathustra._ The fundamental
idea of the work, the _Eternal Recurrence,_ the highest formula of
a Yea-saying to life that can ever be attained, was first conceived
in the month of August 1881. I made a note of the idea on a sheet of
paper, with the postscript: "Six thousand feet beyond man and time."
That day I happened to be wandering through the woods alongside of the
Lake of Silvaplana, and I halted not far from Surlei, beside a huge
rock that towered aloft like a pyramid. It was then that the thought
struck me. Looking back now, I find that exactly two months before
this inspiration I had an omen of its coming in the form of a sudden
and decisive change in my tastes--more particularly in music. The
whole of _Zarathustra_ might perhaps be classified under the rubric
music. At all events, the essential condition of its production was
a second birth within me of the art of hearing. In Recoaro, a small
mountain resort near Vicenza, where I spent the spring of 1881, I and
my friend and maestro, Peter Gast--who was also one who had been born
again, discovered that the phœnix music hovered over us, in lighter
and brighter plumage than it had ever worn before. If, therefore, I
now calculate from that day forward the sudden production of the book,
under the most unlikely circumstances, in February 1883,--the last
part, out of which I quoted a few lines in my preface, was written
precisely in the hallowed hour when Richard Wagner gave up the ghost
in Venice,--I come to the conclusion that the period of gestation
covered eighteen months. This period of exactly eighteen months,
might suggest, at least to Buddhists, that I am in reality a female
elephant The interval was devoted to the _Gaya Scienza,_ which contains
hundreds of indications of the proximity of something unparalleled;
for, after all, it shows the beginning of _Zarathustra,_ since it
presents _Zarathustra's_ fundamental thought in the last aphorism
but one of the fourth book. To this interval also belongs that _Hymn
to Life_ (for a mixed choir and orchestra), the score of which was
published in Leipzig two years ago by E. W. Fritsch, and which gave
perhaps no slight indication of my spiritual state during this year,
in which the essentially yea-saying pathos, which I call the tragic
pathos, completely filled me heart and limb. One day people will sing
it to my memory. The text, let it be well understood, as there is
some misunderstanding abroad on this point, is not by me; it was the
astounding inspiration of a young Russian lady, Miss Lou von Salome,
with whom I was then on friendly terms. He who is in any way able
to make some sense of the last words of the poem, will divine why I
preferred and admired it: there is greatness in them. Pain is not
regarded as an objection to existence: "And if thou hast no bliss now
left to crown me--Lead on! Thou hast thy Sorrow still."

Maybe that my music is also great in this passage. (The last note of
the oboe, by the bye, is C sharp, not C. The latter is a misprint.)
During the following winter, I was living on that charmingly peaceful
Gulf of Rapallo, not far from Genoa, which cuts inland between Chiavari
and Cape Porto Fino. My health was not very good; the winter was cold
and exceptionally rainy; and the small _albergo_ in which I lived
was so close to the water that at night my sleep was disturbed if
the sea was rough. These circumstances were surely the very reverse
of favourable; and yet, in spite of it all, and as if in proof of my
belief that everything decisive comes to life in defiance of every
obstacle, it was precisely during this winter and in the midst of these
unfavourable circumstances that my _Zarathustra_ originated. In the
morning I used to start out in a southerly direction up the glorious
road to Zoagli, which rises up through a forest of pines and gives
one a view far out to sea. In the afternoon, or as often as my health
allowed, I walked round the whole bay from Santa Margherita to beyond
Porto Fino. This spot affected me all the more deeply because it was
so dearly loved by the Emperor Frederick III. In the autumn of 1886 I
chanced to be there again when he was revisiting this small forgotten
world of happiness for the last time. It was on these two roads that
all _Zarathustra_ came to me, above all, Zarathustra himself as a
type--I ought rather to say that it was on these walks that _he waylaid


In order to understand this type, you must first be quite clear
concerning its fundamental physiological condition: this condition
is what I call _great healthiness._ In regard to this idea I cannot
make my meaning more plain or more personal than I have done already
in one of the last aphorisms (No. 382) of the fifth book of the _Gaya
Scienza_: "We new, nameless, and unfathomable creatures," so reads
the passage, "we firstlings of a future still unproved--we who have a
new end in view also require new means to that end, that is to say,
a new healthiness, a stronger, keener, tougher, bolder, and merrier
healthiness than any that has existed heretofore. He who longs to
feel in his own soul the whole range of values and aims that have
prevailed on earth until his day, and to sail round all the coasts
of this ideal 'Mediterranean Sea'; who, from the adventures of his
own inmost experience, would fain know how it feels to be a conqueror
and discoverer of the ideal;--as also how it is with the artist, the
saint, the legislator, the sage, the scholar, the man of piety and the
godlike anchorite of yore;--such a man requires one thing above all
for his purpose, and that is, _great healthiness_--such healthiness as
he not only possesses, but also constantly acquires and must acquire,
because he is continually sacrificing it again, and is compelled to
sacrifice it! And now, therefore, after having been long on the way,
we Argonauts of the ideal, whose pluck is greater than prudence would
allow, and who are often shipwrecked and bruised, but, as I have said,
healthier than people would like to admit, dangerously healthy, and for
ever recovering our health--it would seem as if we had before us, as
a reward for all our toils, a country still undiscovered, the horizon
of which no one has yet seen, a beyond to every country and every
refuge of the ideal that man has ever known, a world so overflowing
with beauty, strangeness, doubt, terror, and divinity, that both our
curiosity and our lust of possession are frantic with eagerness. Alas!
how in the face of such vistas, and with such burning desire in our
conscience and consciousness, could we still be content with _the man
of the present day_? This is bad indeed; but, that we should regard
his worthiest aims and hopes with ill-concealed amusement, or perhaps
give them no thought at all, is inevitable. Another ideal now leads
us on, a wonderful, seductive ideal, full of danger, the pursuit of
which we should be loath to urge upon any one, because we are not so
ready to acknowledge any one's _right to it:_ the ideal of a spirit who
plays ingenuously (that is to say, involuntarily, and as the outcome
of superabundant energy and power) with everything that, hitherto,
has been called holy, good, inviolable, and divine; to whom even the
loftiest thing that the people have with reason made their measure of
value would be no better than a danger, a decay, and an abasement, or
at least a relaxation and temporary forgetfulness of self: the ideal
of a humanly superhuman well-being and goodwill, which often enough
will seem inhuman--as when, for instance, it stands beside all past
earnestness on earth, and all past solemnities in hearing, speech,
tone, look, morality, and duty, as their most lifelike and unconscious
parody--but with which, nevertheless, _great earnestness_ perhaps alone
begins, the first note of interrogation is affixed, the fate of the
soul changes, the hour hand moves, and tragedy begins."


Has any one at the end of the nineteenth century any distinct notion
of what poets of a stronger age understood by the word inspiration?
If not, I will describe it. If one had the smallest vestige of
superstition left in one, it would hardly be possible completely to
set aside the idea that one is the mere incarnation, mouthpiece, or
medium of an almighty power. The idea of revelation, in the sense
that something which profoundly convulses and upsets one becomes
suddenly visible and audible with indescribable certainty and
accuracy--describes the simple fact. One hears--one does not seek; one
takes--one does not ask who gives: a thought suddenly flashes up like
lightning, it comes with necessity, without faltering--I have never had
any choice in the matter. There is an ecstasy so great that the immense
strain of it is sometimes relaxed by a flood of tears, during which
one's steps now involuntarily rush and anon involuntarily lag. There
is the feeling that one is utterly out of hand, with the very distinct
consciousness of an endless number of fine thrills and titillations
descending to one's very toes;--there is a depth of happiness in which
the most painful and gloomy parts do not act as antitheses to the rest,
but are produced and required as necessary shades of colour in such an
overflow of light. There is an instinct for rhythmic relations which
embraces a whole world of forms (length, the need of a wide-embracing
rhythm, is almost the measure of the force of an inspiration, a sort
of counterpart to its pressure and tension). Everything happens
quite involuntarily, as if in a tempestuous outburst of freedom,
of absoluteness, of power and divinity. The involuntary nature of
the figures and similes is the most remarkable thing; one loses all
perception of what is imagery and metaphor; everything seems to present
itself as the readiest, the truest, and simplest means of expression.
It actually seems, to use one of Zarathustra's own phrases, as if all
things came to one, and offered themselves as similes. ("Here do all
things come caressingly to thy discourse and flatter thee, for they
would fain ride upon thy back. On every simile thou ridest here unto
every truth. Here fly open unto thee all the speech and word shrines
of the world, here would all existence become speech, here would
all Becoming learn of thee how to speak.") This is my experience of
inspiration. I do not doubt but that I should have to go back thousands
of years before I could find another who could say to me: "It is mine


For a few weeks afterwards I lay an invalid in Genoa. Then followed
a melancholy spring in Rome, where I only just managed to live--and
this was no easy matter. This city, which is absolutely unsuited to
the poet-author of _Zarathustra,_ and for the choice of which I was
not responsible, made me inordinately miserable. I tried to leave it.
I wanted to go to Aquila--the opposite of Rome in every respect, and
actually founded in a spirit of hostility towards that city, just as
I also shall found a city some day, as a memento of an atheist and
genuine enemy of the Church, a person very closely related to me, the
great Hohenstaufen, the Emperor Frederick II. But Fate lay behind it
all: I had to return again to Rome. In the end I was obliged to be
satisfied with the Piazza Barberini, after I had exerted myself in
vain to find an anti-Christian quarter. I fear that on one occasion,
to avoid bad smells as much as possible, I actually inquired at the
Palazzo del Quirinale whether they could not provide a quiet room for
a philosopher. In a chamber high above the Piazza just mentioned, from
which one obtained a general view of Rome, and could hear the fountains
plashing far below, the loneliest of all songs was composed--"The
Night-Song." About this time I was obsessed by an unspeakably sad
melody, the refrain of which I recognised in the affords, "dead through
immortality," ... In the summer, finding myself once more in the sacred
place where the first thought of _Zarathustra_ flashed like a light
across my mind, I conceived the second part. Ten days sufficed. Neither
for the second, the first, nor the third part, have I required a day
longer. In the ensuing winter, beneath the halcyon sky of Nice, which
then for the first time poured its light into my life, I found the
third _Zarathustra_--and came to the end of my task: the whole having
occupied me scarcely a year. Many hidden corners and heights in the
country round about Nice are hallowed for me by moments that I can
never forget. That decisive chapter, entitled "Old and New Tables,"
was composed during the arduous ascent from the station to Eza--that
wonderful Moorish village in the rocks. During those moments when my
creative energy flowed most plentifully, my muscular activity was
always greatest. The body is inspired: let us waive the question of
"soul." I might often have been seen dancing in those days, and I could
then walk for seven or eight hours on end over the hills without a
suggestion of fatigue. I slept well and laughed a good deal--I was
perfectly robust and patient.


With the exception of these periods of industry lasting ten days, the
years I spent during the production of _Zarathustra,_ and thereafter,
were for me years of unparalleled distress. A man pays dearly for
being immortal: to this end he must die many times over during his
life. There is such a thing as what I call the rancour of greatness:
everything great, whether a work or a deed, once it is completed, turns
immediately against its author. The very fact that he is its author
makes him weak at this time. He can no longer endure his deed. He can
no longer look it full in the face. To have something at one's back
which one could never have willed, something to which the knot of human
destiny is attached--and to be forced thenceforward to bear it on one's
shoulders! Why, it almost crushes one! The rancour of greatness! A
somewhat different experience is the uncanny silence that reigns about
one. Solitude has seven skins which nothing can penetrate. One goes
among men; one greets friends: but these things are only new deserts,
the looks of those one meets no longer bear a greeting. At the best
one encounters a sort of revolt. This feeling of revolt, I suffered,
in varying degrees of intensity, at the hands of almost every one who
came near me; it would seem that nothing inflicts a deeper wound than
suddenly to make one's distance felt. Those noble natures are scarce
who know not how to live unless they can revere. A third thing is
the absurd susceptibility of the skin to small pin-pricks, a kind of
helplessness in the presence of all small things. This seems to me a
necessary outcome of the appalling expenditure of all defensive forces,
which is the first condition of every _creative_ act, of every act
which proceeds from the most intimate, most secret, and most concealed
recesses of a man's being. The small defensive forces are thus, as it
were, suspended, and no fresh energy reaches them. I even think it
probable that one does not digest so well, that one is less willing
to move, and that one is much too open to sensations of coldness and
suspicion; for, in a large number of cases, suspicion is merely a
blunder in etiology. On one occasion when I felt like this I became
conscious of the proximity of a herd of cows, some time before I could
possibly have seen it with my eyes, simply owing to a return in me of
milder and more humane sentiments: _they_ communicated warmth to me....


This work stands alone. Do not let us mention the poets in the
same breath; nothing perhaps has ever been produced out of such a
superabundance of strength. My concept "Dionysian" here became the
_highest_ deed; compared with it everything that other men have done
seems poor and limited. The fact that a Goethe or a Shakespeare would
not for an instant have known how to take breath in this atmosphere of
passion and of the heights; the fact that by the side of Zarathustra,
Dante is no more than a believer, and not one who first _creates_ the
truth--that is to say, not a world-ruling spirit, a _Fate_; the fact
that the poets of the Veda were priests and not even fit to unfasten
Zarathustra's sandal--all this is the least of things, and gives no
idea of the distance, of the azure solitude, in which this work dwells.
Zarathustra has an eternal right to say: "I draw around me circles and
holy boundaries. Ever fewer are they that mount with me to ever loftier
heights. I build me a mountain range of ever holier mountains." If all
the spirit and goodness of every great soul were collected together,
the whole could not create a single one of Zarathustra's discourses.
The ladder upon which he rises and descends is of boundless length;
he has seen further, he has willed further, and _gone_ further than
any other man. There is contradiction in every word that he utters,
this most yea-saying of all spirits. Through him all contradictions
are bound up into a new unity. The loftiest and the basest powers of
human nature, the sweetest, the lightest, and the most terrible, rush
forth from out one spring with everlasting certainty. Until his coming
no one knew what was height, or depth, and still less what was truth.
There is not a single passage in this revelation of truth which had
already been anticipated and divined by even the greatest among men.
Before Zarathustra there was no wisdom, no probing of the soul, no art
of speech: in his book, the most familiar and most vulgar thing utters
unheard-of words. The sentence quivers with passion. Eloquence has
become music. Forks of lightning are hurled towards futures of which
no one has ever dreamed before. The most powerful use of parables that
has yet existed is poor beside it, and mere child's-play compared with
this return of language to the nature of imagery. See how Zarathustra
goes down from the mountain and speaks the kindest words to every
one! See with what delicate fingers he touches his very adversaries,
the priests, and how he suffers with them from themselves! Here, at
every moment, man is overcome, and the concept "Superman" becomes the
greatest reality,--out of sight, almost far away beneath him, lies
all that which heretofore has been called great in man. The halcyonic
brightness, the light feet, the presence of wickedness and exuberance
throughout, and all that is the essence of the type Zarathustra, was
never dreamt of before as a prerequisite of greatness. In precisely
these limits of space and in this accessibility to opposites
Zarathustra feels himself the _highest of all living things_: and when
you hear how he defines this highest, you will give up trying to find
his equal.

"The soul which hath the longest ladder and can step down deepest,

"The vastest soul that can run and stray and rove furthest in its own

"The most necessary soul, that out of desire flingeth itself to chance,

"The stable soul that plungeth into Becoming, the possessing soul that
must needs taste of willing and longing,

"The soul that flyeth from itself, and over-taketh itself in the widest

"The wisest soul that folly exhorteth most sweetly,

"The most self-loving soul, in whom all things have their rise, their
ebb and flow."

But this is the very idea of Dionysus. Another consideration leads
to this idea. The psychological problem presented by the type of
Zarathustra is, how can he, who in an unprecedented manner says
no, and _acts_ no, in regard to all that which has been affirmed
hitherto, remain nevertheless a yea-saying spirit? how can he who
bears the heaviest destiny on his shoulders and whose very life-task
is a fatality, yet be the brightest and the most transcendental
of spirits--for Zarathustra is a dancer? how can he who has the
hardest and most terrible grasp of reality, and who has thought the
most "abysmal thoughts," nevertheless avoid conceiving these things
as objections to existence, or even as objections to the eternal
recurrence of existence?--how is it that on the contrary he finds
reasons for _being himself_ the eternal affirmation of all things, "the
tremendous and unlimited saying of Yea and Amen"?... "Into every abyss
do I bear the benediction of my yea to Life." ... But this, once more,
is precisely the idea of Dionysus.


What language will such a spirit speak, when he speaks unto his soul?
The language of the _dithyramb._ I am the inventor of the dithyramb.
Hearken unto the manner in which Zarathustra speaks to his soul _Before
Sunrise_ (iii. 48). Before my time such emerald joys and divine
tenderness had found no tongue. Even the profoundest melancholy of
such a Dionysus takes shape as a dithyramb. As an example of this I
take "The Night-Song,"--the immortal plaint of one who, thanks to his
superabundance of light and power, thanks to the sun within him, is
condemned never to love.

"It is night: now do all gushing springs raise their voices. And my
soul too is a gushing spring.

"It is night: now only do all lovers burst into song. And my soul too
is the song of a lover.

"Something unquenched and unquenchable is within me, that would raise
its voice. A craving for love is within me, which itself speaketh the
language of love.

"Light am I: would that I were night! But this is my loneliness, that I
am begirt with light.

"Alas, why am I not dark and like unto the night! How joyfully would I
then suck at the breasts of light!

"And even you would I bless, ye twinkling starlets and glow-worms on
high! and be blessed in the gifts of your light.

"But in mine own light do I live, ever back into myself do I drink the
flames I send forth.

"I know not the happiness of the hand stretched forth to grasp; and oft
have I dreamt that stealing must be more blessed than taking.

"Wretched am I that my hand may never rest from giving: an envious fate
is mine that I see expectant eyes and nights made bright with longing.

"Oh, the wretchedness of all them that give! Oh, the clouds that cover
the face of my sun! That craving for desire! that burning hunger at the
end of the feast!

"They take what I give them; but do I touch their soul? A gulf is there
'twixt giving and taking; and the smallest gulf is the last to be

"An appetite is born from out my beauty: would that I might do harm to
them that I fill with light; would that I might rob them of the gifts I
have given:--thus do I thirst for wickedness.

"To withdraw my hand when their hand is ready stretched forth like the
waterfall that wavers, wavers even in its fall:--thus do I thirst for

"For such vengeance doth my fulness yearn: to such tricks doth my
loneliness give birth.

"My joy in giving died with the deed. By its very fulness did my virtue
grow weary of itself.

"He who giveth risketh to lose his shame; he that is ever distributing
groweth callous in hand and heart therefrom.

"Mine eyes no longer melt into tears at the sight of the suppliant's
shame; my hand hath become too hard to feel the quivering of laden

"Whither have ye fled, the tears of mine eyes and the bloom of my
heart? Oh, the solitude of all givers! Oh, the silence of all beacons!

"Many are the suns that circle in barren space; to all that is dark do
they speak with their light--to me alone are they silent.

"Alas, this is the hatred of light for that which shineth: pitiless it
runneth its course.

"Unfair in its inmost heart to that which shineth; cold toward
suns,--thus doth every sun go its way.

"Like a tempest do the suns fly over their course: for such is their
way. Their own unswerving will do they follow: that is their coldness.

"Alas, it is ye alone, ye creatures of gloom, ye spirits of the night,
that take your warmth from that which shineth. Ye alone suck your milk
and comfort from the udders of light.

"Alas, about me there is ice, my hand burneth itself against ice!

"Alas, within me is a thirst that thirsteth for your thirst!

"It is night: woe is me, that I must needs be light! And thirst after
darkness! And loneliness!

"It is night: now doth my longing burst forth like a spring,--for
speech do I long.

"It is night: now do all gushing springs raise their voices. And my
soul too is a gushing spring.

"It is night: now only do all lovers burst into song. And my soul too
is the song of a lover."


Such things have never been written, never been felt, never been
_suffered:_ only a God, only Dionysus suffers in this way. The reply
to such a dithyramb on the sun's solitude in light would be Ariadne.
... Who knows, but I, who Ariadne is! To all such riddles no one
heretofore had ever found an answer; I doubt even whether any one had
ever seen a riddle here. One day Zarathustra severely determines his
life-task--and it is also mine. Let no one misunderstand its meaning.
It's a yea-saying to the point of justifying, to the point of redeeming
even all that is past.

"I walk among men as among fragments of the future: of that future
which I see.

"And all my creativeness and effort is but this, that I may be able to
think and recast all these fragments and riddles and dismal accidents
into one piece.

"And how could I bear to be a man, if man were not also a poet, a
riddle reader, and a redeemer of chance!

"To redeem all the past, and to transform every 'it was' into 'thus
would I have it'--that alone would be my salvation!"

In another passage he defines as strictly as possible what to him alone
"man" can be,--not a subject for love nor yet for pity--Zarathustra
became master even of his loathing of man: man is to him a thing
unshaped, raw material, an ugly stone that needs the sculptor's chisel.

"No longer to will, no longer to value, no longer to create! Oh, that
this great weariness may never be mine!

"Even in the lust of knowledge, I feel only the joy of my will to beget
and to grow; and if there be innocence in my knowledge, it is because
my procreative will is in it.

"Away from God and gods did this will lure me: what would there be to
create if there were gods?

"But to man doth it ever drive me anew, my burning, creative will.
Thus driveth it the hammer to the stone.

"Alas, ye men, within the stone there sleepeth an image for me, the
image of all my dreams! Alas, that it should have to sleep in the
hardest and ugliest stone!

"_Now rageth my hammer ruthlessly against its prison._ From the stone
the fragments fly: what's that to me?

"I will finish it: for a shadow came unto me--the stillest and lightest
thing on earth once came unto me!

"The beauty of the Superman came unto me as a shadow. Alas, my
brethren! What are the--gods to me now?"

Let me call attention to one last point of view. The line in italics is
my pretext for this remark. A Dionysian life-task needs the hardness of
the hammer, and one of its first essentials is without doubt the _joy
even of destruction._ The command, "Harden yourselves!" and the deep
conviction that _all creators are hard,_ is the really distinctive sign
of a Dionysian nature.




My work for the years that followed was prescribed as distinctly
as possible. Now that the yea-saying part of my life-task was
accomplished, there came the turn of the negative portion, both in
word and deed: the transvaluation of all values that had existed
hitherto, the great war,--the conjuring-up of the day when the fatal
outcome of the struggle would be decided. Meanwhile, I had slowly to
look about me for my peers, for those who, _out of strength,_ would
proffer me a helping hand in my work of destruction. From that time
onward, all my writings are so much bait: maybe I understand as much
about fishing as most people? If nothing was _caught,_ it was not I who
was at fault _There were no fish to come and bite._


In all its essential points, this book (1886) is a criticism of
_modernity,_ embracing the modern sciences, arts, even politics,
together with certain indications as to a type which would be the
reverse of modern man, or as little like him as possible, a noble
and yea-saying type. In this last respect the book is a _school
for gentlemen_--the term _gentleman_ being understood here in a
much more spiritual and radical sense than it has implied hitherto.
All those things of which the age is proud,--as, for instance,
far-famed "objectivity," "sympathy with all that suffers," "the
historical sense," with its subjection to foreign tastes, with its
lying-in-the-dust before _petits faits,_ and the rage for science,--are
shown to be the contradiction of the type recommended, and are
regarded as almost ill-bred. If you remember that this book follows
upon _Zarathustra,_ you may possibly guess to what system of diet it
owes its life. The eye which, owing to tremendous constraint, has
become accustomed to see at a great distance,--_Zarathustra_ is even
more far-sighted than the Tsar,--is here forced to focus sharply that
which is close at hand, the present time, the things that lie about
him. In all the aphorisms and more particularly in the form of this
book, the reader will find the same _voluntary_ turning away from those
instincts which made a _Zarathustra_ a possible feat. Refinement in
form, in aspiration, and in the art of keeping silent, are its more or
less obvious qualities; psychology is handled with deliberate hardness
and cruelty,--the whole book does not contain one single good-natured
word.... All this sort of thing refreshes a man. Who can guess the kind
of recreation that is necessary after such an expenditure of goodness
as is to be found in _Zarathustra_? From a theological standpoint--now
pay ye heed; for it is but on rare occasions that I speak as a
theologian--it was God Himself who, at the end of His great work,
coiled Himself up in the form of a serpent at the foot of the tree of
knowledge. It was thus that He recovered from being a God.... He had
made everything too beautiful.... The devil is simply God's moment of
idleness, on that seventh day.


The three essays which constitute this genealogy are, as regards
expression, aspiration, and the art of the unexpected, perhaps the
most curious things that have ever been written. Dionysus, as you know,
is also the god of darkness. In each case the beginning is calculated
to mystify; it is cool, scientific, even ironical, intentionally
thrust to the fore, intentionally reticent. Gradually less calmness
prevails; here and there a flash of lightning defines the horizon;
exceedingly unpleasant truths break upon your ears from out remote
distances with a dull, rumbling sound,--until very soon a fierce tempo
is attained in which everything presses forward at a terrible degree
of tension. At the end, in each case, amid fearful thunderclaps, a new
truth shines out between thick clouds. The truth of the first essays
the psychology of Christianity: the birth of Christianity out of the
spirit of resentment, not, as is supposed, out of the "Spirit,"--in
all its essentials, a counter-movement, the great insurrection against
the dominion of noble values. The second essay contains the psychology
of conscience: this is not, as you may believe, "the voice of God in
man"; it is the instinct of cruelty, which turns inwards once it is
unable to discharge itself outwardly. Cruelty is here exposed, for the
first time, as one of the oldest and most indispensable elements in the
foundation of culture. The third essay replies to the question as to
the origin of the formidable power of the ascetic ideal, of the priest
ideal, despite the fact that this ideal is essentially detrimental,
that it is a will to nonentity and to decadence. Reply: it flourished
not because God was active behind the priests, as is generally
believed, but because it was a _faute de mieux_--from the fact that
hitherto it has been the only ideal and has had no competitors. "For
man prefers to aspire to nonentity than not to aspire at all." But
above all, until the time of _Zarathustra_ there was no such thing
as a counter-ideal. You have understood my meaning. Three decisive
overtures on the part of a psychologist to a _Transvaluation of all
Values._--This book contains the first psychology of the priest.




This work--which covers scarcely one hundred and fifty pages, with its
cheerful and fateful tone, like a laughing demon, and the production
of which occupied so few days that I hesitate to give their number--is
altogether an exception among books: there is no work more rich in
substance, more independent, more upsetting--more wicked. If any one
should desire to obtain a rapid sketch of how everything, before my
time, was standing on its head, he should begin reading me in this
book. That which is called "Idols" on the title page is simply the
old truth that has been believed in hitherto. In plain English, _The
Twilight of the Idols_ means that the old truth is on its last legs.


There is no reality, no "ideality," which has not been touched in
this book (touched! what a cautious euphemism!). Not only the eternal
idols, but also the youngest--that is to say, the most senile: modern
ideas, for instance. A strong wind blows between the trees and in
all directions fall the fruit--the truths. There is the waste of an
all-too-rich autumn in this book: you trip over truths. You even crush
some to death, there are too many of them. Those things that you can
grasp, however, are quite unquestionable; they are irrevocable decrees.
I alone have the criterion of "truths" in my possession. I alone _can_
decide. It would seem as if a second consciousness had grown up in me,
as if the "life-will" in me had thrown a light upon the downward path
along which it has been running throughout the ages. The _downward
path_--hitherto this had been called the road to "Truth." All obscure
impulse--"darkness and dismay"--is at an end, the "_good man_" was
precisely he who was least aware of the proper way.[1] And, speaking
in all earnestness, no one before me knew the proper way, the way
upwards: only after my time could men once more find hope, life-tasks,
and roads mapped out that lead to culture--_I am the joyful harbinger
of this culture._ ... On this account alone I am also a fatality.


Immediately after the completion of the above-named work, and without
letting even one day go by, I tackled the formidable task of the
_Transvaluation_ with a supreme feeling of pride which nothing could
equal; and, certain at each moment of my immortality, I cut sign after
sign upon tablets of brass with the sureness of Fate. The Preface
came into being on 3rd September 1888. When, after having written it
down, I went out into the open that morning, I was greeted by the most
beautiful day I had ever seen in the Upper Engadine--clear, glowing
with colour, and presenting all the contrasts and all the intermediary
gradations between ice and the south. I left Sils-Maria only on the
20th of September. I had been forced to delay my departure owing to
floods, and I was very soon, and for some days, the only visitor in
this wonderful spot, on which my gratitude bestows the gift of an
immortal name. After a journey that was full of incidents, and not
without danger to life,--as for instance at Como, which was flooded
when I reached it in the dead of night,--I got to Turin on the
afternoon of the 21 st. Turin is the only suitable place for me, and
it shall be my home henceforward. I took the same lodgings as I had
occupied in the spring, 6111 Via Carlo Alberto, opposite the mighty
Palazzo Carignano, in which Vittorio Emanuele was born; and I had a
view of the Piazza Carlo Alberto and above it across to the hills.
Without hesitating, or allowing myself to be disturbed for a single
moment, I returned to my work, only the last quarter of which had still
to be written. On the 30th September, tremendous triumph; the seventh
day; the leisure of a god on the banks of the Po.[2] On the same day,
I wrote the Preface to _The Twilight of the Idols,_ the correction of
the proofs of which provided me with recreation during the month of
September. Never in my life have I experienced such an autumn; nor
had I ever imagined that such things were possible on earth--a Claude
Lorrain extended to infinity, each day equal to the last in its wild

[Footnote 1: A witty reference to Goethe's well-known passage in the
Prologue to _Faust_:--

"A good man, though in darkness and dismay,
May still be conscious of the proper way."

The words are spoken by the Lord.--TR. ]

[Footnote 2: There is a wonderful promenade along the banks of the Po,
for which Turin is famous, and of which Nietzsche was particularly



In order to do justice to this essay a man ought to suffer from the
fate of music as from an open wound.--From what do I suffer when I
suffer from the fate of music? From the fact that music has lost
its world-transfiguring, yea-saying character--that it is decadent
music and no longer the flute of Dionysus. Supposing, however, that
the fate of music be as dear to man as his own life, because joy and
suffering are alike bound up with it; then he will find this pamphlet
comparatively mild and full of consideration. To be cheerful in
such circumstances, and laugh good-naturedly with others at one's
self,--_ridendodicere severum_[1] when the _verum dicere_ would
justify every sort of hardness,--is humanity itself. Who doubts that
I, old artillery-man that I am, would be able if I liked to point my
_heavy_ guns at Wagner?--Everything decisive in this question I kept
to myself--I have loved Wagner.--After all, an attack upon a more than
usually subtle "unknown person" whom another would not have divined
so easily, lies in the meaning and path of my life-task. Oh, I have
still quite a number of other "unknown persons" to unmask besides a
Cagliostro of Music! Above all, I have to direct an attack against
the German people, who, in matters of the spirit, grow every day
more indolent, poorer in instincts, and more _honest_ who, with an
appetite for which they are to be envied, continue to diet themselves
on contradictions, and gulp down "Faith" in company with science,
Christian love together with anti-Semitism, and the will to power (to
the "Empire"), dished up with the gospel of the humble, without showing
the slightest signs of indigestion. Fancy this absence of party-feeling
in the presence of opposites! Fancy this gastric neutrality and
"disinterestedness"! Behold this sense of justice in the German palate,
which can grant equal rights to all,--which finds everything tasteful!
Without a shadow of a doubt the Germans are idealists. When I was last
in Germany, I found German taste striving to grant Wagner and the
_Trumpeter of Sakkingen_[2] equal rights; while I myself witnessed
the attempts of the people of Leipzig to do honour to one of the most
genuine and most German of musicians,--using German here in the old
sense of the word,--a man who was no mere German of the Empire, the
master Heinrich Schütz, by founding a Liszt Society, the object of
which was to cultivate and spread artful (_listige_[3]) Church music.
Without a shadow of doubt the Germans are idealists.


But here nothing shall stop me from being rude, and from telling the
Germans one or two unpleasant home truths: who else would do it if I
did not? I refer to their laxity in matters historical. Not only have
the Germans entirely lost the _breadth of vision_ which enables one
to grasp the course of culture and the values of culture; not only
are they one and all political (or Church) puppets; but they have
also actually _put a ban upon_ this very breadth of vision. A man
must first and foremost be "German," he must belong to "_the_ race";
then only can he pass judgment upon all values and lack of values
in history--then only can he establish them.... To be German is in
itself an argument, "Germany, Germany above all,"[4] is a principle;
the Germans stand for the "moral order of the universe" in history;
compared with the Roman Empire, they are the up-holders of freedom;
compared with the eighteenth century, they are the restorers of
morality, of the "Categorical Imperative." There is such a thing as
the writing of history according to the lights of Imperial Germany;
there is, I fear, anti-Semitic history--there is also history written
with an eye to the Court, and Herr von Treitschke is not ashamed
of himself. Quite recently an idiotic opinion _in historicis,_ an
observation of Vischer the Swabian æsthete, since happily deceased,
made the round of the German newspapers as a "truth" to which every
German _must assent_ The observation was this: "The Renaissance _and_
the Reformation only together constitute a whole--the æsthetic
rebirth, and the moral rebirth." When I listen to such things, I lose
all patience, and I feel inclined, I even feel it my duty, to tell the
Germans, for once in a way, all that they have on their conscience.
_Every great crime against culture for the last four centuries lies
on their conscience...._ And always for the same reason, always owing
to their bottomless cowardice in the face of reality, which is also
cowardice in the face of truth; always owing to the love of falsehood
which has become almost instinctive in them--in short, "idealism."
It was the Germans who caused Europe to lose the fruits, the whole
meaning of her last period of greatness--the period of the Renaissance.
At a moment when a higher order of values, values that were noble,
that said yea to life, and that guaranteed a future, had succeeded
in triumphing over the opposite values, the values of degeneration,
in the very seat of Christianity itself,--and _even in the hearts of
those sitting there,_--Luther, that cursed monk, not only restored the
Church, but, what was a thousand times worse, restored Christianity,
and at a time too when it lay defeated. Christianity, the _Denial of
the Will to Live,_ exalted to a religion! Luther was an impossible
monk who, thanks to his own "impossibility," attacked the Church,
and in so doing restored it! Catholics would be perfectly justified
in celebrating feasts in honour of Luther, and in producing festival
plays[5] in his honour. Luther and the "rebirth of morality"! May all
psychology go to the devil! Without a shadow of a doubt the Germans
are idealists. On two occasions when, at the cost of enormous courage
and self-control, an upright, unequivocal, and perfectly scientific
attitude of mind had been attained, the Germans were able to discover
back stairs leading down to the old "ideal" again, compromises between
truth and the "ideal," and, in short, formulæ for the right to reject
science and to perpetrate falsehoods. Leibniz and Kant--these two
great breaks upon the intellectual honesty of Europe! Finally, at a
moment when there appeared on the bridge that spanned two centuries
of decadence, a superior force of genius and will which was strong
enough to consolidate Europe and to convert it into a political and
economic unit, with the object of ruling the world, the Germans, with
their Wars of Independence, robbed Europe of the significance--the
marvellous significance, of Napoleon's life. And in so doing they laid
on their conscience everything that followed, everything that exists
to-day,--this sickliness and want of reason which is most opposed to
culture, and which is called Nationalism,--this _névrose nationale_
from which Europe is suffering acutely; this eternal subdivision of
Europe into petty states, with politics on a municipal scale: they have
robbed Europe itself of its significance, of its reason,--and have
stuffed it into a cul-de-sac. Is there any one except me who knows the
way out of this cul-de-sac? Does anyone except me know of an aspiration
which would be great enough to bind the people of Europe once more


And after all, why should I not express my suspicions? In my case,
too, the Germans will attempt to make a great fate give birth merely
to a mouse. Up to the present they have compromised themselves with
me; I doubt whether the future will improve them. Alas! how happy I
should be to prove a false prophet in this matter! My natural readers
and listeners are already Russians, Scandinavians, and Frenchmen--will
they always be the same? In the history of knowledge, Germans are
represented only by doubtful names, they have been able to produce only
"_unconscious_" swindlers (this word applies to Fichte, Schelling,
Schopenhauer, Hegel, and Schleiermacher, just as well as to Kant or
Leibniz; they were all mere _Schleiermachers_).[6] The Germans must
not have the honour of seeing the first upright intellect in their
history of intellects, that intellect in which truth ultimately got the
better of the fraud of four thousand years, reckoned as one with the
German intellect. "German intellect" is my foul air: I breathe with
difficulty in the neighbourhood of this psychological uncleanliness
that has now become instinctive--an uncleanliness which in every
word and expression betrays a German. They have never undergone a
seventeenth century of hard self-examination, as the French have,--a
La Rochefoucauld, a Descartes, are a thousand times more upright
than the very first among Germans,--the latter have not yet had any
psychologists. But psychology is almost the standard of measurement
for the cleanliness or uncleanliness of a race.... For if a man is
not even clean, how can he be deep? The Germans are like women, you
can scarcely ever I fathom their depths--they haven't any, and that's
the end of it. Thus they cannot even be called shallow. That which is
called "deep" in Germany, is precisely this instinctive uncleanliness
towards one's self, of which I have just spoken: people refuse to be
clear in regard to their own natures. Might I be allowed, perhaps, to
suggest the word "German" as an international epithet denoting this
psychological depravity?--At the moment of writing, for instance, the
German Emperor is declaring it to be his Christian duty to liberate
the slaves in Africa; among us Europeans, then, this would be called
simply "German." ... Have the Germans ever produced even a book that
had depth? They are lacking in the mere idea of what constitutes a
book. I have known scholars who thought that Kant was deep. At the
Court of Prussia I fear that Herr von Treitschke is regarded as deep.
And when I happen to praise Stendhal as a deep psychologist, I have
often been compelled, in the company of German University Professors,
to spell his name aloud.


And why should I not proceed to the end? I am fond of clearing the
air. It is even part of my ambition to be considered as essentially a
despiser of Germans. I expressed my suspicions of the German character
even at the age of six-and-twenty (see _Thoughts out of Season,_
vol. ii. pp. 164, 165),--to my mind the Germans are impossible.
When I try to think of the kind of man who is opposed to me in all
my instincts, my mental image takes the form of a German. The first
thing I ask myself when I begin analysing a man, is, whether he has a
feeling for distance in him; whether he sees rank, gradation, and order
everywhere between man and man; whether he makes distinctions; for
this is what constitutes a gentleman. Otherwise he belongs hopelessly
to that open-hearted, open-minded--alas! and always very good-natured
species, _la canaille_! But the Germans are _canaille_--alas! they are
so good-natured! A man lowers himself by frequenting the society of
Germans: the German places every one on an equal footing. With the
exception of my intercourse with one or two artists, and above all
with Richard Wagner, I cannot say that I have spent one pleasant hour
with Germans. Suppose, for one moment, that the profoundest spirit
of all ages were to appear among Germans, then one of the saviours
of the Capitol would be sure to arise and declare that his own ugly
soul was just as great. I can no longer abide this race with which
a man is always in bad company, which; has no idea of nuances--woe
to me! I am a nuance--and which has not _esprit_ in its feet, and
cannot even walk withal! In short, the Germans have no feet at all,
they simply have legs. The Germans have not the faintest idea of how
vulgar they are--but this in itself is the acme of vulgarity,--they are
not even ashamed of being merely Germans. They will have their say in
everything, they regard themselves as fit to decide all questions; I
even fear that they have decided about me. My whole life is essentially
a proof of this remark. In vain have I sought among them for a sign of
tact and delicacy towards myself. Among Jews I did indeed find it, but
not among Germans. I am so constituted as to be gentle and kindly to
every one,--I have the right not to draw distinctions,--but this does
not prevent my eyes from being open. I except no one, and least of all
my friends,--I only trust that this has not prejudiced my reputation
for humanity among them? There are five or six things which I have
always made points of honour. Albeit, the truth remains that for many
years I have considered almost every letter that has reached me as a
piece of cynicism. There is more cynicism in an attitude of goodwill
towards me than in any sort of hatred. I tell every friend to his face
that he has never thought it worth his while to _study_ any one of my
writings: from the slightest hints I gather that they do not even know
what lies hidden in my books. And with regard even to my _Zarathustra,_
which of my friends would have seen more in it than a piece of
unwarrantable, though fortunately harmless, arrogance? Ten years have
elapsed, and no one has yet felt it a duty to his conscience to defend
my name against the absurd silence beneath which it has been entombed.
It was a foreigner, a Dane, who first showed sufficient keenness of
instinct and of courage to do this, and who protested indignantly
against my so-called friends. At what German University to-day would
such lectures on my philosophy be possible, as those which Dr. Brandes
delivered last spring in Copenhagen, thus proving once more his right
to the title psychologist? For my part, these things have never caused
me any pain; that which is _necessary_ does not offend me. _Amor fati_
is the core of my nature. This, however, does not alter the fact that
I love irony and even world-historic irony. And thus, about two years
before hurling the destructive thunderbolt of the _Transvaluation,_
which will send the whole of civilisation into convulsions, I sent
my _Case of Wagner_ out into the world. The Germans were given the
chance of blundering and immortalising their stupidity once more on my
account, and they still have just enough time to do it in. And have
they fallen in with my plans? Admirably! my dear Germans. Allow me to
congratulate you.

[Footnote 1: The motto of _The Case of Wagner._--TR.]

[Footnote 2: An opera by Nessler which was all the rage in Germany
twenty years ago.--TR.]

[Footnote 3: Unfortunately it is impossible to render this play on the
words in English.--TR.]

[Footnote 4: The German National Song (_Deutschland, Deutschland über

[Footnote 5: Ever since the year 1617 such plays have been produced by
the Protestants of Germany.--TR.]

[Footnote 6: _Schleiermacher_ literally means a weaver or maker of



I know my destiny. There will come a day $ when my name will recall
the memory of something formidable--a crisis the like of which has
never been known on earth, the memory of the most profound clash
of consciences, and the passing of a sentence upon all that which
theretofore had been believed, exacted, and hallowed. I am not a
man, I am dynamite. And with it all there is nought of the founder
of a religion in me. Religions are matters for the mob; after coming
in contact with a religious man, I always feel that I must wash my
hands.... I require no "believers," it is my opinion that I am too
full of malice to believe even in myself; I never address myself to
masses. I am horribly frightened that one day I shall be pronounced
"holy." You will understand why I publish this book beforehand--it is
to prevent people from wronging me. I refuse to be a saint; I would
rather be a clown. Maybe I am a clown. And I am notwithstanding, or
rather not _not_withstanding, the mouthpiece of truth; for nothing
more blown-out with falsehood has ever existed, than a saint. But
my truth is terrible: for hitherto _lies_ have been called truth.
_The Transvaluation of all Values,_ this is my formula for mankind's
greatest step towards coming to its senses--a step which in me became
flesh and genius. My destiny ordained that I should be the first decent
human being, and that I should feel myself opposed to the falsehood
of millenniums. I was the first to discover truth, and for the simple
reason that I was the first who became conscious of falsehood as
falsehood--that is to say, I smelt it as such. My genius resides in
my nostrils. I contradict as no one has contradicted hitherto, and am
nevertheless the reverse of a negative spirit. I am the harbinger of
joy, the like of which has never existed before; I have discovered
tasks of such lofty greatness that, until my time, no one had any idea
of such things. Mankind can begin to have fresh hopes, only now that I
have lived. Thus, I am necessarily a man of Fate. For when Truth enters
the lists against the falsehood of ages, shocks are bound to ensue,
and a spell of earthquakes, followed by the transposition of hills and
valleys, such as the world has never yet imagined even in its dreams.
The concept "politics" then becomes elevated entirely to the sphere
of spiritual warfare. All the mighty realms of the ancient order of
society are blown into space--for they are all based on falsehood:
there will be wars, the like of which have never been seen on earth
before. Only from my time and after me will politics on a large scale
exist on earth.


If you should require a formula for a destiny of this kind that has
taken human form, you will find it in my _Zarathustra_.

"And he who would be a creator in good and evil--verily, he must first
be a destroyer, and break values into pieces.

"Thus the greatest evil belongeth unto the greatest good: but this is
the creative good."

I am by far the most terrible man that has ever existed; but this does
not alter the fact that I shall become the most beneficent. I know the
joy of _annihilation_ to a degree which is commensurate with my power
to annihilate. In both cases I obey my Dionysian nature, which knows
not how to separate the negative deed from the saying of yea. I am the
first immoralist, and in this sense I am essentially the annihilator.


People have never asked me as they should have done, what the name
of Zarathustra precisely meant in my mouth, in the mouth of the
first immoralist; for that which distinguishes this Persian from all
others in the past is the very fact that he was the exact reverse
of an immoralist. Zarathustra was the first to see in the struggle
between good and evil the essential wheel in the working of things.
The translation of morality into the realm of metaphysics, as force,
cause, end-in-itself, is his work. But the very question suggests
its own answer. Zarathustra created this most portentous of all
errors,--morality; therefore he must be the first to expose it. Not
only because he has had longer and greater experience of the subject
than any other thinker,--all history is indeed the experimental
refutation of the theory of the so-called moral order of things,--but
because of the more important fact that Zarathustra was the most
truthful of thinkers. In his teaching alone is truthfulness upheld as
the highest virtue--that is to say, as the reverse of the cowardice
of the "idealist" who takes to his heels at the sight of reality.
Zarathustra has more pluck in his body than all other thinkers put
together. To tell the truth and to aim straight: that is the first
Persian virtue. Have I made myself clear? ... The overcoming of
morality by itself, through truthfulness, the moralist's overcoming of
himself in his opposite--in me--that is what the name Zarathustra means
in my mouth.


In reality two negations are involved in my title Immoralist. I first
of all deny the type of man that has hitherto been regarded as the
highest--the _good,_ the _kind,_ and the _charitable_; and I also
deny that kind of morality which has become recognised and paramount
as morality-in-itself--I speak of the morality of decadence, or, to
use a still cruder term, Christian morality. I would agree to the
second of the two negations being regarded as the more decisive, for,
reckoned as a whole, the overestimation of goodness and kindness seems
to me already a consequence of decadence, a symptom of weakness, and
incompatible with any ascending and yea-saying life. Negation and
annihilation are inseparable from a yea-saying attitude towards life.
Let me halt for a moment at the question of the psychology of the
good man. In order to appraise the value of a certain type of man, the
cost of his maintenance must be calculated,--and the conditions of his
existence must be known. The condition of the existence of the _good_
is falsehood: or, otherwise expressed, the refusal at any price to
see how reality is actually constituted. The refusal to see that this
reality is not so constituted as always to be stimulating beneficent
instincts, and still less, so as to suffer at all moments the intrusion
of ignorant and good-natured hands. To consider distress of all kinds
as an objection, as something which must be done away with, is the
greatest nonsense on earth; generally speaking, it is nonsense of the
most disastrous sort, fatal in its stupidity--almost as mad as the will
to abolish bad weather, out of pity for the poor, so to speak. In the
great economy of the whole universe, the terrors of reality (in the
passions, in the desires, in the will to power) are incalculably more
necessary than that form of petty happiness which is called "goodness";
it is even needful to practise leniency in order so much as to allow
the latter a place at all, seeing that it is based upon a falsification
of the instincts. I shall have an excellent opportunity of showing the
incalculably calamitous consequences to the whole of history, of the
credo of optimism, this monstrous offspring of the _homines optimi._
Zarathustra,[1] the first who recognised that the optimist is just as
degenerate as the pessimist, though perhaps more detrimental, says:
"_Good men never speak the truth. False shores and false harbours
were ye taught by the good. In the lies of the good were ye born and
bred. Through the good everything hath become false and crooked from
the roots._" Fortunately the world is not built merely upon those
instincts which would secure to the good-natured herd animal his paltry
happiness. To desire everybody to become a "good man," "a gregarious
animal," "a blue-eyed, benevolent, beautiful soul," or--as Herbert
Spencer wished--a creature of altruism, would mean robbing existence of
its greatest character, castrating man, and reducing humanity to a sort
of wretched Chinadom. _And this some have tried to do! It is precisely
this that men called morality._ In this sense Zarathustra calls "the
good," now "the last men," and anon "the beginning of the end"; and
above all, he considers them as _the most detrimental kind of men,_
because they secure their existence at the cost of Truth and at the
cost of the Future.

"The good--they cannot create; they are ever the beginning of the end.

"They crucify him who writeth new values on new tables; they sacrifice
_unto themselves_ the future; they crucify the whole future of humanity!

"The good--they are ever the beginning of the end.

"And whatever harm the slanderers of the world may do, _the harm of the
good is the most calamitous of all harm._"


Zarathustra, as the first psychologist of the good man, is perforce the
friend of the evil man. When a degenerate kind of man has succeeded
to the highest rank among the human species, his position must have
been gained at the cost of the reverse type--at the cost of the strong
man who is certain of life. When the gregarious animal stands in
the glorious rays of the purest virtue, the exceptional man must be
degraded to the rank of the evil. If falsehood insists at all costs on
claiming the word "truth" for its own particular standpoint, the really
truthful man must be sought out among the despised. Zarathustra allows
of no doubt here; he says that it was precisely the knowledge of the
good, of the "best," which inspired his absolute horror of men. And
it was out of this feeling of repulsion that he grew the wings which
allowed him to soar into remote futures. He does not conceal the fact
that his type of man is one which is relatively superhuman--especially
as opposed to the "good" man, and that the good and the just would
regard his superman as the _devil._

"Ye higher men, on whom my gaze now falls, this is the doubt that ye
wake in my breast, and this is my secret laughter: methinks ye would
call my Superman--the devil! So strange are ye in your souls to all
that is great, that the Superman would be terrible in your eyes for his

It is from this passage, and from no other, that you must set out to
understand the goal to which Zarathustra aspires--the kind of man that
he conceives sees reality _as it is;_ he is strong enough for this--he
is not estranged or far removed from it, he is that reality himself, in
his own nature can be found all the terrible and questionable character
of reality: _only thus can man have greatness._


But I have chosen the title of Immoral is t as a surname and as a badge
of honour in yet another sense; I am very proud to possess this name
which distinguishes me from all the rest of mankind. No one hitherto
has felt Christian morality beneath him; to that end there were needed
height, a remoteness of vision, and an abysmal psychological depth, not
believed to be possible hitherto. Up to the present Christian morality
has been the Circe of all thinkers--they stood at her service. What
man, before my time, had descended into the underground caverns from
out of which the poisonous fumes of this ideal--of this slandering
of the world--burst forth? What man had even dared to suppose that
they were underground caverns? Was a single one of the philosophers
who preceded me a psychologist at all, and not the very reverse of a
psychologist--that is to say, a "superior swindler," an "Idealist"?
Before my time there was no psychology. To be the first in this new
realm may amount to a curse; at all events, it is a fatality: _for one
is also the first to despise._ My danger is the loathing of mankind.


Have you understood me? That which defines me, that which makes me
stand apart from the whole of the rest of humanity, is the fact that
I _unmasked_ Christian morality. For this reason I was in need of a
word which conveyed the idea of a challenge to everybody. Not to have
awakened to these discoveries before, struck me as being the sign
of the greatest uncleanliness that mankind has on its conscience,
as self-deception become instinctive, as the fundamental will to
be blind to every phenomenon, all causality and all reality; in
fact, as an almost criminal fraud _in psychologicis._ Blindness in
regard to Christianity is the essence of criminality--for it is the
crime _against_ life. Ages and peoples, the first as well as the
last, philosophers and old women, with the exception of five or six
moments in history (and of myself, the seventh), are all alike in
this. Hitherto the Christian has been _the_ "moral being," a peerless
oddity, and, _as_ "a moral being," he was more absurd, more vain, more
thoughtless, and a greater disadvantage to himself, than the greatest
despiser of humanity could have deemed possible. Christian morality
is the most malignant form of all false too the actual Circe of
humanity: that which has corrupted mankind. It is not error as error
which infuriates me at the sight of this spectacle; it is not the
millenniums of absence of "goodwill," of discipline, of decency, and
of bravery in spiritual things, which betrays itself in the triumph of
Christianity; it is rather the absence of nature, it is the perfectly
ghastly fact that _anti-nature_ itself received the highest honours as
morality and as law, and remained suspended over man as the Categorical
Imperative. Fancy blundering in this way, _not_ as an individual,
_not_ as a people, but as a whole species! as _humanity_! To teach the
contempt of all the principal instincts of life; to posit falsely the
existence of a "soul," of a "spirit," in order to be able to defy the
body; to spread the feeling that there is something impure in the very
first prerequisite of life--in sex; to seek the principle of evil in
the profound need of growth and expansion--that is to say, in severe
self-love (the term itself is slanderous); and conversely to see a
higher moral value--but what am I talking about?--I mean the _moral
value per se,_ in the typical signs of decline, in the antagonism of
the instincts, in "selflessness," in the loss of ballast, in "the
suppression of the personal element," and in "love of one's neighbour"
(neighbouritis!). What! is humanity itself in a state of degeneration?
Has it always been in this state? One thing is certain, that ye are
taught only the values of decadence as the highest values. The morality
of self-renunciation is essentially the morality of degeneration; the
fact, "I am going to the dogs," is translated into the imperative,"
Ye shall all go to the dogs"--and not only into the imperative. This
morality of self-renunciation, which is the only kind of morality that
has been taught hitherto, betrays the will to nonentity--it denies life
to the very roots. There still remains the possibility that it is not
mankind that is in a state of degeneration, but only that parasitical
kind of man--the priest, who, by means of morality and lies, has
climbed up to his position of determinator of values, who divined in
Christian morality his road to power. And, to tell the truth, this
is my opinion. The teachers and I leaders of mankind--including the
theologians--have been, every one of them, decadents: hence their)
transvaluation of all values into a hostility towards; life; hence
morality. _The definition of morality;_ Morality is the idiosyncrasy of
decadents, actuated by a desire _to avenge themselves with success upon
life._ I attach great value to this definition.


Have you understood me? I have not uttered a single word which I had
not already said five years ago through my mouthpiece Zarathustra.
The unmasking of Christian morality is an event which unequalled in
history, it is a real catastrophe. The man who throws light upon it
is a _force majeure,_ a fatality; he breaks the history of man into
two. Time is reckoned up before him and after him. The lightning
flash of truth struck precisely that which theretofore had stood
highest: he who understands what was destroyed by that flash should
look to see whether he still holds anything in his hands. Everything
which until then was called truth, has been revealed as the most
detrimental, most spiteful, and most subterranean form of life; the
holy pretext, which was the "improvement" of man, has been recognised
as a ruse for draining life of its energy and of its blood. Morality
conceived as _Vampirism_.... The man who unmasks morality has also
unmasked the worthlessness of the values in which men either believe
or have believed; he no longer sees anything to be revered in the most
venerable man--even in the types of men that have been pronounced
holy; all he can see in them is the most fatal kind of abortions,
fatal, _because they fascinate._ The concept "God" was invented as
the opposite of the concept life--everything detrimental, poisonous,
and slanderous, and all deadly hostility to life, wad bound together
in one horrible unit in Him. The concepts "beyond" and "true world"
were invented in order to depreciate the only world that exists--in
order that no goal or aim, no sense or task, might be left to earthly
reality. The concepts "soul," "spirit," and last of all the concept
"immortal soul," were invented in order to throw contempt on the body,
in order to make it sick and "holy," in order to cultivate an attitude
of appalling levity towards all things in life which deserve to be
treated seriously, _i.e._ the questions of nutrition and habitation,
of intellectual diet, the treatment of the sick, cleanliness, and
weather. Instead of health, we find the "salvation of the soul"--that
is to say, a _folie circulate_ fluctuating between convulsions and
penitence and the hysteria of redemption. The concept "sin," together
with the torture instrument appertaining to it, which is the concept
"free will," was invented in order to confuse and muddle our instincts,
and to render the mistrust of them man's second nature! In the concepts
"disinterestedness" and "self-denial," the actual signs of decadence
are to be found. The allurement of that which is detrimental, the
inability to discover one's own advantage and self-destruction, are
made into absolute qualities, into the "duty," the "holiness," and
the "divinity" of man. Finally--to keep the worst to the last--by the
notion of the _good_ man, all that is favoured which is weak, ill,
botched, and sick-in-itself, which _ought to be wiped out._ The law
of selection is thwarted, an ideal is made out of opposition to the
proud, well-constituted man, to him who says yea to life, to him who
is certain of the future, and who guarantees the future--this man is
henceforth called the _evil_ one. And all this was believed in as
_morality!--Ecrasez l'infâme!_


Have you understood me? _Dionysus_ versus _Christ._

[Footnote 1: Needless to say this is Nietzsche, and no longer the


The editor begs to state that, contrary to his announcement in
the Editorial Note to _The Joyful Wisdom,_ in which he declared
his intention of publishing all of Nietzsche's poetry, he has
nevertheless withheld certain less important verses from publication.
This alteration in his plans is due to his belief that it is an
injustice and an indiscretion on the part of posterity to surprise an
author, as it were, in his _négligé,_ or, in plain English, "in his
shirt-sleeves." Authors generally are very sensitive on this point, and
rightly so: a visit behind the scenes is not precisely to the advantage
of the theatre, and even finished pictures not yet framed are not
readily shown by the careful artist. As the German edition, however,
contains nearly all that Nietzsche left behind, either in small
notebooks or on scraps of paper, the editor could not well suppress
everything that was not prepared for publication by Nietzsche himself,
more particularly as some of the verses are really very remarkable.
He has, therefore, made a very plentiful selection from the _Songs
and Epigrams,_ nearly all of which are to be found translated here,
and from the Fragments of the Dionysus Dithyrambs, of which over half
have been given. All the complete Dionysus Dithyrambs appear in this
volume, save those which are duplicates of verses already translated
in the Fourth Part of _Zarathustra._ These Dionysus Dithyrambs were
prepared ready for press by Nietzsche himself. He wrote the final
manuscript during the summer of 1888 in Sils Maria; their actual
composition, however, belongs to an earlier date.

All the verses, unless otherwise stated, have been translated by Mr.
Paul Victor Cohn.




    O Melancholy, be not wroth with me
      That I this pen should point to praise thee only,
    And in thy praise, with head bowed to the knee,
      Squat like a hermit on a tree-stump lonely.
    Thus oft thou saw'st me,--yesterday, at least,--
      Full in the morning sun and its hot beaming,
    While, visioning the carrion of his feast,
      The hungry vulture valleyward flew screaming.

    Yet didst thou err, foul bird, albeit I,
      So like a mummy 'gainst my log lay leaning!
    Thou couldst not see these eyes whose ecstasy
      Rolled hither, thither, proud and overweening.
    What though they did not soar unto thine height,
      or reached those far-off, cloud-reared precipices,
    For _that_ they sank the deeper so they might
      Within themselves light Destiny's abysses.

    Thus oft in sullenness perverse and free,
      Bent hideous like a savage at his altar,
    There, Melancholy, held I thought of thee,
      A penitent, though youthful, with his psalter.

    So crouched did I enjoy the vulture's span,
      The thunder of the avalanche's paces,
    Thou spakest to me--nor wast false like man,
      Thou spakest, but with stern and dreadful faces.

    Harsh goddess thou of Nature wild and stark,
      Mistress, that com'st with threats to daunt and quell me,
    To point me out the vulture's airy are
      And laughing avalanches, to repel me.
    Around us gnashing pants the lust to kill,
      The torment to win life in all its changes;
    Alluring on some cliff, abrupt and chill,
      Some flower craves the butterfly that ranges.

    All this am I--shuddering I feel it all--
      O butterfly beguiled, O lonely flower,
    The vulture and the ice-pent waterfall,
      The moaning storm--all symbols of thy power,--
    Thou goddess grim before whom deeply bowed,
      With head on knee, my lips with pæans bursting,
    I lift a dreadful song and cry aloud
      For Life, for Life, for Life--forever thirsting!

    O vengeful goddess, be not wroth, I ask,
      That I to mesh thee in my rhymes have striven.
    He trembles who beholds thine awful mask;
      He quails to whom thy dread right hand is given.
    Song upon trembling song by starts and fits
      I chant, in rhythm all my thought unfolding,
    The black ink flows, the pointed goose-quill spits,
      O goddess, goddess--leave me to my scolding!


    To-day in misty veils thou hangest dimly,
      Gloomy goddess, o'er my window-pane.
    Grimly whirl the pallid snow-flakes, grimly
      Roars the swollen brook unto the plain.

    Ah, by light of haggard levins glaring,
      'Neath the untamed thunder's roar and roll,
    'Midst the valley's murk wast thou preparing--
      Sorceress! thy dank and poisoned bowl.

    Shuddering, I heard through midnight breaking
      Raptures of thy voice--and howls of pain.
    Saw thy bright orbs gleam, thy right hand shaking
      With the mace of thunder hurled amain.

    Near my dreary couch I heard the crashes
      Of thine armoured steps, heard weapons slam,
    Heard thy brazen chain strike 'gainst the sashes,
      And thy voice: "Come! hearken who I am!

    The immortal Amazon they call me;
      All things weak and womanish I shun;
    Manly scorn and hate in war enthral me;
      Victress I and tigress all in one!

    Where I tread there corpses fall before me;
      From mine eyes the furious torches fly,
    And my brain thinks poisons. Bend, adore me!
      Worm of Earth and Will o' Wisp--or die!"


    (_Two Fragments_)


    Goddess Friendship, deign to hear the song
      That we sing in friendship's honour!
    Where the eye of friendship glances,
      Filled with all the joy of friendship
      Come thou nigh to aid me,
    Rosy dawn in thy gaze and
    In holy hand the faithful pledge of youth eternal.


    Morning's past: the sun of noonday
      Scorches with hot ray our heads.
    Let us sit beneath the arbour
    Singing songs in praise of friendship.
    Friendship was our life's red dawning,
      And its sunset red shall be.


    All through the night a wanderer walks
      Sturdy of stride,
    With winding vale and sloping height
      E'er at his side.
      Fair is the night:
    On, on he strides, nor slackens speed,
    And knows not where his path will lead.

    A bird's song in the night is heard,
    "Ah me, what hast thou done, O bird,
      How dost thou grip my sense and feet
      And pourest heart-vexation sweet
    Into mine ear--I must remain,
      To hearken fain:
    Why lure me with inviting strain?"

    The good bird speaks, staying his song:
    "I lure not thee,--no, thou art wrong--
      With these my trills
    I lure my mate from off the hills--
      Nor heed thy plight.
    To me alone the night's not fair.
    What's that to thee? Forth must thou fare,
    On, onward ever, resting ne'er.

      Why stand'st thou now?
    What has my piping done to thee,
      Thou roaming wight?"
    The good bird pondered, silent quite,
    "Why doth my piping change his plight?
      Why stands he now,
    That luckless, luckless, roaming wight?"


    At noontide hour, when first,
    Into the mountains Summer treads,
    Summer, the boy with eyes so hot and weary,
    Then too he speaks,
    Yet we can only see his speech.

    His breath is panting, like the sick man's breath
    On fevered couch.
    The glacier and the fir tree and the spring
    Answer his call
    --Yet we their answer only see.
    For faster from the rock leaps down
    The torrent stream, as though to greet,
    And stands, like a white column trembling,
    All yearning there.
    And darker yet and truer looks the fir-tree
    Than e'er before.
    And 'twixt the ice-mass and the cold grey stone
    A sudden light breaks forth--
    Such light I once beheld, and marked the sign.

    Even the dead man's eye
    Surely once more grows light,
    When, sorrowful, his child
    Gives him embrace and kiss:
    Surely once more the flame of light
    Wells out, and glowing into life
    The dead eye speaks: "My child!
    Ah child, you know I love you true!"

    So all things glow and speak--the glacier speaks,
    The brook, the fir,
    Speak with their glance the selfsame words:
    We love you true,
    Ah, child, you know we love you, love you true!

    And he,
    Summer, the boy with eyes so hot and weary,
    Woe-worn, gives kisses
    More ardent ever,
    And will not go:
    But like to veils he blows his words
    From out his lips,
    His cruel words:
    "My greeting's parting,
    My coming going,
    In youth I die."

    All round they hearken
    And scarcely breathe
    (No songster sings),
    And shuddering run
    Like gleaming ray
    Over the mountain;
    All round they ponder,--
    Nor speak--

    Twas at the noon,
    At noontide hour, when first
    Into the mountains Summer treads,
    Summer, the boy with eyes so hot and weary.


    'Tis Autumn:--Autumn yet shall break thy heart!
    Fly away! fly away!--
    The sun creeps 'gainst the hill
    And climbs and climbs
    And rests at every step.

    How faded grew the world!
    On weary, slackened strings the wind
    Playeth his tune.
    Fair Hope fled far--
    He waileth after.

    'Tis Autumn:--Autumn yet shall break thy heart!
    Fly away! fly away!
    O fruit of the tree,
    Thou tremblest, fallest?
    What secret whispered unto thee
    The Night,
    That icy shudders deck thy cheek,
    Thy cheek of purple hue?

    Silent art thou, nor dost reply--
    Who speaketh still?--

    'Tis Autumn:--Autumn yet shall break thy heart!
    Fly away! fly away!--
    "I am not fair,"--
    So speaks the lone star-flower,--
    "Yet men I love
    And comfort men--
    Many flowers shall they behold,
    And stoop to me,
    And break me, ah!--
    So that within their eyes shall gleam
    Remembrance swift,
    _Remembrance of far fairer things than I_:--
    I see it--see it--and I perish so."

    'Tis Autumn:--Autumn yet shall break thy heart!
    Fly away! fly away!


    Maiden, in gentle wise
    You stroke your lamb's soft fleece,
    Yet flashing from your eyes
    Both light and flame ne'er cease.
    Creature of merry jest
    And favourite near and far,
    Pious with kindness blest,

    What broke so soon the chain,
    What does your heart deplore?
    And who, pray, would not fain,
    If you loved him, adore?--
    You're mute, but from your eye,
    The tear-drop is not far,
    You're mute: you'll yearn and die,


    "Little Angel" call they me!--
    Now a ship, but once a girl,
    Ah, and still too much a girl!
    My steering-wheel, so bright to see,
    But for sake of love doth whirl.

    "Little Angel" call they me,
    With hundred flags to ornament,
    A captain smart, on glory bent,
    Steers me, puffed with vanity
    (He himself's an ornament).

    "Little Angel" call they me,
    And where'er a little flame
    Gleams for me, I, like a lamb,
    Go my journey eagerly
    (I was always such a lamb!).

    "Little Angel" call they me--
    Think you I can bark and whine
    Like a dog, this mouth of mine
    Throwing smoke and flame full free?
    Ah, a devil's mouth is mine.

    "Little Angel" call they me--
    Once I spoke a bitter word,
    That my lover, when he heard,
    Fast and far away did flee:
    Yes, I killed him with that word!

    "Little Angel" call they me:
    Hardly heard, I sprang so glib
    From the cliff and broke a rib:
    From my frame my soul went free,
    Yes, escaped me through that rib.

    "Little Angel" call they me--
    Then my soul, like cat in flight
    Straight did on this ship alight
    Swiftly bounding--one, two, three!
    Yes, its claws are swift to smite.

    "Little Angel" call they me!--
    Now a ship, but once a girl,
    Ah, and still too much a girl!
    My steering-wheel, so bright to see,
    For sake of love alone doth whirl.


    Yesterday with seventeen years
    Wisdom reached I, a maiden fair,
    I am grey-haired, it appears,
    Now in all things--save my hair.

    Yesterday, I had a thought,
    Was't a thought?--you laugh and scorn!
    Did you ever have a thought?
    Rather was a feeling born.

    Dare a woman think? This screed
    Wisdom long ago begot:
    "Follow woman must, not lead;
    If she thinks, she follows not."

    Wisdom speaks--I credit naught:
    Rather hops and stings like flea:
    "Woman seldom harbours thought;
    If she thinks, no good is she!"

    To this wisdom, old, renowned,
    Bow I in deep reverence:
    Now my wisdom I'll expound
    In its very quintessence.

    A voice spoke in me yesterday
    As ever--listen if you can:
    "Woman is more beauteous aye,
    But more interesting--man!"


    Cave where the dead ones rest,
    O marble falsehood, thee
    I love: for easy jest
    My soul thou settest free.

    To-day, to-day alone,
    My soul to tears is stirred,
    At thee, the pictured stone,
    At thee, the graven word.

    This picture (none need wis)
    I kissed the other day.
    When there's so much to kiss
    Why did I kiss the--clay?

    Who knows the reason why?
    "A tombstone fool!" you laugh:
    I kissed--I'll not deny--
    E'en the long epitaph.


    Hail to thee, Friendship!
    My hope consummate,
    My first red daybreak!
    Alas, so endless
    Oft path and night seemed,
    And life's long road
    Aimless and hateful!
    Now life I'd double
    In thine eyes seeing
    Dawn-glory, triumph,
    Most gracious goddess!


    O'er man and beast I grew so high,
    And speak--but none will give reply.

    Too lone and tall my crest did soar:
    I wait: what am I waiting for?

    The clouds are grown too nigh of late,
    'Tis the first lightning I await.


    Why did ye, blockheads, me awaken
      While I in blissful blindness stood?
    Ne'er I by fear more fell was shaken--
      Vanished my golden dreaming mood.

    Bear-elephants, with trunks all greedy,
      Knock first! Where have your manners fled?
    I threw--and fear has made me speedy--
      Dishes of ripe fruit--at your head.


    (_After a Gipsy Proverb_)

    Here the gallows, there the cord,
      And the hangman's ruddy beard.
    Round, the venom-glancing horde:--
      Nothing new to me's appeared.
    Many times I've seen the sight,
      Now laughing in your face I cry,
    "Hanging me is useless quite:
      Die? Nay, nay, I cannot die!"

    Beggars all! Ye envy me
      Winning what ye never won!
    True, I suffer agony,
      But for you--your life is done.
    Many times I've faced death's plight,
      Yet steam and light and breath am I.
    Hanging me is useless quite:
      Die? Nay, nay, I cannot die!


    "Dearest," said Columbus, "never
      Trust a Genoese again.
    At the blue he gazes ever,
      Distance doth his soul enchain.

    Strangeness is to me too dear--
      Genoa has sunk and passed--
    Heart, be cool! Hand, firmly steer!
      Sea before me: land--at last?

    Firmly let us plant our feet,
      Ne'er can we give up this game--
    From the distance what doth greet?
      One death, one happiness, one fame.


    The cawing crows
    Townwards on whirring pinions roam;
    Soon come the snows--
    Thrice happy now who hath a home!

    Fast-rooted there,
    Thou gazest backwards--oh, how long!
    Thou fool, why dare
    Ere winter come, this world of wrong?

    This world--a gate
    To myriad deserts dumb and hoar!
    Who lost through fate
    What thou hast lost, shall rest no more.

    Now stand'st thou pale,
    A frozen pilgrimage thy doom,
    Like smoke whose trail
    Cold and still colder skies consume.

    Fly, bird, and screech,
    Like desert-fowl, thy song apart!
    Hide out of reach,
    Fool! in grim ice thy bleeding heart.

    Firmly let us plant our feet,
      Ne'er can we give up this game--
    From the distance what doth greet?
      One death, one happiness, one fame.

    The cawing crows
      Townwards on whirring pinions roam:
    Soon come the snows--
      Woe unto him who hath no home!

    _My Answer_

    The man presumes--
      Good Lord!--to think that I'd return
    To those warm rooms
      Where snug the German ovens burn

    My friend, you see
      'Tis but thy folly drives me far,--
    Pity for _thee_
      And all that German blockheads are!


    ON the bridge I stood,
    Mellow was the night,
    Music came from far--
    Drops of gold outpoured
    On the shimmering waves.
    Song, gondolas, light,
    Floated a-twinkling out into the dusk.

    The chords of my soul, moved
    By unseen impulse, throbbed
    Secretly into a gondola song,
    With thrills of bright-hued ecstasy.
    Had I a listener there?

[Footnote 1: Translated by Herman Scheffauer.]

[Footnote 2: Translated by Herman Scheffauer.]

[Footnote 3: This poem was written on the betrothal of one of
Nietzsche's Bâle friends.--TR.]

[Footnote 4: Translated by Herman Scheffauer.]

[Footnote 5: Campo Santo di Staglieno is the cemetery of Staglieno,
near Genoa. The poem was inspired by the sight of a girl
with a lamb on the tombstone, with the words underneath--
"Pia, caritatevole, amorosissima."]

[Footnote 6: Published by Nietzsche himself. The poem was inspired
by a ship that was christened _Angiolina,_ in memory of a
love-sick girl who leapt into the sea.--TR.]

[Footnote 7: See above, p. 157. Both poems were inspired by the same

[Footnote 8: The Genoese is Nietzsche himself, who lived a great
part of his life at Genoa.--TR.]

[Footnote 9: Translated by Herman Scheffauer.]



    He who cannot laugh at this had better not start reading;

    For if he read and do not laugh, physic he'll be needing!


    With jesters it is good to jest:
    Who likes to tickle, is tickled best.


    I dearly love the living word,
    That flies to you like a merry bird,
    Ready with pleasant nod to greet,
    E'en in misfortune welcome, sweet,
    Yet it has blood, can pant you deep:
    Then to the dove's ear it will creep:
    And curl itself, or start for flight--
    Whate'er it does, it brings delight.

    Yet tender doth the word remain,
    Soon it is ill, soon well again:
    So if its little life you'd spare,
    O grasp it lightly and with care,
    Nor heavy hand upon it lay,
    For e'en a cruel glance would slay!
    There it would lie, unsouled, poor thing!
    All stark, all formless, and all cold,
    Its little body changed and battered,
    By death and dying rudely shattered.

    A dead word is a hateful thing,
    A barren, rattling, ting-ting-ting.
    A curse on ugly trades I cry
    That doom all little words to die!


    _A Book_

    You'll ne'er go on nor yet go back?
    Is e'en for chamois here no track?

    So here I wait and firmly clasp
    What eye and hand will let me grasp!

    Five-foot-broad ledge, red morning's breath,
    And under me--world, man, and death!


    This is no book--for such, who looks?
    Coffins and shrouds, naught else, are books!
    What's dead and gone they make their prey,
    Yet in my book lives fresh To-day.

    This is no book--for such, who looks?
    Who cares for coffins, shrouds, and spooks?
    This is a promise, an act of will,
    A last bridge-breaking, for good or ill;
    A wind from sea, an anchor light,
    A whirr of wheels, a steering right.
    The cannon roars, white smokes its flame,
    The sea--the monster--laughs and scents its game.


    He who has much to tell, keeps much
      Silent and unavowed.
    He who with lightning-flash would touch
      Must long remain a cloud!


    Is this your Book of Sacred Lore,
    For blessing, cursing, and such uses?--
    Come, come now: at the very door
    God some one else's wife seduces?


    "O Peuple des meillures Tartuffes,
    To you I'm true, I wis."
    He spoke, but in the swiftest skiff
    Went to Cosmopolis.


    A fool this honest Britisher
    Was not ... But a Philosopher!
      As _that_ you really rate him?
    Set Darwin up by Goethe's side?
    But majesty you thus deride--
      _Genii majestatem_!

    To HAFIZ

    (_Toast Question of a Water-Drinker_)

    What you have builded, yonder inn,
      O'ertops all houses high:
    The posset you have brewed therein
      The world will ne'er drink dry.
    The bird that once appeared on earth
      As phœnix, is your, guest.
    The mouse that gave a mountain birth
      Is you yourself confessed!
    You're all and naught, you're inn and wine,
      You're phœnix, mountain, mouse.
    Back to yourself to come you pine
      Or fly from out your house.
    Downward from every height you've sunk,
      And in the depths still shine:
    The drunkenness of all the drunk,
      Why do you ask for--wine?


    Of "All in One" a fervent devotee
    _Amore Dei,_ of reasoned piety,
    Doff shoes! A land thrice holy this must be!--
    Yet underneath this love there sate
    A torch of vengeance, burning secretly
    The Hebrew God was gnawed by Hebrew hate.
    Hermit! Do I aright interpret thee?


    That which he taught, has had its day,
    That which he lived, shall live for aye:
    Look at the man! No bondsman he!
    Nor e'er to mortal bowed his knee!


    O You who chafe at every fetter's link,
    A restless spirit, never free:
    Who, though victorious aye, in bonds still cowered,
    Disgusted more and more, and flayed and scoured,
    Till from each cup of balm you poison drink,
    Alas! and by the Cross all helpless sink,
    You too, you too, among the overpowered!

    For long I watched this play so weirdly shaped,
    Breathing an air of prison, vault, and dread,
    With churchly fragrance, clouds of incense spread,
    And yet I found all strange/in terror gaped.
    But now I throw my fool's cap o'er my head,
    For I escaped!


    All that my eagle e'er saw clear,
    I see and feel in heart to-day
    (Although my hope was wan and gray)
    Thy song like arrow pierced mine ear,
    A balm to touch, a balm to hear,
    As down from heaven it winged its way.

    So now for lands of southern fire
    To happy isles where Grecian nymphs hold sport!
    Thither now turn the ship's desire--
    No ship e'er sped to fairer port.


    A riddle here--can you the answer scent?
    "When man discovers, woman must invent."----


    You stole, your eye's not clear to-day.
    You only stole a thought, sir? nay,
    Why be so rudely modest, pray?
    Here, take another handful--stay,
    Take all I have, you swine--you may
    Eat till your filth is purged away.


    Be of good cheer,
    Friend Yorick! If this thought gives pain,
    As now it does, I fear,
    Is it not "God"? And though in error lain,
    'Tis but your own dear child,
    Your flesh and blood,
    That tortures you and gives you pain,
    Your little rogue and do-no-good,
    See if the rod will change its mood!

    In brief, friend Yorick, leave that drear
    Philosophy--and let me now
    Whisper one word as medicine,
    My own prescription, in your ear,
    My remedy against such spleen--
    "Who loves his God, chastises him, I ween,"


    I should be wise to suit my mood,
    Not at the beck of other men:
    God made as stupid as he could
    The world--well, let me praise him then.

    And if I make not straight my track,
    But, far as may be, wind and bend,
    That's how the sage begins his tack,
    And that is how the fool will--end.

         *     *     *     *     *

    The world stands never still,
    Night loves the glowing day--
    Sweet sounds to ear "I will!"
    And sweeter still "I may!"


    Addressing me most bashfully,
      A woman to-day said this:
    "What would you be like in ecstasy,
      If sober you feel such bliss?"


    Laughter is a serious art.
    I would do it better daily.
    Did I well to-day or no?
    Came the spark right from the heart?
    Little use though head wag gaily,
    If the heart contain no glow.

[Footnote 1: Translated by Francis Bickley.]

[Footnote 2: On the title-page of a copy of _Joyful Wisdom,_ dedicated
to Herr August Bungal.--TR.]

[Footnote 3: Translated by Francis Bickley.]

[Footnote 4: Translated by Francis Bickley.]

[Footnote 5: Probably written for Peter Gast, Nietzsche's faithful
friend, and a musician whose "Southern" music Nietzsche

[Footnote 6: Translated by Francis Bickley.]



These are the songs of Zarathustra which he sang to
himself so as to endure his last solitude.


    Ten years passed by--
    Not a drop reached me,
    No rain-fraught wind, no dew of love
    --A rainless land....
    Now entreat I my wisdom
    Not to become stingy in this drought;
    Overflow thyself, trickle thy dew,
    Be thyself the rain of the parched wilderness!

    I once bade the clouds
    Depart from my mountains;
    Once I said to them,
    "More light, ye dark ones!"
    To-day I entice them to come:
    Make me dark with your udders:
    --I would milk you,
    Ye cows of the heights!
    Milk-warm wisdom, sweet dew of love
    I pour over the land.

    Away, away, ye truths
    That look so gloomy!
    I will not have on my mountains
    Bitter, impatient truths.
    May truth approach me to-day
    Gilded by smiles,
    Sweetened by the sun, browned by love,--
    A ripe truth I would fain break off from the tree.

    To-day I stretch my hands
    Toward the tresses of chance,
    Wise enough to lead,
    To outwit chance like a child.
    To-day I will be hospitable
    'Gainst the unwelcome,
    'Gainst destiny itself I will not be prickly....
    --Zarathustra is no hedgehog.

    My soul,
    Insatiable with its tongue,
    Has already tasted of all things good and evil,
    And has dived into all depths.
    But ever, like the cork,
    It swims to the surface again,
    And floats like oil upon brown seas:
    Because of this soul men call me fortunate.

    Who are my father and mother?
    Is not my father Prince Plenty?
    And my mother Silent Laughter?
    Did not the union of these two
    Beget me, the enigmatic beast--
    Me, the monster of light--
    Me, Zarathustra, the squanderer of all wisdom?

    Sick to-day from tenderness,
    A dewy wind,
    Zarathustra sits waiting, waiting on his mountains--
    Sweet and stewing
    In his own juice,
    Beneath his own summit,
    Beneath his ice,
    Weary and happy,
    A Creator on his seventh day.

    A truth passes over me
    Like a cloud,--
    With invisible lightnings it strikes me,
    On broad, slow stairs,
    Its happiness climbs to me:
    Come, come, beloved truth!

    'Tis _my_ truth!
    From timid eyes,
    From velvet shudders,
    Her glance meets mine,
    Sweet and wicked, a maiden's glance.
    She has guessed the reason of my happiness,
    She has guessed me--ha! what is she thinking?
    A purple dragon
    Lurks in the abyss of her maiden's glance.

    --Silence! My truth is speaking!--

    "Woe to thee, Zarathustra!
    Thou lookest like one
    That hath swallowed gold:
    They will slit up thy belly yet!

    Thou art too rich,
    Thou corrupter of many!
    Thou makest too many jealous,
    Too many poor....
    Even on me thy light casts a shadow--
    I feel chill: go away, thou rich one
    Go away, Zarathustra, from the path of thy sun


    Who would here descend,
    How soon
    Is he swallowed up by the depths!
    But thou, Zarathustra,
    Still lovest the abysses,
    Lovest them as doth the fir tree!

    The fir flings its roots
    Where the rock itself gazes
    Shuddering at the depths,--
    The fir pauses before the abysses
    Where all around
    Would fain descend:
    Amid the impatience
    Of wild, rolling, leaping torrents
    It waits so patient, stern and silent,

    Who would venture
    Here to be guest--
    To be thy guest?

    A bird of prey, perchance
    Joyous at others' misfortune,
    Will cling persistent
    To the hair of the steadfast watcher,
    With frenzied laughter,
    A vulture's laughter....

    Wherefore so steadfast?
    --Mocks he so cruel:
    He must have wings, who loves the abyss,
    He must not stay on the cliff,
    As thou who hangest there!--

    O Zarathustra,
    Cruellest Nimrod!
    Of late still a hunter of God,
    A spider's web to capture virtue,
    An arrow of evil!
    Hunted by thyself,
    Thine own prey
    Caught in the grip of thine own soul.

    Lonely to me and thee,
    Twofold in thine own knowledge,
    Mid a hundred mirrors
    False to thyself,
    Mid a hundred memories
    Weary at every wound,
    Shivering at every frost,
    Throttled in thine own noose,

    Why didst bind thyself
    With the noose of thy wisdom?
    Why luredst thyself
    Into the old serpent's paradise?
    Why stolest into
    Thyself, thyself?...

    A sick man now,
    Sick of serpent's poison,
    A captive now
    Who hast drawn the hardest lot:
    In thine own shaft
    Bowed as thou workest,
    In thine own cavern
    Digging at thyself,
    Helpless quite,
    A cold corse
    Overwhelmed with a hundred burdens,
    Overburdened by thyself,
    A knower!
    A self-knower!
    The wise Zarathustra!...

    Thou soughtest the heaviest burden,
    So foundest thou thyself,
    And canst not shake thyself off....

    One that stands upright no more!
    Thou wilt grow deformed even in thy grave,
    Deformed spirit!

    And of late still so proud
    On all the stilts of thy pride!
    Of late still the godless hermit,
    The hermit with one comrade--the devil,
    The scarlet prince of every devilment!...

    Between two nothings
    Huddled up,
    A question-mark,
    A weary riddle,
    A riddle for vultures....
    They will "solve" thee,
    They hunger already for thy "solution,"
    They flutter already about their "riddle,"
    About thee, the doomed one!
    O Zarathustra,



    Not much longer thirstest thou,
    O burnt-up heart!
    Promise is in the air,
    From unknown mouths I feel a breath,
    --The great coolness comes....
    My sun stood hot above me at noonday:
    A greeting to you that are coming,
    Ye sudden winds,
    Ye cool spirits of afternoon!

    The air is strange and pure.
    See how the night
    Leers at me with eyes askance,
    Like a seducer!...
    Be strong, my brave heart,
    And ask not "Why?"


    The day of my life!
    The sun sinks,
    And the calm flood
    Already is gilded.
    Warm breathes the rock:
    Did happiness at noonday
    Take its siesta well upon it?
    In green light
    Happiness still glimmers up from the brown abyss

    Day of my life!
    Eventide's nigh,
    Thy eye already
    Glows half-broken,
    Thy dew already
    Pours out its tear-drops,
    Already over the white seas
    Walks the purple of thy love,
    Thy last hesitating holiness....


    Golden gaiety, come!
    Thou, the sweetest foretaste--
    Foretaste of death!
    --Went I my way too swiftly?
    Now that the foot grows weary,
    Thine eye still catches me,
    Thy happiness still catches me.

    Around but waves and play.
    Whatever was hard
    --Sank into blue oblivion.
    My boat now stands idle.
    Storm and motion--how did it forget them!
    Desire and Hope are drowned,
    Sea and soul are becalmed.

    Seventh Solitude!
    Never felt!
    Sweet certainty nearer,
    Or warmer the sun's ray.
    --Glows not the ice of my summit yet?
    Silvery, light, a fish
    Now my vessel swims out....


    So would I die
    As then I saw him die,
    The friend, who like a god
    Into my darkling youth
    Threw lightning's light and fire:
    Buoyant yet deep was he,
    Yea, in the battle's strife
    With the gay dancer's heart.

    Amid the warriors
    His was the lightest heart,
    Amid the conquerors
    His brow was dark with thought--
    He was a fate poised on his destiny:
    Unbending, casting thought into the past
    And future, such was he.

    Fearful beneath the weight of victory,
    Yet chanting, as both victory and death
    Came hand and hand to him.

    Commanding even as he lay in death,
    And his command that man annihilate.

    So would I die
    As then I saw him die,
    Victorious and destroying.


    Here, where the island grew amid the seas,
    A sacrificial rock high-towering,
    Here under darkling heavens,
    Zarathustra lights his mountain-fires,
    A beacon for ships that have strayed,
    A beacon for them that have an answer!...

    These flames with grey-white belly,
    In cold distances sparkle their desire,
    Stretches its neck towards ever purer heights--
    A snake upreared in impatience:
    This signal I set up there before me.
    This flame is mine own soul,
    Insatiable for new distances,
    Speeding upward, upward its silent heat.

    Why flew Zarathustra from beasts and men?
    Why fled he swift from all continents?
    Six solitudes he knows already--
    But even the sea was not lonely enough for him,
    On the island he could climb, on the mount he
        became flame,
    At the seventh solitude
    He casts a fishing-rod far o'er his head.

    Storm-tossed seamen! Wreckage of ancient stars
    Ye seas of the future! Uncompassed heavens!
    At all lonely ones I now throw my fishing-rod.
    Give answer to the flame's impatience,
    Let me, the fisher on high mountains,
    Catch my seventh, last solitude!----



    Speak, tell me, how long wilt thou brood
    Upon this adverse fate of thine?
    Beware, lest from thy doleful mood
    A countenance _90_ dark is brewed
    That men in seeing thee divine
    A hate more bitter than the brine.
        *     *     *     *
    Speak, why does Zarathustra roam
    Upon the towering mountain-height?
    Distrustful, cankered, dour, his home
    Is shut so long from human sight?
        *     *     *     *
    See, suddenly flames forth a lightning-flash,
    The pit profound with thunderous challenge fights
    Against the heavens, midst clamorous crack and crash
    Of the great mountain! Cradled in the heights,
    Born as the fruit of hate and lightning's love,
    The wrath of Zarathustra dwells above
    And looms with menace of a thundercloud.
        *     *     *     *
    Ye, who have roofs, go quickly, creep and hide!
    To bed, ye tenderlings! For thunders loud
    Upon the blasts of storm triumphant ride,
    And bastions and ramparts sway and rock,

    The lightning sears the dusky face of night,
    And eerie truths like gleams of Hades mock
    The sense familiar. So in storm breaks forth
    The flaming curse of Zarathustra's wrath.


    This fame, which all the wide world loves,
    I touch with gloves,
    And scorning beat
    Beneath my feet.
        *     *     *     *
    Who hanker after the pay of it?
    Who cast themselves in the way of it?
    These prostitutes to gold,
    These merchant folk. They fold
    Their unctuous palms over the jingling fame,
    Whose ringing chink wins all the world's acclaim.
        *     *     *     *
    Hast thou the lust to buy? It needs no skill.
    They are all venal. Let thy purse be deep,
    And let their greedy paws unhindered creep
    Into its depths. So let them take their fill,
    For if thou dost not offer them enough,
    Their "virtue" they'll parade, to hide their huff.
        *     *     *     *
    They are all virtuous, yea every one.
    Virtue and fame are ever in accord
    So long as time doth run,

    The tongues that prate of virtue as reward
    Earn fame. For virtue is fame's clever bawd.
        *     *     *     *
    Amongst these virtuous, I prefer to be
    One guilty of all vile and horrid sin!
    And when I see fame's importunity
    So advertise her shameless harlotry,
    Ambition turns to gall. Amidst such kin
    One place alone, the lowest, would I win.
        *     *     *     *
    This fame, which all the wide world loves,
    I touch with gloves,
    And scorning beat
    Beneath my feet.


    Hush! I see vastness!--and of vasty things
    Shall man be dumb, unless he can enshrine
    Them with his words? Then take the might which brings
    The heart upon thy tongue, charmed wisdom mine!
        *     *     *     *
    I look above, there rolls the star-strown sea.
    O night, mute silence, voiceless cry of stars!
    And lo! A sign! The heaven its verge unbars--
    A shining constellation falls towards me.


    O loftiest, star-clustered crown of Being!
    O carved tablets of Eternity!
    And dost thou truly bend thy way to me?
    Thy loveliness, to all--obscurity,
    What? Fear'st not to unveil before _my_ seeing?
        *     *     *     *
    O shield of Destiny!
    O carven tablets of Eternity!
    Yea, verily, thou knowest--what mankind doth hate,
    What I alone do love: thou art inviolate
    To strokes of change and time, of fates the fate!
    'Tis only thou, O dire Necessity,
    Canst kindle everlasting love in me!
        *     *     *     *
    O loftiest crown of Life! O shield of Fate!
    That no desire can reach to invocate,
    That ne'er defiled or sullied is by Nay,
    Eternal Yea of life, for e'er am I thy Yea:
    For I love thee, Eternity!

[Footnote 1: Translated by Dr. G. T. Wrench.]

[Footnote 2: Translated by Dr. G. T. Wrench.]





    My home's in the highlands,
    For the highlands I yearn not,
    I raise not mine eyes aloft:
    I am one that looks downward,
    One that must bless,--All
    blessers look downward.


    Thus I began,
    I unlearned all self-pity!


    Not in shattering idols,
    But in shattering the idol-worshipper in thee,
    Consisted thy valour.


    See, there stand
    Those heavy cats of granite,
    Those old, old Values.
    Woe is me! How overthrow them?
       *   *   *   *
    Scratching cats,
    With paws that are fettered,
    There they sit
    And their glance is poison.


    A lightning-flash became my wisdom:
    With sword of adamant it clove me every


    A thought that still
    Flows hot, like lava:
    But all streams of lava
    Build a fortress around them,
    And every thought finally
    Oppresses itself with laws.


    Such is my will:
    And since 'tis my will,
    All goes as I wish--
    That was my final wisdom:
    I willed what I must,
    And thus I forced every "must,"--
    Since then has been for me no "must."


    Is war's whole art
    The fox's skin
    Is my secret shirt of mail


    We of the new underworld
    Grub for new treasures.
    Godless it seemed to the ancients
    To disturb the earth's bowels for treasures
    And once more this godlessness revives,
    Hear ye not earth's bowels thunder?


    Looking for love and finding masks,
    Finding accursed masks and having to break them!


    Do I love you?
    Yes, as the rider loves his steed,
    That carryeth him to his goal.


    His pity is cruel,
    His loving hand-clasp bruises,
    Give not a giant your hand!


    Ye fear me?
    Ye fear the taut-strung bow?
    Ye fear a man might set his arrow to the bow?


    I am naught but a word-maker.
    What matter words?
    What matter I?


    Ah, my friends,
    Whither has flown all that is called "good"?
    Whither all good people?
    Whither the innocence of all these falsehoods?
    I call all good,
    Leaves and grass, happiness, blessing, and rain.


    Not through his sins and greatest follies.
    Through his perfection I suffered,
    As I suffered most from men.[1]


    "Man is evil."
    So spake the wisest
    For my consolement.


    And only when I to myself am a burden
    Do ye fall heavy upon me!


    Too soon, already
    I laugh again:
    For a foe 'tis easy
    To make me amends.


    Gentle am I towards man and chance;
    Gentle with all men, and even with grasses:
    A spot of sunshine on winter curtains,
    Moist with tenderness,
    A thawing wind to snow-bound souls:
        *    *    *    *
    Proud-minded towards trifling
    Gains, where I see the huckster's long finger,
    'Tis aye my pleasure
    To be bamboozled:
    Such is the bidding of my fastidious taste.


    A strange breath breathes and spits at me,
    Am I a mirror, that straightway is clouded?


    Little people,
    Confiding, open-hearted,
    But low-built portals,
    Where only the low of stature can enter.
        *    *    *    *
    How can I get through the city-gate
    Who had forgotten to live among dwarfs?


    My wisdom was like to the sun,
    I longed to give them light,
    But I only deceived them.
    The sun of my wisdom
    Blinded the eyes
    Of these poor bats....


    Blacker and eviller things didst thou see than ever
        a seer did:
    Through the revels of Hell no sage had ever


    Back! on my heels too closely ye follow!
    Back! lest my wisdom should tread on you, crush


    "He goes to hell who goes thy ways!"
    So be it I to my hell
    I'll pave the way myself with well-made maxims.


    Your God, you tell me,
    Is a God of love?
    The sting of conscience
    A sting from God?
    A sting of love?


    They chew gravel,
    They lie on their bellies
    Before little round things,
    They adore all that falleth not down--
    These last servants of God
    Believers (in reality)!


    They made their God out of nothing,
    What wonder if now he is naught?


    Ye loftier men! There have once been
    More thoughtful times, more reflective,
    Than is our to-day and to-morrow.

    Our time is like a sick woman--
    Let her but shriek, rave, scold,
    And break the tables and dishes!


    Ye mount?
    Is it true that ye mount,
    Ye loftier men?

    Are ye not, pray,
    Like to a ball
    Sped to the heights
    By the lowest that's in you?
    Do ye not flee from yourselves, O ye climbers?


    All that you thought
    You had to despise,
    Where you only renounced!


    All men repeat the refrain!
    No, no, and thrice say No!
    What's all this yap-yap talk of heaven?
    We would not enter the kingdom of heaven,
    The kingdom of earth shall be ours?


    The will redeemeth,
    He that has nothing to do
    In a Nothing finds food for trouble.


    You cannot endure it more,
    Your tyrannous destiny,
    Love it--you're given no choice!


    These alone free us from woes
    (Choose now I)
    Sudden death
    Or long-drawn-out love.


    Of death we are sure,
    So why not be merry?


    The worst of pleas
    I have hidden from you--that life grew tedious!
    Throw it away, that ye find it again to your taste!


    Lonely days,
    Ye must walk on valorous feet!


    Plants naught, it ripens....
    And even then you must have the sun for your


    Once more must ye plunge in the throng--In
    the throng ye grow hard and smooth.
    Solitude withers
    And lastly destroys.--


    When on the hermit comes the great fear;
    When he runs and runs
    And knows not whither;
    When the storms roar behind
    And the lightning bears witness against him,
    And his cavern breeds spectres
    And fills him with dread.


    Throw thy pain in the depths,
    Man, forget! Man, forget!
    Divine is the art of forgetting!
    Wouldst fly?
    Wouldst feel at home in the heights?
    Throw thy heaviest load in the sea!
    Here is the sea, hurl thyself in the sea!
    Divine is the art of forgetting!


    Look forward, never look back!
    We sink to the depths
    If we peer ever into the depths.


    Beware, beware
    Of warning the reckless!
    Thy warning will drive them
    To leap into every abyss!


    Why hurled he himself from the heights?
    What led him astray?
    His pity for all that is lowly led him astray,
    And now he lies there, broken, useless, and cold.


    Whither went he? Who knows?
    We only know that he sank.
    A star went out in the desolate void,
    And lone was the void.


    What we have not
    But need,
    We must take.
    And so a good conscience I took.


    Who is there that could bestow right upon thee?
    So take thy right!


    O ye waves,
    Wondrous waves, are ye wroth with me?
    Do ye raise me your crests in wrath?
    With my rudder I smite
    Your folly full square.
    This bark ye yourselves
    To immortal life will carry along.


    When no new voice was heard,
    Ye made from old words
    A law:
    When life grows stark, there shoots up the law.


    What none can refute
    Ye say must be true?
    Oh, ye innocents!


    Art thou strong?
    Strong as an ass? Strong as God?
    Art thou proud?
    So proud as to flaunt
    Unashamed thy conceit?


    And ne'er beat the drum
    Of thy destiny I
    Go out of the way
    From all pom-pom of fame!
        *    *    *    *
    Be not known too soon!
    Be one that has hoarded renown!


    Wilt thou grasp at the thorns?
    Thy fingers must pay.
    Grasp at a poniard.


    Be a tablet of gold,
    They will grave upon thee
    In golden script.


    Upright he stands
    With more sense of "justice"
    In his outermost toe
    Than I have in all my head.
    A virtue-monster
    Mantled in white.


    Already he mimics himself,
    Already weary he grows,
    Already he seeks the paths he has trod--
    Who of late still loved all tracks untrodden!

    Secretly burnt--
    Not for his faith,
    Rather because he had lost the heart
    To find new faith.


    Too long he sat in the cage,
    That runaway!
    Too long he dreaded
    A gaoler!

    Timorous now he goeth his ways,
    All things make him to stumble--
    The shadow e'en of a stick makes him to stumble.


    Ye chambers smoky and musty,
    Ye cages and narrow hearts,
    How could your spirit be free?


    Narrow souls!
    When money leaps into the box
    The soul leaps into it too![2]


    Are ye women,
    That ye wish to suffer
    From that which ye love?


    They are cold, these men of learning!
    Would that a lightning-flash might strike their food,
    And their mouths could learn to eat fire!


    Your false love
    For the past,
    A love for the graves of the dead,
    Is a theft from life
    That steals all the future.
        *    *    *    *
    An antiquary
    Is a craftsman of dead things,
    Who lives among coffins and skeletons.


    Only the poet who can lie
    Wilfully, skilfully,
    Can tell the truth.


    Our chase after truth,
    Is't a chase after happiness?


    Is a woman, no better,
    Cunning in her shame:
    Of what she likes best
    She will know naught,
    And covers her face....
    To what doth she yield
    But to violence?
    Violence she needs.
    Be hard, ye sages!
    Ye must compel her,
    That shamefaced Truth....
    For her happiness
    She needs constraint--She
    is a woman, no better.


    We thought evil of each other?
    We were too distant,
    But now in this tiny hut,
    Pinned to one destiny,
    How could we still be foes?
    We must needs love those
    Whom we cannot escape.


    Love thy foe,
    Let the robber rob thee:
    The woman hears and--does it.


    A proud eye
    With silken curtains,
    Seldom clear,
    Honours him that may see it unveiled.


    Sluggard eyes
    That seldom love--
    But when they love, the levin flashes
    As from shafts of gold
    Where a dagger keeps guard at the treasure of love.


    They are crabs, for whom I have no fellow-feeling.
    Grasp them, they pinch you;
    Leave them alone, and they walk backward.


    Crooked go great rivers and men,
    Crooked, but turned to their goal;
    That is their highest courage,
    They dreaded not crooked paths.


    Wouldst catch them?
    Then speak to them
    As to stray sheep:
    "Your path, your path
    You have lost!"
    They follow all
    That flatter them so:
    "What? had we a path?"
    Each whispers the other:
    "It really seems that we have a path."

[The numbering given corresponds to that of the original,
several fragments having been omitted.--TR.]

[Footnote 1: Nietzsche here alludes to Christian perfection, which he
considers equivalent to harmlessness.--TR.]

[Footnote 2: Alluding to the saying of the Dominican monk Tetzel,
who sold indulgences in the time of Luther: "When money
leaps into the box, the soul leaps from hell to heaven!"--TR.]


_For Chorus and Orchestra._

[Illustration: score and lyrics]

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