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01 - Why I Am So Wise - Ecce Homo - Friedrich Nietzsche · Logic Library

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Why I am so wise one. The happiness of my existence, its unique
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character, perhaps consists in its faithfulness to speak in a riddle. As my
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own father, I am already dead, as my own mother, I still
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live and grow old. This double origin taken as it were, from the
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highest and lowest wrongs of a ladder of life, at once a decadent and
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a beginning. This, if anything, explains that neutrality, that freedom from
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partisanship in regard to the general problem of existence, which perhaps distinguishes me to
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the first indications of ascending or of descending life. My nostrils are more sensitive
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than those of any man that has yet lived in this domain. I am
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a master to my backbone. I know both sides, for I am both
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sides. My father died in his sixth and thirtieth year. He was delicate,
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lovable, and morbid, like one who is preordained to pay simply a
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flying visit, a greatest reminder of life rather than life itself. In the
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same year that his life declined, mine also declined. In my six and
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thirtieth year, I reached the lowest point of my vitality. I still lived,
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but my eyes could distinguish nothing that lay three paces away from me.
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At that time. It was the year eighteen seventy nine. I resigned my
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professorship at Bale, lived through the summer like a shadow in Saint Moritz,
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and spent the following winter the most sunless of my life, like a shadow
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in Naumberg. This was my lowest ebb. During this period I wrote The
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Wanderer and His Shadow without a doubt I was conversant with shadows. Then the
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winter that followed my first winter in Genoa brought forth that sweetness and spirituality which
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is almost inseparable from extreme poverty of blood and muscle. In the shape of
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the dawn of day, the perfect lucidity and cheerfulness. The intellectual exuberance even
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that this work reflects coincides in my case not only with the most profound physiological
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weakness, but also with an excess of suffering. In the midst of the
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agony of a headache which lasted three days, accompanied by violent nausea, I
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was possessed of most single, regular, dialectical clearness, and in absolutely cold
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blood. I then thought out things for which, in my more healthy moments,
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I am not enough of a climber, not sufficiently subtle not sufficiently cold.
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My readers perhaps know to what extent I consider dialectic a symptom of decadence,
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as for instance, in the most famous of all cases, the case
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of Socrates. All the morbid disturbances of the intellect, even the semi stupor
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which accompanies fever, have and to this day, remained completely unknown to me,
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and from my first information concerning their nature and frequency, I was obliged
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to have recourse to the learned works which have been compiled on the subject.
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My circulation is slow. No one has ever been able to detect fever in
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me. A doctor who treated me for some time as a nerve patient finally
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declared, no, there is nothing wrong with your nerves. It is simply
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I who I am nervous. It has been absolutely impossible to ascertain any local
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degeneration in me, nor any organic stomach trouble. However much I may have
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suffered from profound weakness of the gastric system as the result of general exhaustion.
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Even my eye trouble, which sometimes approached so perlously near to blindness, was
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only an effect and not a cause. For whenever my general vital condition improved,
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my power of vision also increased. Having admitted all this, do I
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need to say that I am experienced in questions of decadence. I know them
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inside and out. Even that filigree art of prehension and comprehension in general,
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that feeling for delicate shades of difference, that psychology of seeing through brick walls,
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and whatever else I may be able to do, was first learned then,
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and is the specific gift of that period during which everything in me was
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subtalized observation itself, together with all the organs of observation, to look upon
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healthier concepts and values from the standpoint of the sick, and conversely, to
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look down upon the secret work of the instincts of decadence from the standpoint of
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him who is laden and self reliant with the richness of life. This has
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been my longest exercise, my principal experience. If in anything at all,
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it was in this that I became a master. Today my hand knows the
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trick. I now have the knack or of reversing perspectives. The first reason
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perhaps why a transvaluation of all values has been possible to me alone two four.
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Apart from the fact that I am a decadent, I am also the
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reverse of such a creature. Among other things. My proof of this is
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that I always instinctively select the proper remedy when my spiritual or bodily health is
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low, whereas the decadent as such invariably chooses those remedies which are bad for
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him. As a whole. I was sound, but in certain details I
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was a decadent. That energy with which I sentenced myself to absolute solitude and
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to a severance from all those conditions in life to which I had grown accustomed,
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my discipline of myself, and my refusal to allow myself to be pampered,
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to be tended hand and foot, and to be doctored. All this
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portrays the absolute certainty of my instincts respecting what at the time was most needful
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to me. I placed myself in my own hands. I restored myself to
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health. The first condition of success in such an undertaking, as every physiologist
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will admit, is that at bottom a man should be sound. An intrinsically
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morbid nature cannot become healthy. On the other hand, to an intrinsically sound
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nature, illness may even constitute a powerful stimulus to life, to a surplus
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of life It is in this light that I now regard the long period of
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illness that I endured. It seemed as if I had discovered life afresh,
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my own self included. I tasted all good things and even trifles, in
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a way in which it was not easy for others to taste them. Out
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of my will to health and to life, I made my philosophy. For
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this should be thoroughly understood. It was during those years in which my vitality
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reached its lowest point that I ceased from being a pessimist. The instinct of
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self recovery forbade my holding to a philosophy of poverty and desperation. Now,
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by what signs are nature's lucky strokes recognized among men? Are recognized by the
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fact that any such lucky stroke gladdens our senses. That he is carved from
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one integral block, which is hard, sweet, and fragrant. As well,
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he enjoys that only which is good for him his pleasure. His desire
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ceases when the limits of that which is good for him are overstepped. He
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divines remedies for injuries. He knows how to turn serious accidents to his own
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advantage. That which does not kill him makes him stronger. He instinctively gathers
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his material from all he sees, hears, and experiences. He is a
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selective principle. He rejects much. He is always in his own company,
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whether his intercourse be with books, with men, or with natural scenery.
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He honors the things he chooses, the things he acknowledg, the things he
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trusts. He reacts slowly to all kinds of stimuli, with that tardiness which
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long caution and deliberate pride have bred in him. He tests the approaching stimulus.
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He would not dream of meeting it half way. He believes neither in
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ill, luck nor guilt, he can digest himself and others. He knows
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how to forget. He is strong enough to make everything turn to his own
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advantage. Lo, then, I am the very reverse of a decadent,
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For he whom I have just described is none other than myself. Three.
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This double thread of experiences, this means of access to two worlds that seem
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so far asunder finds in every detail its counterpart. In my own nature.
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I am my own compliment. I have a second sight as well as a
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first, and perhaps I also have a third sight. By the very nature
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of my origin, I was allowed an outlook beyond all merely local, merely
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national, and limited horizons. It required no effort on my part to be
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a good European. On the other hand, I am perhaps more German than
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modern Germans. Mere imperial Germans can hope to be I the last anti political
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German. Be this as it may, my ancestors were Polish noblemen. It
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is owing to them that I have so much race instinct in my blood.
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Who knows, perhaps even the liberum vito translator's footnote, the right to which
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every Polish deputy, whether a great order inferior nobleman, possessed of forbidding the
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passing of any measure by the diet was called in Poland the liberum veto in
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Polish naiposvalum, and brought all legislation to a standstill. And translator's note.
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When I think of the number of times in my travels that I have been
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accosted as a Pole, even by Poles themselves, and how seldom I have
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been taken for a German, it seems to me as if I belonged to
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those only who have a sprinkling of German in them. But my mother,
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Francisca Ochler, is at any rate something very German, as is also my
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paternal grandmother Edmuth Krauss. The latter spent the whole of our youth in good
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old Weimar, not without coming into contact with Gerte's circle. Her brother Krauss,
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the professor of theology in Koenigsberg, was called to the post of General
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Superintendent at Weimar after Herder's death. It is not unlikely that her mother,
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my great grandmother, is mentioned in young Gerta's diary under the name of Mirthgen.
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She married twice, and her second husband was Superintendent Nietzsche of Ellenburg.
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In eighteen thirteen, the year of the Great War, when a Napoleon with
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his general staff entered Ellenburg on the tenth of October, she gave birth to
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a son, as a daughter of Saxony. She was a great admirer of
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Napoleon, and maybe I am so still. My father, born in eighteen
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thirteen, died in eighteen forty nine. Previous to taking over the past ship
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of the parish of Rocken, not far from Ludzen, he lived for some
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years at the castle of Altenburg, where he had charge of the education of
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the four Princesses. His pupils are the Queen of Hanover, the Grand Duchess
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Constantine, the Grand Duchess of Oldenburg, and the Princess Theresa of Saxe Altenburg.
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He was full of royal respect for the Prussian King Friederic William four,
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from whom he obtained his living at Rocken. The events of eighteen forty eight
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saddened him extremely. As I was born on the fifteenth of October, the
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birthday of the king above mentioned, I naturally received the Johenzolen names of Friederic
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William. There was at all events one advantage in the choice of this day,
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my birthday. Throughout the whole of my child that was a day of
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public rejoicing. I regard it as a great privilege to have had such a
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father. It even seems to me that this embraces all that I can claim
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in the matter of privileges life, the great yay to life. Accept it.
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What I owe to him above all is this that I do not need
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any special intention, but merely a little patience in order involuntarily to enter a
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world of higher and more delicate things. There I am at home. There
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alone does my inmost passion become free. The fact that I have had to
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pay for this privilege almost with my life certainly does not make it a bad
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bargain. In order to understand even a little of my Zarathustra, perhaps a
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man must be situated and constituted very much as I am myself with one foot
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beyond the realm of a living four. I have never understood the art of
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arousing ill feeling against myself. This is also something for which I have to
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thank my incomparable father, even when it seemed to him highly desirable to do
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so. However unchristian it may seem, I do not even bear any ill
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feeling towards myself. Turn my life about as you may, you will find
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but seldom, perhaps indeed, only once, any trace of some one's having
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shown me ill will you might perhaps discover. However, too many traces of
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good will. My experiences, even with those on whom every other man has
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burnt his fingers, speak without exception in their favor. I tame every bear.
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I can even make clowns behave decently. During the seven years in which
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I taught Greek to the sixth form of the college in Balah, I never
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had occasion to administer a punishment. The laziest youths were diligent in my class,
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the unexpected has always found me equal to it. I must be unprepared
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in order to keep myself command whatever the instrument was, even if it were
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as out of tune as the instrument man can possibly be. It was only
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when I was ill that I could not succeed in making it express something that
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was worth hearing. And how often have I not been told by the instruments
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themselves that they have never heard their voices express such beautiful things. This was
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said to me most delightfully, perhaps by that young fellow, Heinrich von Stein,
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who died at such an unpardonably early age, and who, after having
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considerately asked leave to do so, once appeared in sils Maria for a three
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days sojourn, telling everybody there that it was not for the Engerdine that he
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had come this excellent person, who, with all the impetuous simplicity of a
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young Prussian nobleman, had waded deep into the swamp of a Wagnerism and into
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that of Deringism. Into the bargain translator's footnote. Eugen During is a philosopher
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and political economist, whose general doctrine might be characterized as a sort of abstract
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materialism with an optimistic coloring, and translated his notes seemed to almost transformed during
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these three days by a hurricane of freedom, like one who has been suddenly
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raised to his full height and given wings. Again and again, I said
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to him that this was all owing to the splendid air. Everybody felt the
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same. One could not stand six thousand feet above by right for nothing.
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But he would not believe me. Be this as it may. If I
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had been the victim of many a small or even great offense, it was
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not will, and least of all ill will that actuated the offenders. But
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rather, as I have already suggested, it was good will, the cause
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of no small amount of mischief in my life, about which I had to
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complain. My experience gave me a right to feel suspicious in regard to all
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so called unselfish instincts, in regard to the whole of neighborly love, which
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is ever ready and waiting with deeds or with advice to me. It seems
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that these instincts are a sign of weakness, that they are an example of
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the inability to withstand a stimulus. It is only among decadence that this pity
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is called a virtue. What I reproach the pitiful with is that they are
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too ready to forget shame, reverence, and the delicacy of feeling, which
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knows how to keep at a distance. They do not remember that this gushing
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pity stinks of the mob, and that it is next of kin to bad
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manners, that pitiful hands may be thrust, with results fatally destructive, into
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a great destiny, into a lonely and wounded retirement, and into the privileges
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with which great guilt endows the overcoming of pity. I reckon among the noble
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virtues. In the Temptation of Zarathustra, I have imagined a case in which
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a great cry of distress reaches his ears, in which pity swoops down upon
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him like a last sin, and would make him break faith with himself.
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To remain one's own master in such circumstances, to keep the sublimity of one's
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mission pure in such cases, pure from the many, ignoble and more short
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sighted impulses which come into play in so called unselfish actions. This is the
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rub the last test, perhaps which a Zarathustra has to undergo the actual proof
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of his power. Five. In yet another respect, I am no more
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than my father over again, and as it were, the continuation of his
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life after an all too early death, like every man who has ever been
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able to meet his equal, and to whom the concept retaliation is just as
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incomprehensible as the notion of equal rights. I have forbidden myself the use of
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any sort of measure of security or protection, and also of course of defense
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and justification in all cases in which I have been made the victim, either
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of trifling or even very great foolishness. My form of retaliation consists in this.
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As soon as possible, I set a piece of cleverness at the heels
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of an act of stupidity. By this means, perhaps it may still be
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possible to overtake it to speaking amparable, I dispatch a pot of jam in
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order to get read of a bitter experience. Let anybody give me offense,
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I shall retaliate. He can be quite sure of that. But before long
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I discover an opportunity of expressing my thanks to the offender, among other things,
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even for the offense, or of asking him for something which can be
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more courteous even than giving. It also seems to me that the rudest word,
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the rudest letter, is more good natured, more straightforward than silence.
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Those who keep silent are almost always lacking in subtlety and refinement of heart.
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Silence is an objection to swallow. A grievance must necessarily produce a bad temper.
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It even upsets the stomach. All silent people are dyspeptic. You perceive
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that I should would not like to see rudeness under valued. It is by
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far the most humane form of contradiction, and in the midst of modern effeminacy,
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it is one of our first virtues. If one is sufficiently rich for
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it, it may even be a joy to be wrong. If a god
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were to descend to this earth, he would have to do nothing but wrong.
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To take guilt, not punishment, on one's shoulders is the first proof
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of divinity. Six. Freedom from resentment and the understanding of the nature of
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resentment. Who knows how very much, after all, I am indebted to
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my long illness for these two things. The problem is not exactly simple.
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A man must have experienced both through his strength and through his weakness. If
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illness and weakness are to be charged with anything at all, it is with
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the fact that when they prevail, the very instinct of recovery, which is
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the instinct of defense and of war in man, becomes decayed. He knows
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not how to get rid of anything, how to come to terms with anything,
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and how to cast anything behind him. Everything wounds him. People and
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things draw importunately near. All experiences strike deep. Memory is a gathering wound.
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To be ill is a sort of resentment in itself. Against this resentiment,
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the invalid has only one great remedy. I call it Russian fatalism,
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that fatalism, which is free from revolt, and with which the Russian soldier
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to whom a campaign proves unbearable, ultimately lays himself down in the snow to
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accept nothing more, to undertake, nothing more, to absorb, nothing more,
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to cease entirely from reacting. The tremendous sagacity of this fatalism, which
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does not always imply merely the courage for death, but which in the most
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dangerous cases may actually constitute a self preservative measure, amounts to a reduction of
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activity in the vital functions the slackening down of which is like a sort of
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will to hibernate. A few steps further in this direction we find the fakir,
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who will sleep for weeks in a tomb, Owing to the fact that
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one would be used up too quickly if one reacted, one no longer reacts
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at all. This is the principle, and nothing on earth consumes a man
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more quickly than the passion of resentment, mortification, morbid susceptibility, the inability
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to wreak revenge, the desire and thirst for revenge, the concoction of every
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sort of poison. This is surely the most injurious manner of reacting which could
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possibly be conceived by exhausted men. It involves a rapid wasting away of nervous
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energy, an abnormal increase of detrimental secretions, as for instance, that of
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bile into the stomach. To the sick man, resentment ought to be more
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strictly forbidden than anything else. It is his special danger. Unfortunately, however,
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it is also his most natural propensity. This was fully grasped by that
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profound psychologist Buddha, his religion, which it would be better to call a
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system of hygiene in order to avoid confounding it with a creed so wretched as
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Christianity depended for its effect upon the triumph over a sentiment to make the soul
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free, therefrom was considered the first step towards recovery. Not through hostility is
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hostility put to flight through friendship? Does hostility end? This stands at the
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beginning of Buddha's teaching. This is not a precept of morality, but of
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psychology. Resentment born of weakness is not more deleterious to any body than it
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is to the weak man himself. Conversely, in the case of that man
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whose nature is fundamentally a rich one, resentment is a superfluous feeling, a
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feeling to remain master of which is almost a proof of riches. Those of
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my readers who know the earnestness with which my philosophy wages war against the feelings
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of revenge and rancor, even to the extent of attacking the doctrine of free
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will, my conflict with Christianity is only a particular instance of it, will
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understand why I wish to focus attention upon my own personal attitudes and the certainty
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of my practical instincts. Precisely in this matter. In my moments of decadence,
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I forbade myself the indulgence of of the above feelings, because they were
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harmful. As soon as my life recovered enough riches and pride, however,
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I regarded them again as forbidden, but this time because they were beneath me.
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That Russian fatalism of which I have spoken manifested itself in me in such
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a way that for years I held tenaciously to almost insufferable conditions, places,
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habitations, and companions. Once chance had placed them on my path, it
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was better than changing them, then feeling that they could be changed, then
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revolting against them. He who stirred me from this fatalism, he who violently
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tried to shake me into consciousness, seemed to me then a mortal enemy.
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In point of fact, there was danger of death each time. This was
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done. To regard one's self as a destiny, not to wish oneself different.
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This, in such circumstances is sagacity itself. Seven war, on the
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other hand, is something different. At heart, I am a warrior.
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Attacking belongs to my instincts. To be able, to be an enemy,
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to be an enemy. Maybe these things presuppose a strong nature. In any
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case, all strong natures involve these things. Such natures need resistance. Consequently,
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they go in search of obstacles. The pathos of aggression belongs of necessity
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to strength, as much as the feelings of revenge and of rancor belongs to
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weakness. Woman, for instance, is revengeful. Her weakness involves this passion,
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just as it involves a susceptibility in the presence of other people's suffering.
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The strength of the aggressor can be measured by the opposition which he needs.
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Every increase of growth betrays itself by seeking out of more formidable opponents or problems.
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For a philosopher who is combative challenges even problems to a duel. The
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task is not to overcome opponents in general, but only those opponents against whom
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one has to summon up all one's strength, one's skill, and one's swordsmanship.
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In fact, opponents who are one's equals to be one's enemies equal.
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This is the first condition of an honorable duel. When one despises, one
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cannot wage war where one commands, where one sees something beneath one, One
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ought not to wage war. My war tactics can be reduced to four principles.
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First, I attack only things that are triumphant. If necessary, I
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wait until they become triumphant. Secondly, I attack only those things against which
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I find no allies, against which I stand alone, against which I compromise
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nobody but myself. I have not yet taken one single step before the public
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eye which did not compromise me. That is my criterion of a proper mode
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of action. Thirdly, I never make personal attacks. I use a personality
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merely as a magnifying glass by means of which I render a general, but
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elusive and scarcely noticeable evil more apparent. In this way, I attacked David
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Strauss, or rather the success given to a senile book by the cultured classes
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of Germany. By this means, I caught German culture red handed. In
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this way, I attacked Wagner, or rather the falsity or mongrel instincts of
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our culture, which confounds the super refined with the strong and the feat with
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the great. Fourthly, I attack only those things from which all personal differences
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are excluded, in which any such thing as a background of disagreeable experiences is
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lacking. On the contrary, attacking is to me a proof of goodwill,
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and in certain circumstances of gratitude. By means of it, I do honor
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to a thing. I distinguish a thing. Whether I associate my name with
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that of an institution or a person, by being against or for either is
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all the same to me. If I wage war against Christianity, I feel
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justified in doing so, because in that quarter I have met with no fatal
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experiences and difficulties. The most earnest Christians have always been kindly disposed to me.
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I, personally, the most essential opponent of Christianity, AM far from
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holding the individual responsible for what is the fatality of long ages. Eight.
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May I be allowed to hazard a suggestion cons earning one last trait in my
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character, which in my intercourse with other men has led me into some difficulties.
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I am gifted with a sense of cleanliness, the keenness of which is
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phenomenal, so much so that I can ascertain physiologically, that is to say,
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smell the proximity, nay, the innermost core, the entrails of every
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human soul. This sensitiveness of mine is furnished with psychological antennae, wherewith I
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feel and grasp every secret. The quality of concealed filth lying at the base
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of many a human character, which may be the inevitable outcome of base blood,
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and which education may have veneered, is revealed to me at the first
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glance. If my observation has been correct. Such people whom my sense of
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cleanliness rejects also become conscious on their part of the cautiousness to which my loathing
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prompts me, And this does not make them any more fragrant. In keeping
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with the custom which I have long observed, pure habits and honesty towards myself
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are among the first conditions of my existence. I would die in unclean surroundings.
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I swim, bathe, and splash about, as it were, incessantly
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in water, in any kind of perfectly transparent and shining element. That is
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why my relations with my fellows try my patience to no small extent. My
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humanity does not consist in the fact that I can understand the feelings of my
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fellows, but that I can endure to understand. My humanity is a perpetual
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process of self mastery. But I need solitude, that is to say,
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recovery, return to myself. The breathing of free, crisp, bracing air.
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The whole of my Zarathustra is a diathram in honor of solitude, or,
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if I have been understood, in honor of purity, Thank Heaven,
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it is not in honor of pure foolery. Translator's note, This, of
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course, is a reference to Wagner's parseval See my note on page ninety six
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of The wil To Power, Volume one. In translator's note, he who
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has an eye for color will call him a diamond. The loathing of mankind
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of the rabble was always my greatest danger. Would you hearken to the words
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spoken by Zarathustra concerning deliverance from loathing? What forsooth hath come unto me?
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How did I deliver myself from loathing? Who hath made my eye younger?
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How did I soar to the height where there are no more rabbles sitting about
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the well? Did my very loathing forge me wings and the strength to send
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fountains far off, verily to the loftiest heights? Did I need to fly
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to find once more the spring of joyfulness? Oh? I have found it,
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my brethren, up here on the loftiest height, The spring of joyfulness
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gusheth forth for me, And there is a life at the well of which
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no rabble can drink. With you. Almost too fiercely dost thou rush for
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me, thou spring of joyfulness. And oft times dost thou empty the pitcher
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again in trying to fill it? And yet I must learn to draw near
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thee more humbly, far too eagerly doth my heart jump to meet thee?
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My heart whereon my summer burneth my short, hot, melancholy over blest summer,
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How my summer heart yearneth for thy coolness, farewell, The lingering afflictions
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of my spring past is the wickedness of my snowflakes. In June summer,
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Have I become entirely and summer noontide a summer in the loftiest heights, with
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cold springs and blessed stillness. O come, my friends, that the stillness
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may wax even more blessed, for this is our height and our home.
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Too high and steep is our dwelling, for all the unclean and their appetites.
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Do but cast your pure eyes into the well of my joyfulness? My
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friends? How could it thus become muddy? It will laugh back at you
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with its purity. On the tree called future do we build our nest.
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Eagles shall bring food in their beaks unto us lonely ones. Verily, not
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the food whereof the unclean might partake, they would think they ate fire,
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and would burn their mouths. Verily, no abodes for the unclean do we
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hear hold in readiness to their bodies our happiness would seem an ice cavern,
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and to their spirits also, And like strong winds will we love above them,
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neighbors to the eagle, companions of the snow, and playmates of the
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sun. Thus to strong winds live, And like a wind, shall I
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one day blow amidst them and take away their soul's breath with my spirit?
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Thus my future willeth. Verily, a strong wind is Zarathustra to all low
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lands, And this is his counsel. To his foes, and to all
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who spit and spew, beware of spitting against the wind. End of why
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I am so wise