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09 - What is Noble? - Beyond Good and Evil - Friedrich Nietzsche · Logic Library

• Chapter nine, What is Noble Paragraph two hundred fifty seven. Every elevation of the type man has hitherto been the work of an aristocratic society, and so it will always be a society believing in a long scale of gradations of rank and differences of worth among human beings, and requiring slavery in some form or other, without the pathos of distance, such as grows out of the incarnated differences of classes, out of the constant outlooking and down looking of the ruling caste on subordinates and instruments, and out of their equally constant practice of obeying and commanding, of keeping down and keeping at a distance that other more mysterious pathos could never have arisen, the longing for an ever new widening of distance within the soul itself, the formation of ever higher rarer further more extended, more comprehensive states. In short, just the elevation of the type man, the continued self surmounting of man. To use a moral formula in a supermoral sense, to be sure, one must not resign oneself to any humanitarian illusions about the history of the origin of an aristocratic society, that is to say, of the preliminary condition for the elevation of the type man. The truth is hard. Let us acknowledge, unprejudicedly, how every higher civilization hitherto has originated men with a still natural nature, barbarians in every terrible sense of the word, men of prey, still in possession of unbroken strength of will and desire for power, threw themselves upon weaker, more moral, more peaceful races, perhaps trading or cattle rearing communities, or upon old, mellow civilizations in which the final vital force was flickering out in brilliant fireworks of wit and gravity. At the commencement. The noble caste was always the barbarian cast Their superiority did not consist, first of all, in their physical but in their psychical power. They were more complete men, which at every point also implies the same as more complete beasts. Corruption, as the indication that anarchy threatens to break out among the instincts, and that the foundation of the emotions called life is convulsed, is something radically different according to the organization in which it manifests itself. When, for instance, an aristocracy like that of France at the beginning of the Revolution flung away its privileges with sublime disgust, and sacrificed itself to an excess of its moral sentiments. It was corruption. It was really only the closing act of the corruption that had existed for centuries, by virtue of which that aristocracy had abdicated, step by step its lordly prerogatives, and lowered itself to a function of royalty, in the end, even to its decoration and parade dress. The essential thing, however, in a good and healthy aristocracy, is that it should not regard itself as a function either of the kingship or the commonwealth, but as the significance and highest justification thereof That it should therefore accept with a good conscience the sacrifice of a legion of individuals, who, for its sake must be suppressed and reduced to imperfect men, to slaves and instruments. Its fundamental belief must be precisely that society is not allowed to exist for its own sake, but only as a foundation and scaffolding, by means of which a select class of beings may be able to elevate themselves to their higher duties, and in general, to a higher existence. Like those sun seeking climbing plants, in Java, they are called sipomatador, which encircle an oak so long and so often with their arms, until at last high above it, but so ported by it, they can unfold their tops in the open light and exhibit their happiness to refrain mutually from injury, from violence, from exploitation, and put one's will on a par with that of others. This may result in a certain rough sense in good conduct among individuals, when the necessary conditions are given, namely the actual similarity of the individuals in amount of force and degree of worth, and their correlation within one organization. As soon, however, as one wished to take this principle more generally, and if possible, even as the fundamental principle of society, it would immediately disclose what it really is, namely, of will to the denial of life, a principle of dissolution and decay. Here one must think profoundly to the very basis and resist all sentimental weakness. Life itself is essentially appropriation, injury, conquest of the strange and weak, suppression, severity, obtrusion of peculiar forms, incorporation, and at the very least putting it mildest exploitation. But why should one forever use precisely these words on which for ages a disparaging purpose has been stamped. Even the organization within which, as was previously supposed, the individuals treat each other as equal it takes place in every healthy aristocracy, must itself, if it be a living and not a dying organization, do all that towards other bodies that the individuals within it refrain from doing to each other. It will have to be the incarnated will to power. It will endeavor to grow, to gain ground, attract to itself, and acquire ascendency, not owing to any morality or immorality, but because it lives, and because life is precisely will to power. On no point, however, is the ordinary consciousness of Europeans more unwilling to be corrected than on this matter. People now rave everywhere, even under the guise of science, about coming conditions of society in which the exploiting character is to be absent. That sounds to my ears as if they promised to invent a mode of life that should refrain from all organic functions. Exploitation does not belong to a depraved or imperfect and primitive society. It belongs to the nature of the living being as a primary organic function. It is a consequence of the intrinsic will to power, which is precisely the will to life. Granting that as a theory this is a novelty, as a reality, it is the fundamental fact of all history. Let us be so far honest towards ourselves. In a tour through the many finer and coarser moralities, that if hitherto prevailed or still prevail on the earth, I found certain traits recurring regularly together and connected with one another, until finally two primary type apes revealed themselves to me, and a radical distinction was brought to light. There is master morality and slave morality. I would at once add, however, that in all higher and mixed civilizations there are also attempts at the reconciliation of the two moralities. But one finds still oftener the confusion and mutual misunderstanding of them, indeed sometimes their close juxtaposition, even in the same man within one soul. The distinctions of moral values have either originated in a ruling cast pleasantly conscious of being different from the rule, or among the ruled class the slaves and dependents of all sorts. In the first case, when it is the rulers who determine the conception good, it is the exalted, proud disposition that is regarded as the distinguishing feature, and that that determines the order of rank. The noble type of man separates from himself the beings in whom the opposite of this exalted, proud disposition displays itself, he despises them. Let it at once be noted that in this first kind of morality, the antithesis good and bad means practically the same as noble and despicable. The antithesis good and evil is of a different origin. The cowardly, the timid, the insignificant, and those thinking merely of narrow utility are despised. Moreover, also the distrustful, with their constrained glances, the self abasing, the doglike kind of men who let themselves be abused, the mendicant flatterers, and above all the liars. It is a fundamental belief of all aristocrats that the common people are untruthful. We truthful ones the nobility in ancient Greece called themselves. It is obvious that everywhere the designations of moral value were at first applied to men, and were only derivatively and at a later period applied to actions. It is a gross mistake therefore, when historians of morals start with questions like why have sympathetic actions been praised? The noble type of man regards himself as a determiner of values. He does not require to be approved of. He passes the judgment what is injurious to me is injurious in itself. He knows that it is he himself only who confers honor on things. He is a creator of values. He honors whatever he recognizes in himself. Such morality equals self glorification. In the foreground, there is the feeling of plenitude, of power which seeks to overflow, the happiness of high tension, the consciousness of a wealth that would fain give and bestow. The noble man also helps the unfortunate, but not or scarcely out of pity, but rather from an impulse generated by the superabundance of power. The noble man honors in himself the powerful one him also, who has power over himself, who knows how to speak and how to keep silence, who takes pleasure in subjecting himself to severity and hardness, and has reverence for all that is severe and hard. Woton placed a hard heart in my breasts, ays an old Scandinavian saga. It is thus rightly expressed from the soul of a proud Viking. Such a type of man is even proud of not being made for sympathy. The hero of the saga therefore adds warningly, he who has not a hard heart when young, will never have one. The noble and brave who think thus are the furthest removed from the morality that sees precisely in sympathy or enacting for the good of others, or in desent terrassment, the characteristic of the moral faith in oneself, pride in oneself, a radical enmity and irony towards selflessness belong as definitely to noble morality as do a careless scorn and precaution. In presence of sympathy and the warm heart. It is the powerful who know how to honor. It is their art, their domain for invention, the profound reverence for age and for tradition. All law rests on this double reverence. The belief and prejudice in favor of ancestors and unfavorable to newcomers is typical in the morality of the powerful, and if reversely, men of modern ideas believe almost instinctively in progress and the future, and are more and more lacking in respect for old age. The ignoble origin of these ideas has complacently betrayed itself thereby. A morality of the ruling class, however, is more specifically foreign and irritating to present day taste, in the sternness of its principle that one has duties only to one's equals, that one may act towards beings of a lower rank, towards all that is foreign, just as seems good to one, or as the heart desires, and in any case beyond good and evil. It is here that sympathy and similar sentiments have a place, the ability and obligation to exercise prolonged gratitude and prolonged revenge, both only within the circle of equals, artfulness and retaliation. Alfinmont the idea in friendship a certain necessity to have enemies as outlets for the emotions of envy, quarrelsomeness, arrogance. In fact, in order to be a good friend. All these are typical characteristics of the noble morality, which, as has been pointed out, is not the morality of modern ideas, and is therefore at present difficult to realize and also to on earth and disclose. It is otherwise with the second type of morality, slave morality. Supposing that the abused, the oppressed, the suffering, the unemancipated, the weary, and those uncertain of themselves should moralize, what will be the common element in their moral estimates, probably a pessimistic suspicion with regard to the entire situation man will find expression, perhaps a condemnation of man together with his situation. The slave has an unfavorable eye for the virtues of the powerful. He has a skepticism and distrust, a refinement of distrust of everything good that is there honored. He would fain persuade himself that the very happiness there is not genuine. On the other hand, those qualities that serve to alleviate the existence of sufferers are brought into prominence and flooded with light. It is here that sympathy, the kind helping hand, the warm heart, patience, diligence, humility, and friendliness attained to honor. For here these the most useful qualities and almost the only means of supporting the burden of existence. Slave morality is essentially the morality of utility. Here is the seat of the origin of the famous antithesis good and evil. Power and dangerousness are assumed to reside in the evil a certain dreadfulness, subtlety, and strength, which do not admit of being despised according to slave morality. Therefore, the evil man arouses fear. According to master morality, it is precisely the good man who arouses fear and seeks to arouse it, while the bad man is regarded as the despicable being. The contrast attains its maximum when in accordance with the logical consequences of slave morality. A shade of depreciation, it may be slight and well intentioned at last, attaches itself to the good man of this morality, because according to the servile mode of thought, the good man must in any case be the safe man. He is good natured, easily deceived, perhaps a little stupid. Ampunon everywhere that slave morality gains the ascendency. Language shows a tendency to approximate the significations of the word good and stupid. A last fundamental difference. The desire for freeom, the instinct for happiness, and the refinements of the feeling of liberty belong as necessarily to slave morals and morality as artifice and enthusiasm in reverence and devotion are the regular symptoms of an aristocratic mode of thinking and estimating. Hence we can understand without further detail why love, as a passion it is our European specialty, must absolutely be a noble origin. As is well known, its invention is due to the provence are poet cavaliers, those brilliant, ingenious men of the gay sabert to whom Europe owes so much and almost owes itself. Vanity is one of the things that are perhaps most difficult for a noble man to understand. He will be tempted to deny it where another kind of man thinks he sees itself. Evidently, the problem for him is to represent to his mind beings who seek to arouse a good opinion of themselves that they themselves do not possess, and consequence also do not deserve, and who yet believe in this good opinion afterwards. This seems to him, on the one hand, such bad taste and so self disrespectful, and on the other hand, so grotesquely unreasonable, that he would like to consider vanity and exception, and is doubtful about it. In most cases, when it is spoken of, he will say, for instance, I may be mistaken about my value, and on the other hand may nevertheless demand that my value should be acknowledged by others precisely as I rate it. That, however, is not vanity, but self conceit or in most cases that which is called humility, and also modesty. Or he will even say, for many reasons, I can delight in the good opinion of others, perhaps because I love and honor them and rejoice in all their joys. Perhaps also because their good opinion endorses and strengthens my belief in my own good opinion. Perhaps because the good opinion of others, even in cases where I do not share it, is useful to me or gives promise of you ufulness. All this, however, is not vanity. The man of noble character must first bring it home forcibly to his mind, especially with the aid of history, that from time immemorial, in all social strata in any way dependent. The ordinary man was only that that he passed for. Not being at all accustomed to fix values, he did not assign even to himself, any other value than that that his master assigned to him. It is the peculiar right of masters to create values. It may be looked upon as an extraordinary activism that the ordinary man, even at present, is still always waiting for an opinion about himself, and then instinctively submitting himself to it. Yet by no means only to a good opinion, but also to a bad and unjust one. Think for instance, of the greater part of the self appreciations and self depreciations that believing women learn from their confessors, and which in general the believing Christian learns from his church. In fact, conformably to the slow rise of the democratic social order and its cause the blending of the blood of masters and slaves, the original noble and rare impulse of the masters to assign a value to themselves and to think well of themselves, will now be more and more encouraged and extended. But it has at all times an older, ampler, and more radically ingrained propensity opposed to it, and in the phenomenon of vanity, this older propensity overmasters the younger. The vain person rejoices over every good opinion that he hears about himself, quite apart from the point of view of its usefulness, and equally regardless of its truth or falsehood, just as he suffers from every bad opinion, for he subjects himself to both. He feels himself subjected to both by the oldest instinct of subjection that breaks forth in him. It is the slave in the vain man's blood, the remains of the slave's craftiness, and how much of the slave is still left in woman, for instance, which seeks to seduce the good opinions of itself. It is the slave too, who immediately afterwards falls prostrate himself before these opinions, as though he had not called them forth, and to repeat it again. Vanity is an atavism. A species originates and a type becomes established and strong in the long struggle with essentially constant unfavorable conditions. On the other hand, it is known by the experience of breeders that species that receive superabundant nourishment and in general a surplus of protection and care immediately tend in the most marked way to develop variations, and are fertile in prodigies and monstrosities, also in monstrous vices. Now look at an aristocratic commonwealth, say in ancient Greek polus or venice, as a voluntary or involuntary contrivance for the purpose of rearing human beings. There are there men, beside one another, thrown upon their own resources, who want to make their species prevail, chiefly because they must prevail or else run the terrible danger of being exterminated. The favor, the superabundance, the protection are their lacking, under which variations are fostered. The species needs itself as species, as something that precisely by virtue of its hardness, its uniformity, and simplicity of structure, can in general prevail and make itself permanent in constant struggle with its neighbors or with rebellious or rebellion threatening vassals. The most varied experience teaches it what are the qualities to which it principally owes the fact that it still exists in spite of all gods and men, and has hitherto been victorious. These qualities it calls virtues, and these virtues alone it develops to maturity, it does so with severity. Indeed, it desires severity. Every aristocratic morality is intolerant in the education of youth, in the control of women, in the marriage customs, in the relations of old and young, in the penal laws, which have an eye only for the degenerating. It counts intolerance itself among the virtues under the name of justice. A type with few but very marked features, a species of severe warlike wisely silent, reserved, and reticent men, and as such with the most delicate sensibility for the charm and nuances of society, is thus established, unaffected by the vicissitudes of generations. The constant struggle with uniform unfavorable conditions is, as already remarked, the cause of a type's becoming stable and hard. Finally, however, a happy state of things results. The enormous tension is relaxed. There are perhaps no more enemies among the neighboring peoples, and the means of life, even of the enjoyment of life, are present in superabundance. With one stroke, the bond and constraint of the old discipline severs. It is no longer regarded as necessary as a condition of existence. If it would continue, it can only do so as a form of luxury. As an archaism. Taste variations, whether they be deviations into the higher, finer and rarer, or deteriorations and monstrosities, appear suddenly on the scene in the greatest exuberance and splendor. The individual dares to be individual and detach himself. At this turning point of history, there manifest themselves, side by side and often mixed and entangled together, a magnificent manifold, virgin forest like upgrowth and upstriving, a kind of tropical tempo in the rivalry of growth, and an extraordinary decay and self destruction owing to the savagely opposing and seemingly exploding egoisms, which strive with one another for sun and light, and can no longer assign any limit, restraint or forbearance for themselves by means of the hitherto existing morality. It is this morality itself that piled up the strength so enormously which bent the bow, and so threatening a manner. It is now out of date. It is getting out of date. The dangerous and disquieting point has been reached when the greater, more manifold, more comprehensive life is lived beyond the old morality. The individual stands out and is obliged to have recourse to his own law, giving his own arts and artifices for self preservation, self elevation, and self deliverance. Nothing but new, wise, nothing but new, hows, no common formulas any longer, misunderstanding and disregard in league with each other, Decay, deterioration, and the loftiest desires frightfully entangled the genius of the race overflowing from all the cornucopias of good and bad, a portentous simultaneousness of spring and autumn, full of new charms and mysteries, peculiar to the fresh, still exhausted, still unwearied. Corruption danger is again present, the mother of morality, great danger, this time shifted into the individual, into the neighbor and friend, into the street, into their own child, into their own heart, into all the most personal and secret recesses of their desires and volitions. What will the moral philosophers who appear at this time have to preach? They discover, these sharp onlookers and loafers, that the end is quickly approaching, that everything around them decays and produces decay that nothing will endure until the day after tomorrow except one species of man, the incurably mediocre. The mediocre alone have a prospect of continuing and propagating themselves. They will be the men of the future. The sole survivors be like them become mediocre. Is now the only morality that has still a significance, which still obtains a hearing. But it is difficult to preach this morality of mediocrity. It can never avow what it is and what it desires. It has to talk of moderation and dignity, and duty and brotherly love. It will have difficulty in concealing its irony. There is an instinct for rank, which, more than anything else, is already the sign of a high rank. There is a delight in the nuances of reverence that leads one to infer noble origin and habits. The refinement, goodness, and loftiness of a soul are put to a perilous test when something passes by that is of the highest rank, but is not yet protected by the awe of the authority from obtrusive touches and incivilities. Something that goes its way like a living touchstone, undistinguished, undiscovered and tentative, perhaps voluntarily veiled and disguised. He whose task and practice is to investigate souls will avail himself of many varieties of this very are to determine the ultimate value of a soul, the unalterable, innate order of rank to which it belongs. He will test it by its instinct for reverence, differences and gender. N that's French hate. There the vulgarity of many a nature spurts up suddenly like dirty water when any holy vessel, any jewel from closed shrines, any book bearing the marks of great destiny, is brought before it, while on the other hand, there is an involuntary silence, a hesitation of the eye, a cessation of all gestures, by which it is indicated that a soul feels the nearness of what is worthiest of respect. The way in which on the whole the reverence for the Bible has hitherto been maintained in Europe is perhaps the best example of discipline and refinement of manners that Europe owes to Christianity. Books of such profoundness and supreme significance require for their protection and external tear yuranny of authority in order to acquire the period of thousands of years that is necessary to exhaust and unriddle them. Much has been achieved when the sentiment has been at last instilled into the masses, the shallow pates, and the boobies of every kind, that they are not allowed to touch everything, that there are holy experiences before which they must take off their shoes and keep away the unclean hand. It is almost their highest advance towards humanity. On the contrary, and the so called cultured classes, the believers in modern ideas, nothing is perhaps so repulsive as their lack of shame, their easy insolence of eye and hand with which they touch, taste, and finger everything. And it is possible that even yet there is more relative nobility of taste, and more tact for reverence among the people, among the lower classes of the people, especially among peasants, than among the newspaper reading de memundees of intellect the cultured class. It cannot be effaced from a man's soul what his ancestors have preferably and most constantly done, Whether they were perhaps diligent economizers attached to a desk and a cash box, modest and citizen like in their desires, modest also in their virtues, or whether they were accustomed to commanding from morning till night, fond of rude pleasures and probably of still ruder duties and responsibilities, or whether finally, at one time or another, they have sacrificed old privileges of birth and possession in order to live wholly for their faith for their God. As men of an inexorable and sensitive conscience, which blushes at every compromise, it is quite possible for a man not to have the qualities and predilections of his parents and ancestors in his constitution, whatever appearances may suggest to the contrary. This is the problem of race. Granted that one knows something of the parents, it is admissible to draw a conclusion about the child any kind of offensive incontinence, any kind of sordid envy, or of clumsy self vaunting, three things that together have constituted the genuine plebeian type. In all times. Such must pass over to the child as surely as bad blood. And with the help of the best education and culture, one will only succeed in deceiving. With regard to such eretity. And what else do education and culture try to do nowadays in our very democratic, or rather very Plebeian age, education and culture must be essentially the art of deceiving, deceiving with regard to origin, with regard to the inherited Plebeianism in body and soul. An educator who nowadays preaches truthfulness above everything else, and called out constantly to his pupils, be true, be natural, show yourselves as you are. Even such a virtuous and sincere ass would learn in a short time to have recourse to the furka of Horace, not rum experre with what results Plebeianism usque recurret footnote Horace's Epistles one ten twenty four. At the risk of displeasing innocent ears, I submit that egoism belongs to the essence of a noble soul. I mean the unalterable belief that to a being such as we, other beings must naturally be in subjection and have to sacrifice themselves. The noble soul accepts the fact of his egoism without question, and also without consciousness of harshness, constraint, or arbitrariness therein, but rather is something that may have its basis in the primary law of things. If he sought a designation for it, he would say it is justice itself. He acknowledges under certain circumstances which made him hesitate at first, that there are other equally privileged ones. As soon as he has settled this question of rank, he moves among those equals and equally privileged ones with the same assurance as regards modesty and delicate respect that he enjoys in intercourse with himself, in accordance with an innate, heavenly mechanism, that all the stars understand. It is an additional instance of his egoism. This artfulness and self limitation in intercourse with his equals. Every star is a similar egoist. He honors himself in them, and in the rite that he concedes to them. He has no doubt that the exchange of honors and rights, as the essence of all intercourse, belongs also to the natural condition of things. The noble soul gives as he takes, prompted by the passionate and sensitive instinct of recquittal, which is at the root of his nature. The notion of favor has interparis neither significance nor good repute. There may be a sublime way of letting gifts, as it were, light upon one from above, and of drinking them thirstily like dew drops. But for those arts and displays, the noble soul has no aptitude. His egoism hinders him here. In general, he looks aloft unwillingly. He looks either forward, horizontally and deliberately, or downwards. He knows that he is on a height. One can only truly esteem him who does not look out for himself. Gooda to hart Schlosso. The Chinese have a proverb that mothers even teach their children Shao shin, make thy heart small. This is the essentially fundamental tendency in latter day civilizations. I have no doubt that an ancient Greek also would first of all remark the self dwarfing in us Europeans of to day in this respect alone, should we immediately be distasteful to him? What, after all, is nobleness. Words are vocal symbols for ideas. Ideas, however, are more or less definite mental symbols for frequently returning and concurring sensations. For groups of sensations, it is not sufficient to use the same words in order to understand one another. We must also so employ the same words for the same kind of internal experiences. We must, in the end, have experiences in common. On this account, the people of one nation understand one another better than those belonging to different nations, even when they use the same language, or rather when people have lived long together under similar conditions of climate, soil, danger, requirement toil. There originates therefrom an entity that understands itself, namely a nation. In all souls, a like number of frequently recurring experiences have gained the upper hand over those occurring more rarely. About these matters, people understand one another rapidly, and always more rapidly. The history of language is the history of a process of abbreviation. On the basis of this quick comprehension, people always unite closer and closer the greater the danger. The greater is the need of agreeing quickly and readily about what is necessary not to misunderstand one another in danger, that is, what cannot at all be dispensed with in intercourse. Also, in all loves and friendships, one has the experience that nothing of the kind continues when the discovery has been made that in using the same words. One of the two parties has feelings, thoughts, intuitions, wishes or fears different from those of the other. The fear of the eternal misunderstanding, that is, the good genius that so often keeps persons of different sexes from too hasty attachments to which sense and heart prompt them, and not some SCHOPENHAUERI and genius of the species. Whichever groups of sensations within a soul awaken most readily begin to speak and give the word of command. These decide as to the general order of rank of its values, and determine ultimately its list of desirable things. A man's estimates of value betray something of the structure of his soul, and wherein its seas ease its conditions of life, its intrinsic needs. Supposing now that necessity has from all time drawn together only such men as could express similar requirements and similar experiences by similar symbols, it results on the whole that the easy communicability of need, which implies ultimately the undergoing only of average and common experiences, must have been the most potent of all the forces that have hitherto operated upon mankind. The more similar, the more ordinary people have always had and are still having the advantage. The more select, more refined, more unique, and difficultly comprehensible are liable to stand alone. They succumb to accidents in their isolation, and seldom propagate themselves. One must appeal to immense opposing forces in order to thwart this natural, all too natural progressusincimilee, the evolution of man to the similar, the ordinary, the average, the gregarious, to the ignoble. The intellectual haughtiness and loathing of every man who has suffered deeply. It almost determines the order of rank how deeply men can suffer. The chilling certainty with which he is thoroughly imbued and colored, that by virtue of his suffering he knows more than the shrewdest and wisest can ever know. That he has been familiar with and at home in many distant, dreadful worlds of which you know nothing. This silent intellectual haughtiness of the sufferer, this pride of the elective knowledge, of the initiated, of the almost sacrificed, finds all forms of disguise necessary to protect itself from contact with officious and sympathizing hands, and in general from all that is not its equal. In suffering. Profound suffering makes noble, it separates. One of the most refined forms of disguise is epicurism, along with a certain ostentatious boldness of taste, which takes suffering lightly and puts itself on the defensive against all that is sorrowful and profound. They are gay men who make use of gayety because they are misunderstood. On account of it, they wish to be misunderstood. There are scientific minds who make use of science because it gives a gay appearance, and because scientificness leads to the conclusion that a person is superficial, they wish to mislead to a false conclusion. There are free, insolent minds which would fain, conceal, and deny that they are broken, proud, incurable hearts, the cynicism of Hamlet, the case of Galiani, and occasionally folly itself as the mask of an unfortunate, over assured knowledge, from which it follows that it is the part of a more refined humanity to have reverence for the mask, and not to make use of psychology and curiosity in the wrong place. That which separates two men most profoundly is a different sense and grade of purity. What does it matter about all their honesty and reciprocal usefulness, What does it matter about all their mutual good will? The fact still remains they cannot smell each other. The highest instinct for purity places him who is affected with it in the most extraordinary and dangerous isolation as a saint, For it is just holiness, the highest spiritualization of the instinct. In question any kind of cognizance of an indescribable excess in the joy of the bath, any kind of ardor or thirst which perpetually impels the soul out of night into the morning, and out of gloom, out of affliction, into clearness, brightness, depth, and refinement. Just as much as such a tendency distinguishes, it is a notable tendency, it also separates. The pity of the saint is pity for the filth of the human all too human. And there are grades and heights where pity itself is regarded by him as impurity, as filth signs of nobility. Never to think of lowering our duties to the rank of duties. For everybody to be unwilling to renounce, or to share our responsibilities, to count our prerogatives and the exercise of them among our duties. A man who strives after great things looks upon every one whom he encounters on his way, either as a means of advance or a delay and hindrance, or a temporary resting place, or as a temporary resting place. His peculiar, lofty bounty to his fellow men is only possible when he attains his elevation and dominates impatience and the consciousness of being always condemned to comedy up to that time, For even strife is a comedy and conceals the end, as every means does spoil all intercourse with him. This kind of man is acquainted with solitude, and what is most poisonous in it the problem of those who wait. Happy chances are necessary and many incalculable elements in order that a hire man in whom the solution of a problem is dormant, and may yet take action or break forth, as one might say, at the right moment. On an average it does not happen. And in all corners of the earth there are waiting ones sitting who hardly know to what extent they are waiting, and still less that they wait in vain. Occasionally to the waking call comes too late, the chance which gives permission to take action, when their best youth and strength for action have been used up in sitting still. And how many a one, just as he sprang up, has found with horror that his limbs are benumbed, and his spirits are now too heavy. It is too late, he has said to himself, and has become self distrustful, and henceforth forever useless in the domain of genius. May not the raphael without hands, taking the expression in its widest sense, perhaps not be the exception, but the rule. Perhaps genius is by no means so rare, but rather the five hundred hands which it requires in order to tyrannize over the right time, in order to take chance by the forelock, he who does not wish to see the height of a man looks all the more sharply at what is low in him and in the foreground, and thereby betrays himself in all kinds of injury and loss. The lower and coarser soul is better off than the nobler soul. The dangers of the latter must be greater. The probability that it will come to grief and perish is in fact immense, considering the multiplicity of the conditions of its existence. In a lizard, a finger grows again which has been lost. Not so in man. It is too bad, always the old story. When a man has finished building his house, he finds that he has learnt unawares, something which he ought absolutely to have known before he began to build, The eternal fatal too late, the melancholia of everything completed. Wanderer, Who art thou? I see THEE follow thy path without scorn, without love, without unfathomable eyes, wet and sad, as a plummet which is returned to the light, insatiated out of every depth? What did it seek? Down there? With a bosom that never sighs, with lips that conceal their loathing, with a head which only slowly grasps. Who art thou? What hast thou done? Rest thee? Here? This place has hospitality for everyone. Refresh thyself, and whoever thou art, What is it that now pleasest thee? What will serve to refresh thee? Only name it? Whatever I have I offer THEE to refresh me to refresh me. Oh thou prying one? What sayest thou? But give me? I pray thee what what speak out? Another mask? A second mask. Men of profound sadness betray themselves when they are happy. They have a mode of seizing upon happiness, as though they would choke and strangle it out of jealousy. Ah, they know only too well that it will flee from them, bad, bad. What does he not go back? Yes, but you misunderstand him. When you complain of it, he goes back like everyone who is about to make a big spring? Will people believe it of me? But I insist that they believe it of me. I have always thought very unsatisfactorily of myself, and about myself only in very rare cases, only compulsorily, always without delight in the subject, ready to digress from myself, and always without faith in the result, owing to the unconquerable distrust of the possibility of self knowledge, which has led me so far to feel a contradictio in adetto even in the idea of direct knowledge which theorists allow themselves. This matter of fact is almost the most certain thing I know about myself. There must be a sort of repugnance in me to believe anything definite about myself? Is there perhaps some enigma therein? Probably, but fortunately nothing for my own teeth. Perhaps it betrays the species to which I belong, but not to myself, as it is sufficiently agreeable to me. But what has happened to you? I do not know, he said hesitatingly. Perhaps the harpies have flown over my table. It sometimes happens nowadays that a gentle, sober, retiring man becomes suddenly mad, breaks the plates, upsets the table, shrieks, raves and shocks everybody, and finally withdraws, ashamed and raging at himself. Whither for what purpose to famish a part, to suffocate with his memories, To him who has the desires of a lofty and dainty soul, and only seldom finds his table laid and his food prepared, the danger will always be great nowadays, however, it is extraordinarily so thrown into the midst of a noisy and plebeian age with which he does not like to eat out of the same dish, he may readily perish of hunger and thirst, or should he nevertheless finally fall to of sudden nausea. We have probably all sat at tables to which we did not belong, and precisely the most spiritual of us who are most difficult to nourish though the dangerous dyspepsia that originates from a sudden insight in disillusionment about our food and our messmates the after dinner nausea. If one wishes to praise at all, it is a delicate and at the same time a noble self control who praise only where one does not agree otherwise, In fact, one would praise oneself, which is contrary to good taste, a self control, to be sure, which offers excellent opportunity and provocation to constant misunderstanding. To be able to allow oneself this veritable luxury of taste and morality, one must not live among intellectual imbeciles, but rather among men whose misunderstandings and mistakes amuse by their refinement, or one will have to pay dearly for it. He praises me, therefore he acknowledges me to be right. This asinine method of inference spoils half of the life of us recluses, for it brings the asses into our neighborhood and friendship to live in a vast and proud tranquility, always beyond to have or not to have one's emotions, one's fore and against according to choice, to lower one's self to them for hours, to seat one's self on them as upon horses, and often as upon asses. For one must know how to make use of their stupidity as well as of their fire. To conserve one's three hundred foregrounds, also one's black spectacles. For there are circumstances when nobody must look into our eyes, still less into our motives, and to choose for company that roguish and cheerful vice, politeness, And to remain master of one's four virtues courage, insight, sympathy, and solitude. For solitude is a virtue with us as a sublime, bent and biased to purity, which divines that in the contact of man and man in society, it must be unavoidably impure. All society makes one, somehow, somewhere or sometime commonplace the greatest events and thoughts. The greatest thoughts, however, are the greatest events, are longest in being comprehended. The generations which are contemporary with them do not experience such events. They live past them. Something happens. There is in the realm of stars. The light of the furthest stars is longest in reaching man, and before it has arrived man denies that there are stars there? How many centuries does mind require to be understood? That is also a standard. One also makes a gradation of rank and an etiquette therewith such as is necessary for mind and for star. Here is the prospect, free, the mind exalted footnote good as Faust, Part two, Act five, the words of doctor Marianus. But there is a reverse kind of man, who is also upon a height, and has also a free prospect, but looks downwards? What is noble? What does the word noble still mean for us? Nowadays? How does the noble man betray himself? How is he recognized it? Under this heavy, overcast sky of the commencing Plebeianism, by which everything is rendered opaque and leaden. It is not his actions which establish his claim. Actions are always ambiguous, always inscrutable. Neither is it his works. One finds nowadays among artists and scholars putty of those who betray by their works, that a profound longing for nobleness impels them. But this very need of nobleness is radically different from the needs of the noble soul itself, and it is in fact the eloquent and dangerous sign of the lack thereof. It is not the works, but the belief, which is here decisive and determines the order of rank. And to employ once more an old religious formula with a new and deeper meaning. It is some fundamental certainty which a noble soul has about itself. Something which is not to be sought, is not to be found, and perhaps also is not to be lost. The noble soul has reverence for itself. There are men who are unavoidably intellectual. Let them turn and twist themselves as they will, and hold their hands before their treacherous eyes, as though the hand were not a betrayer. It always comes out at last that they have something which they hide, namely intellect. One of the subtlest means of deceiving, at least as long as possible, and of successfully representing oneself to be stupider than one really is, which in every day life is often as desirable as an umbrella. Is called enthusiasm, including what belongs to it, for instance, virtue. For as Galiani said, ertu est enthusiasmy. In the writings of a recluse, one always hears something of the echo of the wilderness, something of the murmuring tones and timid vigilance of solitude in his strongest words, even in his cry itself, their sounds a new and more dangerous kind of silence, of concealment. He who has sat day and night from year's end to year's end alone with his soul and familiar discord and discourse, He who has become a cave bear, or a treasure seeker, or a treasure guardian and dragon. In his cave it may be a labyrinth, but can also be a gold mine. His ideas themselves eventually acquire a twilight color of their own, and an odor as much of the depth as of the mold, something uncommunicative and repulsive, which blows chilly upon every passer by. The recluse does not believe that a philosopher, supposing that a philosopher has always, in the first place been a recluse, ever expressed his actual and ultimate opinions in books, are not books written precisely to hide what is in us. Indeed, he will doubt whether a philosopher can have ultimate and actual opinions at all, Whether behind every cave in him there is not, and must necessarily be a still deeper cave, an ampler, stranger, richer world beyond the surface, an abyss behind every bottom, beneath every fare foundation. Every philosophy is a foreground philosophy. This is a reclusive verdict. There is something arbitrary in the fact that the philosopher came to a stand here, took a retrospect and looked around, that he here laid his spade aside, and did not dig any deeper. There is also something suspicious in it. Every philosophy also conceals a philosophy. Every opinion is also a lurking place. Every word is also a mask. Every deep thinker is more afraid of being understood than of being misunderstood. The latter perhaps wounds his vanity, but the former wounds his heart, his sympathy, which always says, ah, why would you also have as hard a time of it as I have? Man a complex, mendacious, artful, and inscrutable animal, uncanny to the other animals by his artifice and sagacity rather than by his strength. As an invented the good conscience in order finally to enjoy his soul as something simple, and the whole of morality is a long, audacious falsification by virtue, of which generally employment at the sight of the soul becomes impossible. From this point of view, there is perhaps much more in the conception of art than is generally believed. A philosopher, that is, a man who constantly experiences, sees, hears, suspects, hopes, and dreams extraordinary things, who is struck by his own thoughts as if they came from the outside, from above and below, as a species of events, and lightning flashes peculiar to him, who is perhaps himself a storm pregnant with new lightnings. A portentous man around whom there is always rumbling and mumbling and gaping, and something uncanny going on. A philosopher alas a being who often runs away from himself, is often afraid of himself, but whose curiosity always makes him come to himself again. A man who says, I like that, I take it for my own, and mean to guard and protect it from every one. A man who can conduct a case, carry out a resolution, remain true to an opinion, keep hold of a woman, punish and overthrow insolence, a man who has his indignation and his sword, and to whom the weak, the suffering, the oppressive, and even the animals willingly submit and naturally belong. In short, a man who is in master by nature. When such a man has sympathy, well, that sympathy has value. But of what account is the sympathy of those who suffer, or of those even who preach sympathy? There is nowadays, throughout almost the whole of Europe, a sickly irritability and sensitiveness towards pain, and a repulsive irrestrainableness in complaining, an effeminizing which, with the aid of religion and philosophical nonsense, seeks to deck itself out as something superior. There is a regular cult of suffering, the unmanliness of that which is called sympathy by such groups of visionaries. As always, I believe the first thing that strikes the eye one must resolutely and radically taboo this latest form of bad taste. And finally, I wish people to put the good amulet, guise, abert gay science in ordinary language on heart and neck as a protection against it. The olympian vice. Despite the philosopher who, as a genuine Englishman, tried to bring laughter into bad repute in all thinking minds. Laughing is a bad infirmity of human nature, which every thinking mind will strive to overcome. Hobbes. I would even allow myself to rank philosophers according to the quality of their laughing, up to those who are capable of golden laughter. And supposing that gods also philosophies, which I am strongly inclined to believe, owing to many reasons, I have no doubt that they also know how to laugh. Thereby and an overman like in new fashion, and at the expense of all serious things. Gods are fond of ridicule. It seems that they cannot refrain from laughter, even in holy matters. The genius of the heart, as that great mysterious one possesses it, the tempter god and born rat catcher of consciences, whose voice can descend into the nether world of every soul who neither speaks a word nor casts a glance in which there may not be some motive or touch of allurement, to whose perfection it pertains that he knows how to appear not as he is, but in a guise which acts as an additional constraint on his followers, to press ever closer to him, to follow him more cordially and thoroughly. The genius of the heart, which imposes silence and attention on everything loud and self conceited, which smooths 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, and to grasp more delicately, which sends the hidden and forgotten trea measure the drop of goodness and sweet spirituality under thick dark ice, and is a divining rod for every grain of gold long buried and imprisoned in mud and sand. The genius of the heart, from contact with which everyone goes away richer, not favored or surprised, not as though gratified and oppressed by the good things of others, but richer in himself, newer than before, broken up, blown upon and sounded by a thawing wind, more uncertain, perhaps more delicate, more fragile, more bruised, but full of hopes, which is yet lack names, full of a new will and current, full of a new ill will and countercurrent. But what am I doing, my friends? Of whom am I talking to you? Have I forgotten myself so far that I have not even told you his name, unless it be that you have already divined of your own accord, who this questionable god and spirit is that wishes to be praised in such a manner. For, as it happens to everyone who, from childhood onward has always been on his legs and in foreign lands, I have also encountered on my path many strange and dangerous spirits. Above all, however, and again and again, the one whom I have just spoken, in fact no less a personage than the God Dionysus, the great equivocator and tempter, to whom, as you know, I once offered in all secrecy and reverence my first fruits, the last, as it seems to me, who has offered a sacrifice to him, For I have found no one who could understand what I was then doing. In the meantime, however, I have learned much, far too much about the philosophy of this God. And as I said from mouth to mouth, I the last disciple and initiate of the God Dionysus. And perhaps I might at last begin to give you, my friends, as far as I am allowed, a little taste of this philosophy in a hushed voice, as is but seemly, for it has to do with much that is secret, new, strange, wonderful, and uncanny. The very fact that Dionysia is a philosopher, and that therefore gods also philosophize, seems to me a novelty that is not unensnaring, and might perhaps arouse suspicion precisely among philosophers. Among you, my friends, there is less to be said against it, except that it comes too late and not at the right time. For as it has been disclosed to me, you are loath nowadays to believe in God and gods. It may happen too, that, in the frankness of my story I must go further than is agreeable to the strict usages of your ears. Certainly, the god in question went further, very much further in such dialogs, and was always many paces ahead of me. Indeed, if it were allowed, I should have to give him, according to human usage, fine ceremonious tides of luster and merit. I should have to extol his courage as investigator and discoverer, his fearless honesty, truthfulness, and love of wisdom. But such a god does not know what to do with all that respectable trumpery and pomp keep that he would say, for thyself and those like THEE, and whoever else require it, I have no reason to cover my nakedness. One suspects that this kind of divinity and philosopher perhaps lacks shame. He once said, under certain circumstances, I love mankind, and referred thereby to Ariadne, who is present. In my opinion, man is an agreeable, brave, inventive animal that is not his equal upon earth. He makes his way even through all labyrinths. I like man, and often think how I can still further advance him, and make him stronger, more evil and more profound. Stronger, more evil, and more profound, I asked, in horror. Yes, he said again, stronger, more evil, and more profound, also more beautiful. And thereby the tempter God smiled with his halcyon smile, as though he had just paid some charming compliment. One here sees at once that it is not only shame that this divinity lacks, And in general there are good grounds for supposing that in some things the gods could all of them come to us men for instruction? We men are more human Alas what are you, after all, my written and painted thoughts? Not long ago you were so variegated, young and malicious, so full of thorns and secret spices, that you made me sneeze and laugh. And now you have already doffed your novelty. And some of you, I fear, are ready to become truths so immortal do they look so pathetically honest, so tedious? And was it ever otherwise? What then do we write and paint, we mandarins with Chinese brush, We immortalizers of things which lend themselves to writing? What are we alone capable of painting? Alas only that which is just about to fade and begins to lose its odor? Alas only exhausted and departing storms and belated yellow sentiments, Alas only birds strayed and fatigued by flight, which now let themselves be captured with the hand. With our hand, we immortalize what cannot live and fly much longer, things only which are exhausted and mellow. And it is only for your afternoon, you, my written and painted thoughts, for which alone I have colors, many colors, perhaps many variegated softenings, and fifty yellows and browns, and greens and reds. But nobody will divine thereby. How ye look'd in your mourning, you sudden sparks and marvels of my solitude, you, my old beloved evil Thoughts from the Heights by f. Ve Nietzsche, translated by L. A. Manus. Mid Day of life, O season of delight, my summer's park, unceaseful joy, to look, to, lurk, to hark, I peer for friends, and ready day and night where linger, ye, my friends, the time is right? Is not the glaciers gray to day for you? Rose garlanded, the brooklet seeks you, wind cloud with longing thread, and thrust themselves yet higher to the blue to spy for you from farthest eagle's view. My table was spread out for you on high Who dwelleth so star near so near the grisly pit below my realm? What realm hath wider boundary? My honey, who hath sipped its fragrancy? Friends, he are there, woe me? Yet I am not he whom ye seek. Ye stare and stop better your wrath could speak. I am not I hand gait, face changed, and what I am to you? My friends? Now? Am I not? Am I another? Strange? Am I to me? Yet from me sprung a wrestler by himself too oft, self wrung, hindering too oft, my own self's potency wounded and hampered by self victory. I sought whereso the wind's blow keenest There I learned to dwell where no man dwells, unlonesome, icelorn fell and unlearned man, and God and curse and prayer became a ghost haunting the glacier's bear. Yes, my old friend's look ye turned pale, filled oar with love and fear. Go, Yet not in wrath, ye could ne'er live here here in the farthest realm of ice and scar A huntsman. Must one be like Chamis Sore, an evil huntsman? Was I see how taut my bow was bent? Strongest was he by whom such bolt were sent? Woe? Now that arrow is with peril, fraught, perilous as none have yon safe home. Ye sought ye go thou didst endure in n o heart? Strong was thy hope unto new friends, thy portals widely ope, let old ones be bid, memory depart, whilst thou young then now better young? Thou art what linked us once together? One hope's tie? Who now doth con those lines? Now fading? Love once wrote thereon is like a parchment which the hand is shy to touch, Like crackling leaves, all seared, all dry, Oh friends, no more? They are? What name for those friend's phantom flight knocking at my heart's window pane at night, gazing on me, that speaks we were and goes, oh withered words, once fragrant as the rose pinings of youth that might not understand, for which I pined, which I deemed changed with me, kin of my kind. But they grew old, and thus were doomed and banned, none but new kith, native of my land, mid day of life, my second youth's delight, my summer's park, unrestful joy, to long, to lurk, to hark, I peer for friends, am ready day and night for my new friends, Come come. The time is right, This song is done. The sweet sad cry of rue sang out its end. A wizard wrought it, he the timely friend, the mid day, friend, No, do not ask me who at mid day. Twas when one became us two, we keep our feast of feasts, sure of our born, our aims self saying the guest of guests, friend, Zarathustra came the world now laughs. The grisly veil was torn, and light and dark were one that wedding morn, end of Frederic nietzsche'z Beyond Good and Evil