Reading Help Beyond good and evil
`
` 220. Now that the praise of the "disinterested person" is so `
` popular one must--probably not without some danger--get an idea `
` of WHAT people actually take an interest in, and what are the `
` things generally which fundamentally and profoundly concern `
` ordinary men--including the cultured, even the learned, and `
` perhaps philosophers also, if appearances do not deceive. The `
` fact thereby becomes obvious that the greater part of what `
` interests and charms higher natures, and more refined and `
` fastidious tastes, seems absolutely "uninteresting" to the `
` average man--if, notwithstanding, he perceive devotion to these `
` interests, he calls it desinteresse, and wonders how it is `
` possible to act "disinterestedly." There have been philosophers `
` who could give this popular astonishment a seductive and `
` mystical, other-worldly expression (perhaps because they did not `
` know the higher nature by experience?), instead of stating the `
` naked and candidly reasonable truth that "disinterested" action `
` is very interesting and "interested" action, provided that. . . `
` "And love?"--What! Even an action for love's sake shall be `
` "unegoistic"? But you fools--! "And the praise of the self- `
` sacrificer?"--But whoever has really offered sacrifice knows that `
` he wanted and obtained something for it--perhaps something from `
` himself for something from himself; that he relinquished here in `
` order to have more there, perhaps in general to be more, or even `
` feel himself "more." But this is a realm of questions and answers `
` in which a more fastidious spirit does not like to stay: for here `
` truth has to stifle her yawns so much when she is obliged to `
` answer. And after all, truth is a woman; one must not use force `
` with her. `
` `
` 221. "It sometimes happens," said a moralistic pedant and trifle- `
` retailer, "that I honour and respect an unselfish man: not, `
` however, because he is unselfish, but because I think he has a `
` right to be useful to another man at his own expense. In short, `
` the question is always who HE is, and who THE OTHER is. For `
` instance, in a person created and destined for command, self- `
` denial and modest retirement, instead of being virtues, would be `
` the waste of virtues: so it seems to me. Every system of `
` unegoistic morality which takes itself unconditionally and `
` appeals to every one, not only sins against good taste, but is `
` also an incentive to sins of omission, an ADDITIONAL seduction `
` under the mask of philanthropy--and precisely a seduction and `
` injury to the higher, rarer, and more privileged types of men. `
` Moral systems must be compelled first of all to bow before the `
` GRADATIONS OF RANK; their presumption must be driven home to `
` their conscience--until they thoroughly understand at last that `
` it is IMMORAL to say that 'what is right for one is proper for `
` another.'"--So said my moralistic pedant and bonhomme. Did he `
` perhaps deserve to be laughed at when he thus exhorted systems of `
` morals to practise morality? But one should not be too much in `
` the right if one wishes to have the laughers on ONE'S OWN side; a `
` grain of wrong pertains even to good taste. `
` `
` 222. Wherever sympathy (fellow-suffering) is preached nowadays-- `
` and, if I gather rightly, no other religion is any longer `
` preached--let the psychologist have his ears open through all the `
` vanity, through all the noise which is natural to these preachers `
` (as to all preachers), he will hear a hoarse, groaning, genuine `
` note of SELF-CONTEMPT. It belongs to the overshadowing and `
` uglifying of Europe, which has been on the increase for a century `
` (the first symptoms of which are already specified documentarily `
` in a thoughtful letter of Galiani to Madame d'Epinay)--IF IT IS `
` NOT REALLY THE CAUSE THEREOF! The man of "modern ideas," the `
` conceited ape, is excessively dissatisfied with himself-this is `
` perfectly certain. He suffers, and his vanity wants him only "to `
` suffer with his fellows." `
` `
` 223. The hybrid European--a tolerably ugly plebeian, taken all in `
` all--absolutely requires a costume: he needs history as a `
` storeroom of costumes. To be sure, he notices that none of the `
` costumes fit him properly--he changes and changes. Let us look at `
` the nineteenth century with respect to these hasty preferences `
` and changes in its masquerades of style, and also with respect to `
` its moments of desperation on account of "nothing suiting" us. It `
` is in vain to get ourselves up as romantic, or classical, or `
` Christian, or Florentine, or barocco, or "national," in moribus `
` et artibus: it does not "clothe us"! But the "spirit," especially `
` the "historical spirit," profits even by this desperation: once `
` and again a new sample of the past or of the foreign is tested, `
` put on, taken off, packed up, and above all studied--we are the `
` first studious age in puncto of "costumes," I mean as concerns `
` morals, articles of belief, artistic tastes, and religions; we `
` are prepared as no other age has ever been for a carnival in the `
` grand style, for the most spiritual festival--laughter and `
` arrogance, for the transcendental height of supreme folly and `
` Aristophanic ridicule of the world. Perhaps we are still `
` discovering the domain of our invention just here, the domain `
` where even we can still be original, probably as parodists of the `
` world's history and as God's Merry-Andrews,--perhaps, though `
` nothing else of the present have a future, our laughter itself `
` may have a future! `
` `
` 224. The historical sense (or the capacity for divining quickly `
` the order of rank of the valuations according to which a people, `
` a community, or an individual has lived, the "divining instinct" `
` for the relationships of these valuations, for the relation of `
` the authority of the valuations to the authority of the operating `
` forces),--this historical sense, which we Europeans claim as our `
` specialty, has come to us in the train of the enchanting and mad `
` semi-barbarity into which Europe has been plunged by the `
` democratic mingling of classes and races--it is only the `
` nineteenth century that has recognized this faculty as its sixth `
` sense. Owing to this mingling, the past of every form and mode of `
` life, and of cultures which were formerly closely contiguous and `
` superimposed on one another, flows forth into us "modern souls"; `
` our instincts now run back in all directions, we ourselves are a `
` kind of chaos: in the end, as we have said, the spirit perceives `
` its advantage therein. By means of our semi-barbarity in body and `
` in desire, we have secret access everywhere, such as a noble age `
` never had; we have access above all to the labyrinth of imperfect `
` civilizations, and to every form of semi-barbarity that has at `
` any time existed on earth; and in so far as the most considerable `
` part of human civilization hitherto has just been semi-barbarity, `
` the "historical sense" implies almost the sense and instinct for `
` everything, the taste and tongue for everything: whereby it `
` immediately proves itself to be an IGNOBLE sense. For instance, `
` we enjoy Homer once more: it is perhaps our happiest acquisition `
` that we know how to appreciate Homer, whom men of distinguished `
` culture (as the French of the seventeenth century, like Saint- `
` Evremond, who reproached him for his ESPRIT VASTE, and even `
` Voltaire, the last echo of the century) cannot and could not so `
` easily appropriate--whom they scarcely permitted themselves to `
` enjoy. The very decided Yea and Nay of their palate, their `
` promptly ready disgust, their hesitating reluctance with regard `
` to everything strange, their horror of the bad taste even of `
` lively curiosity, and in general the averseness of every `
` distinguished and self-sufficing culture to avow a new desire, a `
` dissatisfaction with its own condition, or an admiration of what `
` is strange: all this determines and disposes them unfavourably `
` even towards the best things of the world which are not their `
` property or could not become their prey--and no faculty is more `
` unintelligible to such men than just this historical sense, with `
` its truckling, plebeian curiosity. The case is not different with `
` Shakespeare, that marvelous Spanish-Moorish-Saxon synthesis of `
` taste, over whom an ancient Athenian of the circle of Eschylus `
` would have half-killed himself with laughter or irritation: but `
` we--accept precisely this wild motleyness, this medley of the `
` most delicate, the most coarse, and the most artificial, with a `
` secret confidence and cordiality; we enjoy it as a refinement of `
` art reserved expressly for us, and allow ourselves to be as `
` little disturbed by the repulsive fumes and the proximity of the `
` English populace in which Shakespeare's art and taste lives, as `
` perhaps on the Chiaja of Naples, where, with all our senses `
` awake, we go our way, enchanted and voluntarily, in spite of the `
` drain-odour of the lower quarters of the town. That as men of the `
` "historical sense" we have our virtues, is not to be disputed:-- `
` we are unpretentious, unselfish, modest, brave, habituated to `
` self-control and self-renunciation, very grateful, very patient, `
` very complaisant--but with all this we are perhaps not very `
` "tasteful." Let us finally confess it, that what is most `
` difficult for us men of the "historical sense" to grasp, feel, `
` taste, and love, what finds us fundamentally prejudiced and `
` almost hostile, is precisely the perfection and ultimate maturity `
` in every culture and art, the essentially noble in works and men, `
` their moment of smooth sea and halcyon self-sufficiency, the `
` goldenness and coldness which all things show that have perfected `
` themselves. Perhaps our great virtue of the historical sense is `
` in necessary contrast to GOOD taste, at least to the very bad `
` taste; and we can only evoke in ourselves imperfectly, `
` hesitatingly, and with compulsion the small, short, and happy `
` godsends and glorifications of human life as they shine here and `
` there: those moments and marvelous experiences when a great power `
` has voluntarily come to a halt before the boundless and `
` infinite,--when a super-abundance of refined delight has been `
` enjoyed by a sudden checking and petrifying, by standing firmly `
` and planting oneself fixedly on still trembling ground. `
` PROPORTIONATENESS is strange to us, let us confess it to `
` ourselves; our itching is really the itching for the infinite, `
` the immeasurable. Like the rider on his forward panting horse, we `
` let the reins fall before the infinite, we modern men, we semi- `
` barbarians--and are only in OUR highest bliss when we--ARE IN `
` MOST DANGER. `
` `
` 225. Whether it be hedonism, pessimism, utilitarianism, or `
` eudaemonism, all those modes of thinking which measure the worth `
` of things according to PLEASURE and PAIN, that is, according to `
` accompanying circumstances and secondary considerations, are `
` plausible modes of thought and naivetes, which every one `
` conscious of CREATIVE powers and an artist's conscience will look `
` down upon with scorn, though not without sympathy. Sympathy for `
` you!--to be sure, that is not sympathy as you understand it: it `
` is not sympathy for social "distress," for "society" with its `
` sick and misfortuned, for the hereditarily vicious and defective `
` who lie on the ground around us; still less is it sympathy for `
` the grumbling, vexed, revolutionary slave-classes who strive `
` after power--they call it "freedom." OUR sympathy is a loftier `
` and further-sighted sympathy:--we see how MAN dwarfs himself, how `
` YOU dwarf him! and there are moments when we view YOUR sympathy `
` with an indescribable anguish, when we resist it,--when we regard `
` your seriousness as more dangerous than any kind of levity. You `
` want, if possible--and there is not a more foolish "if possible" `
` --TO DO AWAY WITH SUFFERING; and we?--it really seems that WE `
` would rather have it increased and made worse than it has ever `
` been! Well-being, as you understand it--is certainly not a goal; `
` it seems to us an END; a condition which at once renders man `
` ludicrous and contemptible--and makes his destruction DESIRABLE! `
` The discipline of suffering, of GREAT suffering--know ye not that `
` it is only THIS discipline that has produced all the elevations `
` of humanity hitherto? The tension of soul in misfortune which `
` communicates to it its energy, its shuddering in view of rack and `
` ruin, its inventiveness and bravery in undergoing, enduring, `
`
` 220. Now that the praise of the "disinterested person" is so `
` popular one must--probably not without some danger--get an idea `
` of WHAT people actually take an interest in, and what are the `
` things generally which fundamentally and profoundly concern `
` ordinary men--including the cultured, even the learned, and `
` perhaps philosophers also, if appearances do not deceive. The `
` fact thereby becomes obvious that the greater part of what `
` interests and charms higher natures, and more refined and `
` fastidious tastes, seems absolutely "uninteresting" to the `
` average man--if, notwithstanding, he perceive devotion to these `
` interests, he calls it desinteresse, and wonders how it is `
` possible to act "disinterestedly." There have been philosophers `
` who could give this popular astonishment a seductive and `
` mystical, other-worldly expression (perhaps because they did not `
` know the higher nature by experience?), instead of stating the `
` naked and candidly reasonable truth that "disinterested" action `
` is very interesting and "interested" action, provided that. . . `
` "And love?"--What! Even an action for love's sake shall be `
` "unegoistic"? But you fools--! "And the praise of the self- `
` sacrificer?"--But whoever has really offered sacrifice knows that `
` he wanted and obtained something for it--perhaps something from `
` himself for something from himself; that he relinquished here in `
` order to have more there, perhaps in general to be more, or even `
` feel himself "more." But this is a realm of questions and answers `
` in which a more fastidious spirit does not like to stay: for here `
` truth has to stifle her yawns so much when she is obliged to `
` answer. And after all, truth is a woman; one must not use force `
` with her. `
` `
` 221. "It sometimes happens," said a moralistic pedant and trifle- `
` retailer, "that I honour and respect an unselfish man: not, `
` however, because he is unselfish, but because I think he has a `
` right to be useful to another man at his own expense. In short, `
` the question is always who HE is, and who THE OTHER is. For `
` instance, in a person created and destined for command, self- `
` denial and modest retirement, instead of being virtues, would be `
` the waste of virtues: so it seems to me. Every system of `
` unegoistic morality which takes itself unconditionally and `
` appeals to every one, not only sins against good taste, but is `
` also an incentive to sins of omission, an ADDITIONAL seduction `
` under the mask of philanthropy--and precisely a seduction and `
` injury to the higher, rarer, and more privileged types of men. `
` Moral systems must be compelled first of all to bow before the `
` GRADATIONS OF RANK; their presumption must be driven home to `
` their conscience--until they thoroughly understand at last that `
` it is IMMORAL to say that 'what is right for one is proper for `
` another.'"--So said my moralistic pedant and bonhomme. Did he `
` perhaps deserve to be laughed at when he thus exhorted systems of `
` morals to practise morality? But one should not be too much in `
` the right if one wishes to have the laughers on ONE'S OWN side; a `
` grain of wrong pertains even to good taste. `
` `
` 222. Wherever sympathy (fellow-suffering) is preached nowadays-- `
` and, if I gather rightly, no other religion is any longer `
` preached--let the psychologist have his ears open through all the `
` vanity, through all the noise which is natural to these preachers `
` (as to all preachers), he will hear a hoarse, groaning, genuine `
` note of SELF-CONTEMPT. It belongs to the overshadowing and `
` uglifying of Europe, which has been on the increase for a century `
` (the first symptoms of which are already specified documentarily `
` in a thoughtful letter of Galiani to Madame d'Epinay)--IF IT IS `
` NOT REALLY THE CAUSE THEREOF! The man of "modern ideas," the `
` conceited ape, is excessively dissatisfied with himself-this is `
` perfectly certain. He suffers, and his vanity wants him only "to `
` suffer with his fellows." `
` `
` 223. The hybrid European--a tolerably ugly plebeian, taken all in `
` all--absolutely requires a costume: he needs history as a `
` storeroom of costumes. To be sure, he notices that none of the `
` costumes fit him properly--he changes and changes. Let us look at `
` the nineteenth century with respect to these hasty preferences `
` and changes in its masquerades of style, and also with respect to `
` its moments of desperation on account of "nothing suiting" us. It `
` is in vain to get ourselves up as romantic, or classical, or `
` Christian, or Florentine, or barocco, or "national," in moribus `
` et artibus: it does not "clothe us"! But the "spirit," especially `
` the "historical spirit," profits even by this desperation: once `
` and again a new sample of the past or of the foreign is tested, `
` put on, taken off, packed up, and above all studied--we are the `
` first studious age in puncto of "costumes," I mean as concerns `
` morals, articles of belief, artistic tastes, and religions; we `
` are prepared as no other age has ever been for a carnival in the `
` grand style, for the most spiritual festival--laughter and `
` arrogance, for the transcendental height of supreme folly and `
` Aristophanic ridicule of the world. Perhaps we are still `
` discovering the domain of our invention just here, the domain `
` where even we can still be original, probably as parodists of the `
` world's history and as God's Merry-Andrews,--perhaps, though `
` nothing else of the present have a future, our laughter itself `
` may have a future! `
` `
` 224. The historical sense (or the capacity for divining quickly `
` the order of rank of the valuations according to which a people, `
` a community, or an individual has lived, the "divining instinct" `
` for the relationships of these valuations, for the relation of `
` the authority of the valuations to the authority of the operating `
` forces),--this historical sense, which we Europeans claim as our `
` specialty, has come to us in the train of the enchanting and mad `
` semi-barbarity into which Europe has been plunged by the `
` democratic mingling of classes and races--it is only the `
` nineteenth century that has recognized this faculty as its sixth `
` sense. Owing to this mingling, the past of every form and mode of `
` life, and of cultures which were formerly closely contiguous and `
` superimposed on one another, flows forth into us "modern souls"; `
` our instincts now run back in all directions, we ourselves are a `
` kind of chaos: in the end, as we have said, the spirit perceives `
` its advantage therein. By means of our semi-barbarity in body and `
` in desire, we have secret access everywhere, such as a noble age `
` never had; we have access above all to the labyrinth of imperfect `
` civilizations, and to every form of semi-barbarity that has at `
` any time existed on earth; and in so far as the most considerable `
` part of human civilization hitherto has just been semi-barbarity, `
` the "historical sense" implies almost the sense and instinct for `
` everything, the taste and tongue for everything: whereby it `
` immediately proves itself to be an IGNOBLE sense. For instance, `
` we enjoy Homer once more: it is perhaps our happiest acquisition `
` that we know how to appreciate Homer, whom men of distinguished `
` culture (as the French of the seventeenth century, like Saint- `
` Evremond, who reproached him for his ESPRIT VASTE, and even `
` Voltaire, the last echo of the century) cannot and could not so `
` easily appropriate--whom they scarcely permitted themselves to `
` enjoy. The very decided Yea and Nay of their palate, their `
` promptly ready disgust, their hesitating reluctance with regard `
` to everything strange, their horror of the bad taste even of `
` lively curiosity, and in general the averseness of every `
` distinguished and self-sufficing culture to avow a new desire, a `
` dissatisfaction with its own condition, or an admiration of what `
` is strange: all this determines and disposes them unfavourably `
` even towards the best things of the world which are not their `
` property or could not become their prey--and no faculty is more `
` unintelligible to such men than just this historical sense, with `
` its truckling, plebeian curiosity. The case is not different with `
` Shakespeare, that marvelous Spanish-Moorish-Saxon synthesis of `
` taste, over whom an ancient Athenian of the circle of Eschylus `
` would have half-killed himself with laughter or irritation: but `
` we--accept precisely this wild motleyness, this medley of the `
` most delicate, the most coarse, and the most artificial, with a `
` secret confidence and cordiality; we enjoy it as a refinement of `
` art reserved expressly for us, and allow ourselves to be as `
` little disturbed by the repulsive fumes and the proximity of the `
` English populace in which Shakespeare's art and taste lives, as `
` perhaps on the Chiaja of Naples, where, with all our senses `
` awake, we go our way, enchanted and voluntarily, in spite of the `
` drain-odour of the lower quarters of the town. That as men of the `
` "historical sense" we have our virtues, is not to be disputed:-- `
` we are unpretentious, unselfish, modest, brave, habituated to `
` self-control and self-renunciation, very grateful, very patient, `
` very complaisant--but with all this we are perhaps not very `
` "tasteful." Let us finally confess it, that what is most `
` difficult for us men of the "historical sense" to grasp, feel, `
` taste, and love, what finds us fundamentally prejudiced and `
` almost hostile, is precisely the perfection and ultimate maturity `
` in every culture and art, the essentially noble in works and men, `
` their moment of smooth sea and halcyon self-sufficiency, the `
` goldenness and coldness which all things show that have perfected `
` themselves. Perhaps our great virtue of the historical sense is `
` in necessary contrast to GOOD taste, at least to the very bad `
` taste; and we can only evoke in ourselves imperfectly, `
` hesitatingly, and with compulsion the small, short, and happy `
` godsends and glorifications of human life as they shine here and `
` there: those moments and marvelous experiences when a great power `
` has voluntarily come to a halt before the boundless and `
` infinite,--when a super-abundance of refined delight has been `
` enjoyed by a sudden checking and petrifying, by standing firmly `
` and planting oneself fixedly on still trembling ground. `
` PROPORTIONATENESS is strange to us, let us confess it to `
` ourselves; our itching is really the itching for the infinite, `
` the immeasurable. Like the rider on his forward panting horse, we `
` let the reins fall before the infinite, we modern men, we semi- `
` barbarians--and are only in OUR highest bliss when we--ARE IN `
` MOST DANGER. `
` `
` 225. Whether it be hedonism, pessimism, utilitarianism, or `
` eudaemonism, all those modes of thinking which measure the worth `
` of things according to PLEASURE and PAIN, that is, according to `
` accompanying circumstances and secondary considerations, are `
` plausible modes of thought and naivetes, which every one `
` conscious of CREATIVE powers and an artist's conscience will look `
` down upon with scorn, though not without sympathy. Sympathy for `
` you!--to be sure, that is not sympathy as you understand it: it `
` is not sympathy for social "distress," for "society" with its `
` sick and misfortuned, for the hereditarily vicious and defective `
` who lie on the ground around us; still less is it sympathy for `
` the grumbling, vexed, revolutionary slave-classes who strive `
` after power--they call it "freedom." OUR sympathy is a loftier `
` and further-sighted sympathy:--we see how MAN dwarfs himself, how `
` YOU dwarf him! and there are moments when we view YOUR sympathy `
` with an indescribable anguish, when we resist it,--when we regard `
` your seriousness as more dangerous than any kind of levity. You `
` want, if possible--and there is not a more foolish "if possible" `
` --TO DO AWAY WITH SUFFERING; and we?--it really seems that WE `
` would rather have it increased and made worse than it has ever `
` been! Well-being, as you understand it--is certainly not a goal; `
` it seems to us an END; a condition which at once renders man `
` ludicrous and contemptible--and makes his destruction DESIRABLE! `
` The discipline of suffering, of GREAT suffering--know ye not that `
` it is only THIS discipline that has produced all the elevations `
` of humanity hitherto? The tension of soul in misfortune which `
` communicates to it its energy, its shuddering in view of rack and `
` ruin, its inventiveness and bravery in undergoing, enduring, `
`