Reading Help Beyond good and evil
he has said to himself--and has become self-distrustful and `
` henceforth for ever 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 [GREEK INSERTED `
` HERE], "the right time"--in order to take chance by the forelock! `
` `
` 275. 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. `
` `
` 276. 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.-- `
` `
` 277. 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!-- `
` `
` 278.--Wanderer, who art thou? I see thee follow thy path without `
` scorn, without love, with unfathomable eyes, wet and sad as a `
` plummet which has 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 hand which `
` only slowly grasps: who art thou? what hast thou done? Rest thee `
` here: this place has hospitality for every one--refresh thyself! `
` And whoever thou art, what is it that now pleases 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!" `
` `
` 279. 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! `
` `
` 280. "Bad! Bad! What? Does he not--go back?" Yes! But you `
` misunderstand him when you complain about it. He goes back like `
` every one who is about to make a great spring. `
` `
` 281.--"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 an unconquerable distrust of the POSSIBILITY of self- `
` knowledge, which has led me so far as to feel a CONTRADICTIO IN `
` ADJECTO 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 is sufficiently agreeable to me." `
` `
` 282.--"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 apart? 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, know the dangerous DYSPEPSIA which `
` originates from a sudden insight and disillusionment about our `
` food and our messmates--the AFTER-DINNER NAUSEA. `
` `
` 283. If one wishes to praise at all, it is a delicate and at the `
` same time a noble self-control, to 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 neighbourhood and friendship. `
` `
` 284. To live in a vast and proud tranquility; always beyond . . . `
` To have, or not to have, one's emotions, one's For and Against, `
` according to choice; to lower oneself to them for hours; to SEAT `
` oneself 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 bias 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." `
` `
` 285. 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 as 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 a `
` 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. `
` `
` 286. "Here is the prospect free, the mind exalted." [FOOTNOTE: `
` Goethe's "Faust," Part II, Act V. The words of Dr. Marianus.]-- `
` But there is a reverse kind of man, who is also upon a height, `
` and has also a free prospect--but looks DOWNWARDS. `
` `
` 287. What is noble? What does the word "noble" still mean for us `
` nowadays? How does the noble man betray himself, how is he `
` recognized 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 plenty 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 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--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.-- `
` `
` 288. 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 `
` everyday life is often as desirable as an umbrella,--is called `
` ENTHUSIASM, including what belongs to it, for instance, virtue. `
` For as Galiani said, who was obliged to know it: VERTU EST `
` ENTHOUSIASME. `
` `
` 289. 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, there 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 in 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-colour of their own, and an odour, `
` as much of the depth as of the mould, something uncommunicative `
` and repulsive, which blows chilly upon every passerby. 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 "foundation." Every philosophy is a `
` foreground philosophy--this is a recluse's 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. `
` `
` 290. 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?" `
` `
` 291. Man, a COMPLEX, mendacious, artful, and inscrutable animal, `
` uncanny to the other animals by his artifice and sagacity, rather `
` than by his strength, has 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 enjoyment at the sight of the soul becomes possible. `
` From this point of view there is perhaps much more in the `
` conception of "art" than is generally believed. `
` `
` 292. A philosopher: that is a man who constantly experiences, `
` sees, hears, suspects, hopes, and dreams extraordinary things; `
`
` henceforth for ever 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 [GREEK INSERTED `
` HERE], "the right time"--in order to take chance by the forelock! `
` `
` 275. 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. `
` `
` 276. 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.-- `
` `
` 277. 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!-- `
` `
` 278.--Wanderer, who art thou? I see thee follow thy path without `
` scorn, without love, with unfathomable eyes, wet and sad as a `
` plummet which has 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 hand which `
` only slowly grasps: who art thou? what hast thou done? Rest thee `
` here: this place has hospitality for every one--refresh thyself! `
` And whoever thou art, what is it that now pleases 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!" `
` `
` 279. 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! `
` `
` 280. "Bad! Bad! What? Does he not--go back?" Yes! But you `
` misunderstand him when you complain about it. He goes back like `
` every one who is about to make a great spring. `
` `
` 281.--"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 an unconquerable distrust of the POSSIBILITY of self- `
` knowledge, which has led me so far as to feel a CONTRADICTIO IN `
` ADJECTO 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 is sufficiently agreeable to me." `
` `
` 282.--"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 apart? 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, know the dangerous DYSPEPSIA which `
` originates from a sudden insight and disillusionment about our `
` food and our messmates--the AFTER-DINNER NAUSEA. `
` `
` 283. If one wishes to praise at all, it is a delicate and at the `
` same time a noble self-control, to 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 neighbourhood and friendship. `
` `
` 284. To live in a vast and proud tranquility; always beyond . . . `
` To have, or not to have, one's emotions, one's For and Against, `
` according to choice; to lower oneself to them for hours; to SEAT `
` oneself 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 bias 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." `
` `
` 285. 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 as 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 a `
` 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. `
` `
` 286. "Here is the prospect free, the mind exalted." [FOOTNOTE: `
` Goethe's "Faust," Part II, Act V. The words of Dr. Marianus.]-- `
` But there is a reverse kind of man, who is also upon a height, `
` and has also a free prospect--but looks DOWNWARDS. `
` `
` 287. What is noble? What does the word "noble" still mean for us `
` nowadays? How does the noble man betray himself, how is he `
` recognized 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 plenty 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 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--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.-- `
` `
` 288. 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 `
` everyday life is often as desirable as an umbrella,--is called `
` ENTHUSIASM, including what belongs to it, for instance, virtue. `
` For as Galiani said, who was obliged to know it: VERTU EST `
` ENTHOUSIASME. `
` `
` 289. 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, there 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 in 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-colour of their own, and an odour, `
` as much of the depth as of the mould, something uncommunicative `
` and repulsive, which blows chilly upon every passerby. 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 "foundation." Every philosophy is a `
` foreground philosophy--this is a recluse's 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. `
` `
` 290. 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?" `
` `
` 291. Man, a COMPLEX, mendacious, artful, and inscrutable animal, `
` uncanny to the other animals by his artifice and sagacity, rather `
` than by his strength, has 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 enjoyment at the sight of the soul becomes possible. `
` From this point of view there is perhaps much more in the `
` conception of "art" than is generally believed. `
` `
` 292. A philosopher: that is a man who constantly experiences, `
` sees, hears, suspects, hopes, and dreams extraordinary things; `
`