Nietzsche, Frederich - Ecce Homo

8/8/2019 Nietzsche, Frederich - Ecce Homo

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Ecce HomoHow One Becomes

What One Is

Nietzsche

Why I am So Wise

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The happiness of my existence, its unique character perhaps, lies in

its fatefulness: expressing it in the form of a riddle, as my own fatheI am already dead, as my own mother I still live and, grow old. Thisdouble origin, taken as it were from the highest and lowest rungs ofthe ladder of life, at once a decadence and a beginning, this, ifanything, explains that neutrality, that freedom from partisanshipwith regard to the general problem of life, which perhapsdistinguishes me. I am more sensitive to the first indications ofascent and descent than any man that has yet lived. In this domain Iam a master par excellence-I know both sides, for I am both sides. Mfather died in his thirty-sixth year: he was delicate, lovable, and

morbid, like one fated for but a short life-a gracious reminder of liferather than life itself. In the same year that his life declined mine alsdeclined: in my thirty-sixth year my vitality reached its lowest point-still lived, but I could not see three paces before me. At that time-itwas the year i879-1 resigned my professorship at Base], livedthrough the summer like a shadow in St. Moritz, and spent thefollowing winter, the most sunless of my life, like a shadow inNaumburg. I was then at my lowest ebb. The Wanderer and HisShadow was the product of this period. There is no doubt that I was

familiar with shadows then. The following winter, my first winter inGenoa, brought with it that sweetness and spirituality which is almosinseparable from extreme poverty of blood and muscle, in the shapeof The Dawn of Day. The perfect brightness and cheerfulness, theintellectual exuberance even, that this work reflects, coincide, in mycase, not only with the most profound bodily weakness, but also withan excess of suffering. In the midst of the agony caused by a seventy


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two hour headache and violent attacks of nausea, I was possessed ofextraordinary dialectical clearness, and in utter cold blood I thenthought out things, for which, in my more healthy moments, I am notenough of a climber, not subtle enough, not cold enough. My readersmay know to what extent I consider dialectic a symptom ofdecadence, as, for example, in the most famous case of all-that ofSocrates. All the morbid disturbances of the intellect, even that semistupor which follows fever, are to this day strangers to me; and to

inform myself concerning their nature and frequency, I had to resortto learned works. My circulation is slow. No one has ever been able tdetect fever in me. A doctor who treated me for some time as a nervepatient finally declared: "No! there's nothing the matter with yournerves; I myself am the nervous one." They have been unable todiscover any local degeneration in me, or any organic stomachtrouble, however much I may have suffered from profound weaknessof the gastric system as the result of general exhaustion. Even myeye trouble, which at times approached dangerously near blinding,

was only an effect and not a cause; for, with every improvement ofmy general bodily health came a corresponding increase in my powerof vision. An all too long series of years meant recovery to me. But,sad to say, it also meant relapse, breakdown, periods of decadence.After this, need I say that I am experienced in questions ofdecadence? I know them inside and out. Even that filigree art ofapprehension and comprehension in general, that feeling fornuances, that psychology of "seeing what is around the comer," andwhatever else I may be able to do, was first learnt then, and is thespecific gift of that period during which everything in me wassubtilized-observation itself, together with all the organs ofobservation. To view healthier concepts and values from thestandpoint of the sick, and conversely to view the secret work of theinstinct of decadence out of the abundance and self-confidence of arich life-this has been my principal experience, what I have beenlongest trained in. If in anything at all, it was in this that I became amaster. To-day my hand is skillful; it has the knack of reversingperspectives: the first reason perhaps why a Transvaluation of allValues has been possible to me alone.

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Agreed that I am a decadent, I am also the very reverse. Among othethings there is this proof: I always instinctively select the properremedy in preference to harmful ones; whereas the decadent, assuch, invariably chooses those remedies which are bad for him. As awhole I was healthy, but in certain details I was a decadent. The

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energy with which I forced myself to absolute solitude, and to analienation from my customary habits of life; the self-discipline thatforbade me to be pampered, waited on, and doctored-all this betraysthe absolute certainty of my instincts in regard to what at that timewas most needful to me. I placed myself in my own hands, I restoredmyself to health: to do this, the first condition of success, as everyphysiologist will admit, is that the man be basically sound. A typicallymorbid nature cannot become healthy at all, much less by his own

efforts. On the other hand, to an intrinsically sound nature, illnessmay even act as a powerful stimulus to life, to an abundance of life. Iis thus that I now regard my long period of illness: it seemed then asif I had discovered life afresh, my own self included. I tasted all/ goodand even trifling things in a way in which others could not very welltaste them-out of my Will to Health and to Life I made my philosophy. . . For I wish this to be understood; it was during those, years ofmost lowered vitality that I ceased from being a pessimist: theinstinct of self-recovery bade a philosophy of poverty and

desperation. Now, how are we to recognize Nature's most excellenthuman products? They are recognized by the fact that an excellentman of this sort gladdens our senses; he is carved from a singleblock, which is hard, sweet, and fragrant. He enjoys only what is goofor him; his pleasure, his desire, ceases when the limits of what isgood for him are overstepped. He divines remedies against injuries;he knows how to turn serious accidents to his own advantage;whatever does not kill him makes him stronger. He instinctivelygathers his material from all he sees, hears, and experiences. He is aselective principle; he rejects much. He is always in his own companywhether his intercourse be with books, men or natural scenery; hehonors the things he chooses, the things he acknowledges, thething7s he trusts. He reacts slowly to all kinds of stimuli, with thattardiness which long caution and deliberate pride have bred in him-htests the approaching stimulus - would not think of going toward it.He believes in neither "ill-fortune" nor "guilt"; he can digest himselfand others; he knows how to forget-he is strong enough to makeeverything turn to his own advantage.

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

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This double series of experiences, this means of access to two worldsthat seem so far asunder, finds an exact reflection in my own nature-have an alter ego: I have a "second" sight, as well as a first. Perhaps

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even have a third sight. The very nature of my origin allowed me anoutlook transcending merely local, merely national and limitedhorizons; it cost me no effort to be a "good European." On the otherhand, I am perhaps more German than modern Germans-mereImperial Germans - can possibly be-I, the last anti-political German.And yet my ancestors were Polish noblemen: it is owing to them thathave so much race instinct in my blood-who knows? perhaps even theliberum veto. When I think of how often I have been accosted as a

Pole when traveling, even by Poles themselves, and how seldom Ihave been taken for a German, it seems to me as if I belonged tothose who have but a sprinkling of German in them. But my mother,Franziska Oehler, is at any rate something very German; as is also mpaternal grandmother, Erdmuthe Krause. The latter spent the wholeof her youth in good old Weimar, not without coming into contactwith Goethe's circle. Her brother, Krause, Professor of Theology inK6nigsberg, was called to the post of General Superintendent atWeimar after Herder's death. It is not unlikely that her mother, my

great-grandmother, appears in young Goethe's diary under the nameof "Muthgen." The husband of her second marriage wasSuperintendent Nietzsche of Eilenburg. On the 10th of October, 1813the year of the great war, when Napoleon with his general staffentered Eilenburg, she gave birth to a son. As a Saxon, she was agreat admirer of Napoleon, and perhaps I too am so still. My father,born in 1813, died in 1849. Before taking over the pastorship of theparish of R6cken, not far from Liltzen, he had lived for some years atthe Castle of Altenburg, where he had charge of the education of thefour princesses. His pupils are the Queen of Hanover, the Grand-Duchess Constantine, the Grand Duchess of Oldenburg, and thePrincess Theresa Of Saxe-Altenburg. He was full of pious respect forthe Prussian King, Frederick William the Fourth, from whom heobtained his living at Rocken; the events of 1848 caused him greatsorrow. As I was born on the 15th of October, the birthday of the kingabove mentioned, I naturally received the Hohenzollern names ofFrederick William. There was at all events one advantage in thechoice of this day: my birthday throughout my entire childhood was apublic holiday. I regard it as a great privilege to have had such a

father: it even seems to me that this exhausts all that I can claim inthe matter of privileges-life, the great yea to life, excepted. What Iowe to him above all is this, that I do not need any special intention,but merely patience, in order to enter involuntarily into a world ofhigher and finer things. There I am at home, there alone does myprofoundest passion have free play. The fact that I almost paid forthis privilege with my life, certainly does not make it a bad bargain.

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In order to understand even a little of my Zarathustra, perhaps a manmust be situated much as I am myself with one foot beyond life.

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I have never understood the art of arousing antagonism (and for thistoo, I may thank my incomparable father), even when it seemed tome most ,worth while to do so. However unchristian it may seem, I do

not even bear any ill-feeling towards myself. Examine my life as youmay, you will find but seldom-perhaps indeed only once-any trace ofsome one's having shown me ill-will; but you might perhaps discovertoo many traces of good-will. My experiences even with those withwhom every other man's relations have been disastrous, speakwithout exception in their favor; I tame every bear, I can make evenclowns behave well. During the seven years in which I taught Greekto the upper class of the College at Basel, I never had occasion toadminister a punishment; even the laziest youths were diligent in my

class. Accident has always found me ready for it; I must beunprepared in order to keep my self-command. I could take anyinstrument, even if it be as out of tune as only the instrument "man"can possibly be and - except when I was ill-I could always succeed incoaxing from it something worth hearing. And how often have I notbeen told by the "instruments" themselves, that they had neverbefore heard such utterances. . . . Perhaps the most charmingexpression of this feeling was that of young Heinrich von Stein, whodied at such an unpardonably early age, and who, after havingconsiderately secured permission, once appeared in Sils-Maria for a

three days' stay, explaining to every one there that he had not comebecause of the Engadine. This excellent person, who with all theimpetuous simplicity of a young Prussian nobleman, had waded deepinto the Wagnerian swamp (and into that of Duhringism besides! ),seemed during these three days almost transformed by a hurricane ofreedom, like one who has been suddenly raised to his full height andgiven wings. Again and again I told him that this was merely theresult of the bracing air; everybody felt the same - one could notstand 6ooo feet above Bayreuth without feeling it - but he would not

believe me. All this notwithstanding, if I have been the victim of mana small or even great offense, it was not "will," least of all ill-will, thacaused it; rather, as I have already indicated, it was good-will thatgave me cause to complain, that goodwill which is responsible for nosmall amount of mischief in my life. My experience gave me a right tofeel suspicious in regard to all so-called "unselfish" tendencies, inregard to the whole of "neighborly love" which is ever ready andwaiting with deeds or with advice. It seems to me that they are signs

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of weakness, examples of the inability to withstand an incitement-itis only among decedents that this pity is called a virtue. What Ireproach the pitiful with is, that they are too ready to forgetmodesty, reverence, and the delicacy of feeling which knows how tokeep at a distance; they forget that this sentimental pity stinks of thmob, and that it is but a step removed from bad manners-that pitifulhands may be thrust with destructive results into a great destiny,into a wounded isolation, and into the privileges that go with great

guilt. The overcoming of pity I reckon among the noble virtues. In the"Temptation of Zarathustra" I have imagined a case, in which hehears a great cry of distress, in which pity swoops down upon him lika last sin, seeking to make him break faith with himself. To remain inaster over one's self in such circumstances, to keep the sublimity ofone's mission free from the many ignoble and more short-sightedimpulses which so-called unselfish actions excite-this is the test, thelast test perhaps, which a Zarathustra has to undergo-the real proofof his power.

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In yet another respect I am simply my father over again, and as itwere the continuation of his life after an all-too-early death. Likeevery man who has never been able to meet his equal, and to whomthe notion of "retaliation" is just as incomprehensible as the notion o"equal rights," I have forbidden myself all measures of security orprotection and also, naturally, of defense and "justification" in allcases where I have encountered foolishness, whether trifling or very

great. My form of retaliation is this: as soon as possible I follow upmy encounter with stupidity with a piece of cleverness; by this meanperhaps one may still overtake it. To use an image: I swallow a pot ofjam in order to get rid of a sour taste. . . . just let anybody give meoffense-I shall "retaliate," he may be assured of That: before long Ishall find an opportunity of expressing my thanks to the "offender"(among other things even for the offense)-or of asking him forsomething, which can be more courteous even than giving. It alsoseems to me that the rudest word, the rudest letter, is more good-

natured, more honest, than silence. Those who keep silent are almosalways lacking in delicacy and refinement of heart; silence is anobjection; to swallow a grievance necessarily produces a bad temperit even upsets the stomach. All silent people are dyspeptic. You maynote that I do not care to see rudeness undervalued; it is by far themost humane form of contradiction, and, amid modern effeminacy, itis one of our first virtues. If one is sufficiently rich for it, it may evenbe a joy to be wrong. A god descending to this earth could do nothing

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but wrong -for to take upon one's self guilt, not punishment, is thefirst sign of divinity.

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Freedom from resentment and the understanding of resentment-whoknows after all how greatly I am indebted to my long illness for thesethings? The problem is not exactly simple: a man must have

experienced through both his strength and his weakness. If we are tobear any grudge against illness and weakness, it is the fact thatalong with it there decays the very instinct of recovery, which is theinstinct of defense and of war in man. He does not know how to getrid of anything, how to finish anything, how to cast anything behindhim. Everything wounds him. People and things obtrude too closely,all experiences strike too deep, memory is a festering sore. Illness isa sort of resentment in itself. Against it the invalid has only one grearemedy-I call it Russian fatalism, that unrebellious fatalism with

which the Russian soldier, when a campaign becomes unbearable,finally lies down in the snow. To accept nothing more-to ceaseentirely from reacting. The high sagacity of this fatalism, which is noalways mere courage in the face of death, but which in the mostdangerous circumstances may work toward self-preservation, istantamount to a reduction of activity in the vital functions, theslowing down of which is like a sort of will to hibernate. A few stepsfarther in this direction we have the fakir, who will sleep for weeks ina tomb. . . . Since one would be used up too quickly if one reacted,one no longer reacts at all: this is the principle. And nothing

consumes a man more quickly than the emotion of resentment.Mortification, morbid susceptibility, the inability to revenge oneself,the desire, the thirst for revenge, the concoction of every kind ofpoison-for an exhausted man this is surely the most injurious mannerof reacting. It involves a rapid using up of nervous energy, anabnormal increase of harmful secretions, as, for instance, that of bileinto the stomach. Resentment should above all be forbidden the sickman -it Is his special danger: unfortunately, however, it is also hismost natural propensity. This was perfectly understood by that

profound physiologist Buddha. His "religion," which it would be betteto call a system of hygiene, to avoid confounding it with so wretcheda thing as Christianity, depended for its effect upon the triumph overresentment: to free the soul from it-that was the first step towardsrecovery. "Not through hostility does hostility end; through friendshidoes hostility end": this stands at the beginning of Buddha's teachingthis is not the voice of morality, but of physiology. Resentment bornof weakness is harmful to no one more than to the weak man himself

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conversely, with a fundamentally rich nature, resentment is asuperfluous feeling, which, if one remains master of it, is almost aproof of riches. Those readers who know the earnestness with whichmy philosophy wages war against the feelings of revenge and rancoreven to the extent of attacking the doctrine of "free will" (my conflictwith Christianity is only a particular instance of it), will understandwhy I wish to emphasize my own personal attitude and the certaintyof my practical instincts precisely in this matter. In my decadent

period, I forbade myself these feelings, because they were harmful;but as soon as my life had recovered enough riches and pride, I stillforbade myself them, but now because they were beneath me. That"Russian fatalism" of which I spoke manifested itself in me in such away that for years I clung tenaciously to almost unbearableconditions, places, habitations, and companions,

once chance had placed them in my way-it was better than changingthem, than feeling that they could be changed, than revolting agains

them. He who disturbed this fatalism, who tried by force to awakenme, seemed to me then a mortal enemy in fact, there was danger ofdeath each time this was done. To think of one's self as a destiny, noto wish one's self "different"-this, in such circumstances, is the veryhighest wisdom.

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But war is another thing. I am essentially a warrior. To attack isinstinctive with me. To be able to be an enemy, to be an enemy-this,

perhaps, presupposes a strong nature; in any case it is bound up witall strong natures. They need resistance, accordingly they seek for itthe pathos of aggression belongs of necessity to strength as much asthe feelings of revenge and rancor belong to weakness. Woman, forinstance, is revengeful; her weakness involves this passion, just as itinvolves her susceptibility to others' distress. The strength of theaggressor is in a manner determined by the opposition he needs;every increase of strength betrays itself by a search for a moreformidable opponent - or problem: for a philosopher who is combativ

will challenge even problems to a duel. The task is not to overcomeopponents in general, but only those against whom one must pit allone's strength, skill, and swordsmanship-opponents who are one'sequals. To be the equal of the enemy-this is the first condition of anhonorable duel. Where one despises, one cannot wage war. Whereone commands, where one sees something beneath one, one oughtnot to wage war. My war tactics are comprised in four principles:First, I attack only things that are triumphant-if necessary I wait unti

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they become so. Secondly, I attack only those things against which Ifind no allies, against which I stand alone-against which I compromisonly myself. . . . I have never publicly taken a single step which didnot compromise me: that is my criterion of the proper mode of actionThirdly, I never attack persons-I make use of a personality merely asa powerful magnifying-glass,, by means of which I render a general,but elusive and hardly tangible, evil more visible. In this way Iattacked David Strauss, or more exactly the successful reception

given to a senile book by the cultured classes of Germany therebycatching this culture red-handed. In this way I attacked Wagner, ormore exactly the falsity or mongrel instincts of our "culture" whichconfounds super-refinement with abundance, and decadence withgreatness. Fourthly, I attack only those things from which allpersonal differences are excluded, in which any background ofdisagreeable experiences is lacking. Indeed, attacking is to me aproof of good-will and, in certain circumstances, of gratitude. Bymeans of it, I honor a thing, I distinguish a thing; it is all the same to

me whether I associate my name with that of an institution or aperson, whether I am against or for either. If I wage war againstChristianity, I do so because I have met with no fatalities anddifficulties from that quarter-the most earnest Christians have alwaybeen favorably disposed to me. 1, personally, the severest opponentof Christianity, am far from holding the individual responsible forwhat is the inevitable outcome of long ages.

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May I venture to indicate one last trait of my nature, which hascaused me no little difficulty in my intercourse with men? I am giftedwith an utterly uncanny instinct of cleanliness; so that I can ascertainphysiologically-that is to say, smell-the proximity, I may say, theinmost core, the "entrails" of every human soul. . . . Thissensitiveness has psychological antennae, with which I feel andhandle every secret: the hidden filth at the base of many a humancharacter which may be the result of base blood, but which may besuperficially overlaid by education, is revealed to me at the first

glance. If my observation has been correct, such people, unbearableto my sense of cleanliness, also become conscious, on their part, ofthe cautiousness resulting from my loathing: and this does not makethem any more fragrant. A rigid attitude of cleanliness towardsmyself is the first condition of my existence; I would die in uncleansurroundings-and so I have always accustomed myself to swim,bathe, and splash about, as it were, incessantly in water, in any kindof perfectly transparent and shining element. That is why social

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intercourse is no small trial to my patience; my humanity does notconsist in the fact that I sympathize with the feelings of my fellows,but that I can endure that very sympathy. . . . My humanity is acontinual self-mastery. But I need solitude-that is to say, recovery,return to myself, the breathing of free, light, bracing air. . . . Thewhole of my Zarathustra is a dithyramb of solitude, or, rightlyunderstood, of purity. Fortunately, it is not one of "pure foolery"! Hewho has an eye for color will call- them diamonds. The loathing of

mankind, of the rabble, was always my greatest danger. . . . Wouldyou hearken to the words in which Zarathustra speaks concerningdeliverance from loathing?

"What hath happened unto me? How have I freed myself fromloathing? Who hath rejuvenated mine eye? How have I flown to theheight, where no rabble any longer sit at the wells?

"Did my loathing itself create for me wings and fountain-divining

powers? Verily to the loftiest height had I to fly, to find again the weof delight!

"Oh, I have found it, my brethren! Here, on the loftiest heightbubbleth up for me the well of delight. And there is a life at whosewaters none of the rabble drink with me!

"Almost too violently dost thou flow for me, thou fountain of delight!And often emptiest thou the goblet again in wanting to fill it

"And yet must I learn to approach thee more modestly: far tooviolently doth my heart still flow towards thee:-

"My heart, on which my summer burneth, my short, hot, melancholy,over-happy summer: how my summer heart longeth for thy coolness

"Past, the lingering distress of my spring! Past, the wickedness of mysnowflakes in June! Summer have I become entirely, and summer-noontide!

"A summer on the loftiest height, with cold fountains and blissfulstillness: oh, come, my friends, that the stillness may become moreblissful!

"For this is our height and our home: too high and steep do we heredwell for all uncleanly ones and their thirst.

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"Cast but your pure eyes into the well of my delight, my friends! Howcould it become turbid thereby! It shall laugh back to you with itspurity.

"On the tree of the future build we our nest; eagles shall bring uslone ones food in their beaks!

"Verily, no food of which the impure could be fellow-partakers! Fire

would they think they devoured and bum their mouths!

"Verily, no abodes do we here keep ready for the impure! An ice-caveto their bodies would our happiness be, and to their spirits!

"And as strong winds will we live above them, neighbors to theeagles, neighbors to the snow, neighbors to the sun: thus live thestrong winds.

"And like a wind will I one day blow amongst them, and with my

spirit, take the breath from their spirit: thus willeth my future.

"Verily, a strong wind is Zarathustra to all low places; and thiscounsel counseleth he to his enemies and to whatever spitteth andspeweth: 'Take care not to spit against the wind!'"

Why I am So Clever

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Why do I know more than other people? Why, in general, am I soclever? I have never pondered over questions that are not reallyquestions. I have never wasted my strength. I have no experience, fo

instance, of actual religious difficulties. I am quite unfamiliar with thfeeling of "sinfulness." Similarly I lack a reliable criterion fordetermining a prick of conscience: from what one hears, a prick ofconscience does not seem to me anything very worthy of veneration.. . I dislike to leave an action of mine in the lurch; I prefer to omitutterly the bad result, the consequences, from any problem involvingvalues. In the face of evil . consequences it is too easy to lose theproper standpoint from which to view an action. A prick of conscience

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seems to me a sort of "evil eye." Something that has failed should beall the more honored just because it has failed-this agrees muchbetter with my morality.-"God," "the immortality of the soul,"tcsalvation," a "beyond"-these are mere notions, to which I paid noattention, on which I never wasted any time, even as a child-thoughperhaps I was never enough of a child for that-I am quiteunacquainted with atheism as a result, and still less as an event: witme it is instinctive. I am too inquisitive, too skeptical, too arrogant ',

to let myself be satisfied with an obvious and crass solution of thingsGod is such an obvious and crass solution; a solution which is a sheerindelicacy to us thinkers-at bottom He is really nothing but a coarsecommandment against us: ye shall not think! . . . I am much moreinterested in another question@n which the "salvation of humanity"depends much more than upon any piece of theological curiosity: thequestion of nutrition. For ordinary purposes, it may be formulatedthus: "How precisely must thou nourish thyself in order to attain tothy maximum of power, or virt@ in the Renaissance style of virtue

free from moralism?" Here my experiences -have been the worstpossible; I am surprised that it took me so long to become aware ofthis question and to derive "understanding" from my experiences.Only the utter worthlessness of our German culture-its "idealism"-canto some extent explain how it was that precisely in this matter I wasso baclzward that my ignorance was almost saintly. For this "culture"from first to last teaches one to lose sight of realities and instead tohunt after thoroughly problematic, so-called ideal goals, as, forinstance, "classical culture"-as if we were not doomed from the startin our endeavor to unite "classical" and "German" in one concept! It ieven a little comicaljust try to picture a "classically cultured" citizenof Leipzigl-Indeed, I confess that up to a very mature age, my foodwas quite bad@xpressed in moral terms, it was "impersonal,""selfless," "altruistic," to the glory of cooks and other fellow-Christians. For example, it was the Leipzig cookery, together with myfirst study of Schopenhauer (i865), that made me gravely renouncemy "Will to Live." To become a malnutritient and to spoil one'sstomach in the process-this problem seemed to me to be admirablysolved by the above-mentioned cookery. (It is said that the year i866

introduced changes into this department.) But as to German cookeryin general-what has it not got on its conscience! Soup before themeal (still called alla tedesca in the sixteenth century Venetian cook-books; meat cooked till the flavor is gone, vegetables cooked with faand flour; the degeneration of pastries into paper-weights! Add tothis the utterly bestial postprandial habits of the ancients, not merelof the ancient Germans, and you will begin to understand whereGerman intellect had its origin-in a disordered intestinal tract. . . .

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German intellect is indigestion; it can assimilate nothing. But evenEnglish, which, as against German, and indeed French, diet, seems tome to be a "return to Nature"-that is to say, to cannibalism-isbasically repugnant to my own instincts. It seems to me that it givesthe intellect heavy feet, Englishwomen's feet. . . . The best cooking isthat of Piedmont. Alcohol does not agree with me; one glass of wineor beer a day is enough to turn life into a valley of tears for me; inMunich live my antipodes. Admitting that I came to understand this

rationally rather late, yet I had experienced it as a mere child. As aboy I believed that wine-drinking and tobacco-smoking were at firstbut youthful vanities, and later simply bad habits. Perhaps the wineof Naumburg was partly responsible for this harsh judgment. Tobelieve that wine was exhilarating, I should have had to be aChristian-in other words, I should have had to believe in what, for meis an absurdity. Strangely enough, whereas small largely dilutedquantities of alcohol depressed me, great quantities made me actalmost like a sailor on shore leave. Even as a boy I showed my

bravado in this respect. To compose and transcribe a long Latin essain one night, ambitious of emulating with my pen the austerity andterseness of my model, Sallust, and to sprinkle the exercise with afew strong hot toddiesthis procedure, while I was a pupil at thevenerable old school of Pforta, did not disagree in the least with myphysiology, nor perhaps with that of Sallust-however badly it mayhave agreed with dignified Pforta. Later on, towards the middle of mlife, I grew more and more decisive in my opposition to spirituousdrinks: 1, an opponent of vegetarianism from experience-like RichardWagner, who reconverted in annot with sufficient earnest-ness advisall more spiritual natures to abstain absolutely from alcohol. Wateranswers the same purpose. I prefer those places where there arenumerous opportunities of drinking from running brooks as at Nice,Turin, Sils, where water follows me wherever I turn. In vino veritas: itseems that here too I disagree with the rest of the world about theconcept "Truth"-with me spirit moves on the face of the waters. Hereare a few more bits of advice taken from my morality. A heavy meal idigested more easily than one that is too meager. The first conditionof a good digestion is that the stomach should be active as a whole.

Therefore a man ought to know the size of his stomach. For the sanareasons I advise against all those interminable meals, which I callinterrupted sacrificial feasts, and which are to be had at any tabled'hdte. Nothing between meals, no coffee-coffee makes onLgloomy.Tea is advisable only in the morning-in small quantities, but verystrong. It may be very harmful, and indispose you for the whole day,if it is the least bit too weak. Here each one has his own standard,often between the narrowest and most delicate limits. In a very

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enervating climate it is, inadvisable to begin the day with tea: anhour before, it is a good thing to have a cup of thick cocoa, free fromoil. Remain seated as little as possible; trust no thought that is notborn in the open, to the accompaniment of free bodily motion-nor onin which your very muscles do not celebrate a feast. All prejudicesmay be traced back to the intestines. A sedentary life, as I havealready said elsewhere, is the real sin against the Holy Ghost.

2

The question of nutrition is closely related to that of locality andclimate. None of us can live anywhere; and he who has great tasks toperform, which demand all his energy, has, in this respect, a verylimited choice. The influence of climate upon the bodil functions,affecting their retardation or acceleration, is so great, that a blunderin the choice of locality and climate may not merely alienate a manfrom his duty, but may withhold it from him altogether, so that he

never comes face to face with it. Animal vigor never preponderates inhim to the extent that it lets him attain that exuberant freedom inwhich he may say to himself: I, alone, can do that. . . . The slightesttorpidity of the intestines, once it has become a habit, is quitesufficient to turn a genius into something mediocre, something"German"; the climate of Germany, alone, is more than enough todiscourage the strongest and most heroic intestines. Upon the tempoof the body's functions closely depend the agility or the slowness ofthe spirit's feet; indeed spirit itself is only a form of these bodilyfunctions. Enumerate the places in which men of great intellect have

been and are still found; where wit, subtlety, and malice are a part ,ohappiness; where genius is almost necessarily athome: all of themhave an unusually dry atmosphere. Paris, Provence, Florence,Jerusalem, Athens-these names prove this: that genius is dependenton dry air, on clear skies-in other words, on rapid organic functions,on the possibility of contenuously securing for one's self great andeven s quantities of energy. I have a case in mind where a man ofsignificant and independent mentality became a narrow, cravenspecialist, an d a crank, simply because he had no feeling for climate

I myself might have come to the same end, if illness had not forcedme to reason, and to reflect upon reason realistically. Now longpractice has taught me to read the effects of climatic andmeteorological influences, from self-observation, as though from avery delicate and reliable instrument, so that I can calculate thechange in the degree of at MOSpheric moisture by means of thisphysiological selfobservation, even on so short a journey as that fromTurin to Milan; accordingly I think with horror of the ghastly fact that

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my whole life, up to the last ten years-the most dangerous years-hasalways been spent in the wron- places, places that should have beenprecisely forbidden to me. Naumburg, Pforta, Thuringia in general,Leipzig, Basel, Venice -so many disastrous places for my constitutionif I have not a single happy memory of my childhood and youth, itwould be foolish to account for this by so-called "moral" causes-as,for instance, the incontestable lack of sufficient companionship; f orthis lack is present to-day as it was before and it does not prevent m

from being cheerful and brave. But it was ignorance of physiology-that confounded "Idealism"-that was the real curse of my life, thesuperfluous and stupid element in it; from which nothing good coulddevelop, for which there can be no settlement and no compensation.The consequences of this "Idealism" explain all the blunders, thegreat aberrations of instinct, and the modest specializations" whichdiverted me from my life-task; as, for instance, the fact that I becamea philologist-why not at least a doctor or anything else that mighthave opened my eyes? During my stay at Basel, my whole intellectua

routine, including my daily schedule, was an utterly senseless abuseof extraordinary powers, without any sort of compensation for thestrength I spent, without even a thought of its exhaustion and theproblem of replacement. I lacked that subtle egoism, the protectionthat an imperative instinct gives; I regarded all men as my equals, Iwas 4@disinterested," I forgot my distance from others-in short, I wain a condition for which I can never forgive myself. When I had almosreached the end, simply because I had almost reached it, I began toreflect upon the basic absurdity of my life-'tldealism.3) It was illnessthat first brought me to reason.

3

The choice of nutrition; the choice of climate and locality; the thirdthing in which one must not on any account make a blunder, concern

the method of recuperation or recreation. Here, again, according tothe extent to which a spirit is sui generis, the limits of what isperrriitted-that is, beneficial to him-become more and more narrow.In my case, reading in general is one of my methods of recuperation;consequently it is a part of that which enables me to escape frommyself, to wander in strange sciences and strange souls@f that,about which I am no longer in earnest. Indeed, reading allows me torecover from my earnestness. When I am deep in work, no books are

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to be seen near me; I carefully guard against allowing any one tospeak or even to think in my presence. For that is what readingamounts to. . . . Has any one ever actually noticed, that, during thatprofound tension to which the state of pregnancy condemns themind, and fundamentally, the whole organism, accident and everykind of external stimulus acts too vigorouslv and penetrates toodeeply? One must avoid accident and external stimuli as far aspossible: a sort of self-circumvallation is one of the first instinctive

precautions of spiritual pregnancy. Shall I permit a strange thoughtto climb secretly over the wall? For that is just what reading wouldmean.The periods of work and productivity are followed by periods orecuperation: to me, ye pleasant, intellectual, intelligent books! Shalit be a German book? I must go back six months to catch myself witha book in my hand. What was it? An excellent study by VictorBrochard, Les Seeptiques Grecques, in reading which my Laertiana Iwas of great help to me. The skeptics! the only honorable typesamong that double-faced, aye, quintuple-faced race, the

philosophers! . . . Otherwise I almost always take refuge in the samebooks, few in number, books exactly fitting my needs. Perhaps it isnot in my nature to read much, or variously: a library makes me ill.Neither is it my nature to love much or many kinds of things.Suspicion, even hostility towards new books is nearer to my instinctthan "toleration," largeur de cteur, and other forms of "neighborlylove." . . . Ultimately it is to a few old French authors that I returnagain and again; I believe only in French culture, and regardeverything else in Europe which calls itself "culture" as puremisunderstanding. It is hardly necessary to speak of the Germanvariety. . . . The few instances of higher culture I have encountered inGermany were all French in their origin, above all, Madame CosimaWagner, who had by far the most superior judgment in matters oftaste that I have ever heard. Even if I do not read, but literally lovePascal, as the most instructive sacrifice to Christianity, killing himselslowly, first in body, then in mind in accord with the logic of this moshorrible form of inhuman cruelty; even if I have something ofMontaigne's malice in my soul, and-who knows?-perhaps in my body,too; even if my artist's taste endeavors to protect the names of

Moli6re, Comeille, and Racine, not without bitterness, against a wildgenius like Shakespear -all this does not prevent me from regardingeverr e the modem Frenchmen as charming companions also. I canimagine no century in history in which a netful of more inquisitive anat the same time more subtle psychologists could be drawn up to,gether than in present-day Paris. I will name a few at random-fortheir number is by no means small -Paul Bourget, Pierre Loti, Gyp,Meilhac, Anatole France, Jules LemoCitre; or, singling out one of

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strong race, a genuine Latin, of whom I am particularly fond, Guy deMaupassant. Between ourselves, I prefer this generation even to itsgreat masters, all of whom were corrupted by German philosophy(Taine, for instance, by Hegel, whom he has to thank for hismisunderstanding of great men and great ages). Wherever Germanypenetrates, she corrupts culture. It was the war which first"redeemed" the spirit of France. . . . Stendhal is one of the happiestaccidents of my life-for everything epochal in that life came to me by

accident, never by recommendation-Stendhal is quite priceless, withhis anticipatory psychologist's eye; with his grasp of facts,reminiscent of the greatest of all masters of facts (ex ungueNapoleoneum); and, last, but not least, as an honest atheist-aspecimen both rare and difficult to discover in France- honor toProsper M6rim6e! . . . Perhaps I am even envious of Stendhal? Herobbed me of the best atheistic joke I of all people could have made:"God's only excuse is that He does not exist." . . . I myself have saidsomewhere-What hitherto has been the greatest objection to Life?-

God. . . .

4

It was Heinrich Heine who gave me the highest -conception of alyrical poet. I search vainly through the kingdoms of all the ages foranything to equal his sweet and passionate music. He possessed thatdivine wickedness, without which I cannot conceive ,of perfection; Ivalue men and races, according to the necessity they have to imagina god partaking of the nature of the satyr. And how masterfully he

handles German! Some day men will declare of Heine and myself thatwe were by far the greatest of all artists in the German language;that we outstripped incalculably all that pure Germans could do withthis language. I must be profoundly related to Byron's Manfred: Idiscovered all his abysses in my own soul-at thirteen I was ripe forthis book. Words fail me, I have merely a glance of contempt forthose who dare to mention Faust in the presence of Manfred. TheGermans are incapable of a conception of greatness-witnessSchuniann! Angry at this cloying Saxon, I once composed a counter-

overture to Manfred, of which Hans von Billow declared he had neverseen the like@ before on paper: it was a sheer violation of Euterpe.Seeking for my highest formula for Shakespeare, I invariably find onlthis: he conceived the type of CTsar. Such things a man cannot guesshe either is the thing, or he is not. The great poet draws only from hiown experience-to such an extent that later he can no longer endurehis own work. After glancing at my ZarathWtra, I pace to and fro inmy room for a half hour, unable to control an unbearable fit of

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sobbing. I know of no more, heart-rending reading than Shakespearewhat he must have suffered to be so much in need of playing theclown! Is Hamlet understood? Not doubt but certainty drives onemad. But to feel this,. one must be profound, abysmal, aphilosopher.We all fear the truth. And, to make a confession: I feelinstinctively certain that Lord Bacon is the originator, the self-torturer, of this most appalling literature: what do I care about thewretched gabble of American fools and half-wits? But the power for

the greatest realism in vision is not only compatible with the greatesrealism in deeds, with the monstrous, with crime-it actuallypresupposes the latter. . . . We hardly know enough about LordBacon-the first realist in the, highest sense of the word-to be sure ofeverything he did, everything he willed, and everything heexperienced in himself. To the devil with the critics! Suppose I hadchristened my Zaratkustra with a name not my own-with RichardWagner's, for instance -the insight of two thousand years would nothave sufficed to guess that the author of Human, all-tooHuman was

the visionary of Zaratkustra.

5

In speaking of the recreations of my life, I must express a word or twof gratitude for the one which has afforded me by far the greatestand heartiest refreshment. This was undoubtedly my intimaterelationship with Richard Wagner. I pass over my other relationshipswith men quite lightly; but at no price would I have my life deprivedof those days at Tribschen-days of confidence, of cheerfulness, of

sublime flashes, and of profound moments. I know not what Wagnermay have been for others; but no cloud ever obscured our sky. Andthis brings me back again to France-I have no quarrel withWagnerites, and hoc genus omne, who think to honor Wagner bybelieving him to be like themselves; for such people I have only acontemptuous curl of my lip. With my nature, so alien to everythingTeutonic that the mere presence of a German retards my digestion,my first contact with Wagner was also the first moment in my life inwhich I breathed freely: I felt him, I honored him, as a foreigner, as

the antithesis of and incarnate protest against all "German virtues."We who as children breathed the marshy atmosphere of the fifties,are necessarily pessimists with regard to the idea "German"; we canbe nothing else but revolutionaries-we can give our assent to no statof affairs in which a hypocrite is at the top. It is a matter ofindifference to me whether this hypocrite acts in different colors to-day, whether he dresses in scarlet or dons the uniform of a hussar.'Very good, then! Wagner, too, was a revolutionary-he Red from the

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Germans. The artist has no home in Europe except in Paris; thatsubtlety of all the five senses which is the condition of Wagner's art,that sensitivity to the nuance, to psychological morbiditythese are tobe found only in Paris. Nowhere else is there this passion forproblems of form, this seriousness about the mise-en-sc@ne, which ithe Parisian seriousness par excellence. In Germany one can have nonotion of the tremendous ambition that lives in the soul of a Parisianartist. The German is good-natured. IVagner was by no means good-

natured. . . . But I have already said enough on the subject ofWagner's attachments (see Be, yond Good and Evil, Aphorism 2 69),and about those to whom he is most closely related. He is one of thelate French ronianticists, that high-soaring and heaven-aspiring bandof artists, like Delacroix and Berlioz, who are essentially sick andincurable, pure fanatics of expression, virtuosos through andthrough. . . Who was the first intelligent follower of Wagner? CharlesBaudelaire, the same man who was the first to understand Delacroix-that typical decadent, in whom a whole generation of artists has

recognized itself; he was perhaps the last of them too. . . . What is itthat I have never forgiven Wagner? The fact that he condescended tothe Germans-that he became a German Imperialist. . . . IN'hereverGermany spreads, she corrupts culture.

6

All things considered, I could never have survived my youth withoutWagnerian music. For I seemed condemned to the society ofGermans. If a man wishes to rid himself of a feeling of unbearable

oppression., he may have to take to hashish. Well, I had to@ take toWagner. Wagner is the counterpoison to everything essentiallyGerman-he is a poison, I do not, deny it. From the moment thatTristan was arranged for the piano-my compliments, Herr von Biilow!I was a Wagnerite. I deemed Wagner's previous works beneathm@they were too common, too "German.77 . . . But to this day l,amstill looking for a work to equal Tristan in dangerous fascination, thatgruesome yet sweet quality of infinity; I seek among all the arts invain. All the bizarreries of Leonardo da Vinci lose their charm with th

first note of Tristan. It is absolutely Wagner's non plifs idtra; theMastersingers and the Ring were mere relaxation to him. To becomemore healthy-this is a step backwards for a nature like Wagner's. Iregard it as a first-class bit of good luck to have lived at the righttime, and to have lived precisely among Germans, in order to be ripefor this work: so strongly in me works the curiosity of thepsychologist. The world must be a poor thing for him who has neverbeen unhealthy enough for this "voluptuousness of Hell": it is

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allowable, it is even imperative, that one here employ a mysticformula. I suppose I know better than any one else the prodigies ofwhich Wagner was capable, the fifty worlds of strange ecstasies toreach which no one but he had win,-s strong enough; and as I'amtoday sufficiently powerful to turn even the most dubious anddangerous things to my own advantage, and thus to grow morepowerful, I name Wagner as the greatest benefactor of my life. Thebond which unites us is the fact that we have suff ered greater

agony, even at each other's hands, than most -men of this centuryare able to bear; and this will associate our names forever. For, justas Wagner is merely a misunderstanding among Germans, so surelyam I, and ever will be. You must first have two centuries ofpsychological and artistic discipline, my dear countrymen! But youcan never turn back the hands of the clock.

7

To the most exceptional of my readers I should like to say just a wordas to what I really demand of music. It should be cheerful and yetprofound, like an October afternoon. It should be unique, wanton, antender, and like a dainty, sweet woman in roguishness and grace. . . I shall never admit that a German can understand what music is.Those musicians, the greatest of them, who are called German, are aforeigners, Slavs, Croats, Italians, Dutchmen-or Jews; or else, likeHeinrich Schiitz, Bach, and Hdndel, they are Germans of a strongrace, a type now extinct. I myself have still enough of the Pole in meto let all other music go, if only Chopin is left to me. For three

reasons I would except '"7agner's Siegfried Idyll, and perhaps also afew things of Liszt, who excelled all other musicians in the nobleaccent of his orchestration; and finally everything that has come frombeyond the Alps-this side of the Alps. I would not know how todispense with Rossini, and still less with my Southern counterpart inmusic, my Venetian maestro, Pietro Gasti. And when I say beyond theAlps, I really mean only Venice. Seeking to find another word formusic, I inevitably come back to Venice. I do not know how to make adistinction between tears and music. I do not know how to think of

joy, or of the south, without a shudder of fear.On the bridge I stoodBut lately, in the dark night.From far away came the sound of singing;In golden drops it rolled awayOver the glittering rim.Gondolas, lights, musicDrunk, swam far out in the darkness...

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My soul, a stringed instrument,Invisibly moved,Sang a gondola song secretly,Gleaming in bright happiness.-Did any hearken?

8

In all these things-the choice of food, locality, climate, andrecreation-the instinct of self-preservation dominates, expressingitself with least ambiguity in the form of an instinct of self-defense.To limit what one hears and sees, to detach one's self from manythings-this is elementary prudence, the first proof that a man is notan accident but a necessity. The customary word for this instinct ofself-defense is taste. It is imperative not only to say ig no" where"yes" would indicate "disinterestedness," but even to say "no" asseldom as Possible. One must separate from anything that forces oneto repeat "no," again and again. The reason for this is that allexpenditures of defensive energy, however slight, involve enormousand absolutely superfluous losses when they become regular andhabitual. Our greatest expenditure of energy is comprised of thesesmall frequent discharges of it. To preserve one's self intact, to holdthings at a dis. tanc@o not deceive yourselves on this point!-is anexpenditure of energy and one directed towards purely negativeends. The mere constant necessity of being on his guard may weaken

a man so much that he can no longer defend himself. Suppose I wereto step out of my house, and, instead of the quiet and aristocratic citof Turin, I were to find a German provincial town; my instinct wouldhave to pull itself together to repel everything that would invade itfrom this downtrodden cowardly world. Or suppose I found a Germany metropoli@that structure of vice in which nothing grows, but whereevery single thing, good or bad, is imported. Would I not have tobecome a hedgehog? ' But to have quills amounts to a squandering ostrength; a twofold luxury, for, if we chose, we could dispense with

them and open our hands instead. . . . Another form of prudence andself-defense consists in reacting as seldom as possible, and indetaching one's self from those circumstances and conditions whichcondemn one, as it were, to suspend one's "liberty" and initiative,and become a mere bundle of reactions. A good type of this isfurnished by intercourse with books. The scholar who actually doeslittle else than welter in @ sea of books-the average philologist mayhandle two hundred a da@finally loses completely the ability to think

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for himself. He cannot think unless he has a book in his hands. Whenhe thinks, he responds to a stimulus (a thought he has read)-andfinally all he does is react. The scholar devotes all his energy toaffirming or denying or criticizing matter which has already beenthought out-he no longer thinks himself. . . . In him the instinct ofselfdefense has decayed, otherwise he would defend himself againstbooks. The scholar is a decadent. With my own eyes I have seengifted, richly-endowed, free-spirited natures already "read to pieces"

at thirty-nothing but matches that have to be struck before they canemit any sparks-or "thoughts." To read a book early in the morning,at daybreak, in the vigor and dawn of one's strength -this is sheerviciousness!

9

At this point I can no longer evade a direct answer to the question,kow one becomes wkat one is. And here I touch upon the master

stroke of the art of self-preservation-selfiskness. If we assume thatone's life-task-the determination and the fate of one's life-task-appreciably surpasses the average measure, nothing would be moredangerous than to come face to face with one's self by the side of thilife-task. The fact that one becomes what one is, presupposes thatone has not the remotest suspicion ,of what one is. From thisstandpoint a unique meaning and value is given to even the blundersof one's life, the temporary deviations and aberrations, thehesitations, the timidities, the earnestness wasted upon tasks remotfrom the central one. In these matters there is opportunity for great

wisdom, perhaps even the highest wisdom; in circumstances, wherenosce teipsum would be the passport to ruin, the forgetting of one'sself, the misunderstanding, the belittling, the narrowing and themediocratizing of one's self, amount to reason itself. In moral terms:to love one's neighbor and to live,for others and for other thin-s maybe the means of protection for the maintenance of the most rigorousegoism. This is the exceptional case in which I, contrary to my customand conviction, take the side of the "selfless" tendencies, for herethey are engaged in the service of selfishness and self-discipline. The

whole surface of consciousness-for consciousness is a surface-mustbe kept free of any of the great imperatives. Beware even of everystriking word, of every striking gesture! They all lead to thedangerous possibility that the instinct may "understand itself" toosoon. Meanwhile the organizing "idea," destined to mastery,continues to grow in the depths-it begins to command, it leads youslowly back from your deviations and aberrations, it makes readyindividual qualities and capacities, which will some day make

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themselves felt as indispensable to the whole of your task-graduallyit cultivates all the serviceable faculties before it ever whispers aword concerning the dominant task, the "goal," the "purpose," andthe "meaning." Viewed from this angle, my life is simply amazing. Fothe task of transvaluing values, more abilities were necessaryperhaps than could ever be found combined in one individual; andabove all, opposed abilities which must yet not be mutually inimicaland destructive. An order of rank among capacities; distance; the art

of separating without creating hostility; to confuse nothing; toreconcile nothing; to be tremendously various and yet to be thereverse of chaos-all this was the first condition, the long secret workand artistry of my instinct. Its superior guardianship manifested itseso powerfully that at no time did I have any intimation of what wasgrowing within me-until suddenly all my capacities were ripe, and onday burst forth in full perfection. I can recall no instance of my everhaving exerted myself, there is no evidence of struggle in my life; Iam the reverse of a heroic nature. To "will" something, to "strive"

after something, to have a "purpose" or a "desire" in my mind - Iknow none of these things from experience. At this very moment Ilook out upon my future-a broad future!-as upon a calm sea: nolonging disturbs its serenity. I have not the slightest wish thatanything should be, different than it is: I myself do not wish to bedifferent. I have always been this way. I have never had a desire. Aman who, after his forty-fourth year, can say that he has nevertroubled himself about honors, women, or money!not that they werelacking to me. . . . It was in this way, for example, that one day Ibecame a University Professor-such an idea had never even enteredmy head, for I was hardly twenty-four. In the same way, two yearsbefore, I had one day become a philologist, in the sense that my firstphilological work,' my start in every way, was requested by mymaster, Ritschl, for publication in his Rheinisckes Museum. (Ritschl-Isay it in all reverence-was the only genial scholar I have ever known.He possessed that engaging depravity which distinguishes usThuringians, and which can make even a German sympathetic-even tarrive at truth we prefer roundabout ways. These words should notbe taken as a deprecation in any sense of my Thuringian co-dweller,

the intelligent Leopold von Ranke.

10

The question will be raised why I should actually have related allthese trivial and, judged according to ordinary standards,insignificant details. I would seem to be hurting my own cause, moreparticularly if I am destined to assume great tasks. I rep ly that these

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trivial details-diet, locality, climate, recreation, the whole casuistry oself-love-are inconceivably more important than everything men havehitherto considered essential. It is just here that we must begin tolearn afresh. All the things men have valued with such earnestnessheretofore are not even realities; they are mere fantasies, or, morestrictly speaking, lies arising from the evil instincts of diseased and,in the deepest sense, harmful natures-all the concepts, "God," "soul,"virtue, "sin," "Beyond," "truth," "eternal life." And yet men sought in

them for the greatness of human nature, its "divinity. All questions opolitics, of the social order, of education, have been falsified from toto bottom, because the most harmful men have been taken for greatmen, and because people were taught to despise the "details," moreproperly, the fundamentals of life. If I now compare myself with thoscreatures who have hitherto been honored as the first among men,the difference becomes obvious. I do not consider these so-called"first" men as human beings-for me they are the excrement ofmankind, the products of disease and the instinct of revenge: they

are so many monsters, rotten, utterly incurable, avenging themselveon life. . . . I would be their very opposite. It is my privilege to beextremely sensitive to any sign of healthy instincts. There is not amorbid trait in me; even in times of serious illness I have neverbecome morbid; you will look in vain for a trace of fanaticism in mynature. No one can point out -I single moment of my life in which Ihave assumed either an arrogant or a pathetic attitude. Patheticattitudes do not belong to greatness; he who needs attitudes is false. . . Beware of all picturesque men t Life came most easily to me wheit demanded the greatest labor from me. Whoever could have seenme during the seventy days of this autumn, when, withoutinterruption, with a sense of responsibility to posterity, I performedso much work of the highest type-work no man did before or will doafter m@would have noticed no sign of tension in me, but on thecontrary exuberant freshness and gayety. Never have my meals beenmore enjoyable, never has my sleep been better. I know of no othermanner of dealing with great tasks than as play: this, as a sign ofgreatness, is an essential prerequisite. The slightest constraint, agloomy appearance, anv hard accent in the voice -all these things are

objections to a man, but how much more to his work! . . . One musthave no nerves. . . . Even to suffer from solitude is an objection-theonly thing I have always suffered from is "multitude," the infinitevariety of my own soul. At the absurdly tender age of seven, I alreadyknew that no human speech would ever reach me: did any one eversee me disconsolate therefor? To-day I still possess the sameaffability towards everybody, I am even full of consideration for thehumblest: in all this there is not an ounce of arrogance or contempt.

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He whom I despise divines the fact that I despise him; my mereexistence angers those who have bad blood in their veins. My formulfor greatness in man is amor fati: that a man should wish to havenothing altered, either in the future, the past, or for all eternity. Notonly must he endure necessity, and on no account conceal it-allidealism is falsehood in the face of necessity-but he must love it. . . .

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Nietzsche, Frederich - Ecce Homo