No More Learning

8
In all these things—in the choice of food, place,
climate, and recreation—the instinct of self-pre-
servation is dominant, and this instinct manifests
itself with least ambiguity when it acts as an in-
stinct of defence. To close one's eyes to much,
to seal one's ears to much, to keep certain things
at a distance—this is the first principle of prudence,
the first proof of the fact that a man is not an
accident but a necessity. The popular word for
this instinct of defence is taste. A man's impera-
tive command is not only to say " no" in cases
where "yes " would be a sign of "disinterested-
ness," but also to say "no" as seldom as possible.
One must part with all that which compels one to
repeat "no," with ever greater frequency. The
rationale of this principle is that all discharges of


## p. 47 (#73) ##############################################

WHY I AM SO CLEVER 47
defensive forces, however slight they may be, in-
volve enormous and absolutely superfluous losses
when they become regular and habitual. Our
greatest expenditure of strength is made up of
those small and most frequent discharges of it.
The act of keeping things off, of holding them at
a distance, amounts to a discharge of strength,—
do not deceive yourselves on this point! —and an
expenditure of energy directed at purely negative
ends. Simply by being compelled to keep con-
stantly on his guard, a man may grow so weak as
to be unable any longer to defend himself. Sup-
pose I were to step out of my house, and, instead
of the quiet and aristocratic city of Turin, I were
to find a German provincial town, my instinct
would have to brace itself together in order to
repel all that which would pour in upon it from
this crushed-down and cowardly world. Or sup-
pose I were to find a large German city—that
structure of vice in which nothing grows, but
where every single thing, whether good or bad, is
squeezed in from outside. In such circumstances
should I not be compelled to become a hedgehog?
But to have prickles amounts to a squandering of
strength; they even constitute a twofold luxury,
when, if we only chose to do so, we could dispense
with them and open our hands instead. . . .
Another form of prudence and self-defence con-
sists in trying to react as seldom as possible, and
to keep one's self aloof from those circumstances
and conditions wherein one would be condemned,
as it were, to suspend one's "liberty " and one's
initiative, and become a mere reacting medium.


## p. 48 (#74) ##############################################

48 ECCE HOMO
As an example of this I point to the intercourse
with books. The scholar who, in sooth, does little
else than handle books—with the philologist of
average attainments their number may amount to
two hundred a day—ultimately forgets entirely
and completely the capacity of thinking for him-
self. When he has not a book between his fingers
he cannot think. When he thinks, he responds to
a stimulus (a thought he has read),—finally all he
does is to react. The scholar exhausts his whole
strength in saying either " yes " or " no" to matter
which has already been thought out, or in criticis-
ing it—he is no longer capable of thought on his
own account. . . . In him the instinct of self-
defence has decayed, otherwise he would defend
himself against books. The scholar is a decadent.
With my own eyes I have seen gifted, richly en-
dowed, and free-spirited natures already " read to
ruins" at thirty, and mere wax vestas that have
to be rubbed before they can give off any sparks
—or " thoughts. " To set to early in the morning,
at the break of day, in all the fulness and dawn
of one's strength, and to read a book—this I call
positively vicious!
At this point I can no longer evade a direct
answer to the question, how one becomes what one
is. And in giving it, I shall have to touch upon
that masterpiece in the art of self-preservation,
which is selfishness. . . . Granting that one's life-
task—the determination and the fate of one's life-
task—greatly exceeds the average measure of


## p. 49 (#75) ##############################################

WHY I AM SO CLEVER 49
such things, nothing more dangerous could be
conceived than to come face to face with one's
self by the side of this life-task. The fact that
one becomes what one is, presupposes that one
has not the remotest suspicion of what one is.
From this standpoint even the blunders of one's
life have their own meaning and value, the tem-
porary deviations and aberrations, the moments of
hesitation and of modesty, the earnestness wasted
upon duties which lie outside the actual life-task.
In these matters great wisdom, perhaps even the
highest wisdom, comes into activity: in these cir-
cumstances, in which nosce teipsum would be the
sure road to ruin, forgetting one's self, misunder-
standing one's self, belittling one's self, narrowing
one's self, and making one's self mediocre, amount
to reason itself. Expressed morally, to love one's
neighbour and to live for others and for other
things may be the means of protection employed
to maintain the hardest kind of egoism. This is
the exceptional case in which I, contrary to my
principle and conviction, take the side of the altru-
istic instincts; for here they are concerned in sub-
serving selfishness and self-discipline. The whole
surface of consciousness—for consciousness is a
surface—must be kept free from any one of the
great imperatives. Beware even of every striking
word, of every striking attitude! They are all so
many risks which the instinct runs of" understand-
ing itself" too soon. Meanwhile the organising
"idea," which is destined to become master, grows
and continues to grow into the depths,—it begins
to command, it leads you slowly back from your


## p. 49 (#76) ##############################################

48
ECCE HOMO
As an example of this I point to the intercourse
with books. The scholar who, in sooth, does little
else than handle books—with the philologist of
average attainments their number may amount to
two hundred a day—ultimately forgets entirely
and completely the capacity of thinking for him-
self. When he has not a book between his fingers
he cannot think. When he thinks, he responds to
a stimulus (a thought he has read),—finally all he
does is to react. The scholar exhausts his whole
strength in saying either “yes” or “no” to matter
which has already been thought out, or in criticis-
ing it—he is no longer capable of thought on his
own account. . . . In him the instinct of self-
defence has decayed, otherwise he would defend
himself against books. The scholar is a decadent.
With my own eyes I have seen gifted, richly en-
dowed, and free-spirited natures already “read to
ruins” at thirty, and mere wax vestas that have
to be rubbed before they can give off any sparks
—or “thoughts. ” To set to early in the morning,
at the break of day, in all the fulness and dawn
of one's strength, and to read a book—this I call
positively vicious !
At this point I can no longer evade a direct
answer to the question, how one becomes what one
is. And in giving it, I shall have to touch upon
that masterpiece in the art of self-preservation,
which is selfishness. . . . Granting that one's life.
task—the determination and the fate of one's life-
task-greatly exceeds the average measure of


## p. 49 (#77) ##############################################

WHY I AM SO CLEVER
49
such things, nothing more dangerous could be
conceived than to come face to face with one's
self by the side of this life-task. The fact that
one becomes what one is, presupposes that one
has not the remotest suspicion of what one is.
From this standpoint even the blunders of one's
life have their own meaning and value, the tem-
porary deviations and aberrations, the moments of
hesitation and of modesty, the earnestness wasted
upon duties which lie outside the actual life-task.
In these matters great wisdom, perhaps even the
highest wisdom, comes into activity : in these cir-
cumstances, in which nosce teipsum would be the
sure road to ruin, forgetting one's self, misunder-
standing one's self, belittling one's self, narrowing
one's self, and making one's self mediocre, amount
to reason itself. Expressed morally, to love one's
neighbour and to live for others and for other
things may be the means of protection employed
to maintain the hardest kind of egoism. This is
the exceptional case in which I, contrary to my
principle and conviction, take the side of the altru-
istic instincts; for here they are concerned in sub-
serving selfishness and self-discipline. The whole
surface of consciousness—for consciousness is a
surface-must be kept free from any one of the
great imperatives. Beware even of every striking
word, of every striking attitude! They are all so
many risks which the instinct runs of" understand-
ing itself” too soon. Meanwhile the organising
“idea,” which is destined to become master, grows
and continues to grow into the depths,-it begins
to command, it leads you slowly back from your


## p. 50 (#78) ##############################################

50 ECCE HOMO
deviations and aberrations, it prepares individual
qualities and capacities, which one day will make
themselves felt as indispensable to the whole of
your task,—step by step it cultivates all the ser-
viceable faculties, before it ever whispers a word
concerning the dominant task, the "goal," the
"object," and the "meaning" of it all. Looked
at from this standpoint my life is simply amazing.
For the task of transvaluing values, more capaci-
ties were needful perhaps than could well be found
side by side in one individual; and above all, an-
tagonistic capacities which had to be free from the
mutual strife and destruction which they involve.
An order of rank among capacities; distance; the
art of separating without creating hostility; to re-
frain from confounding things; to keep from re-
conciling things; to possess enormous multifarious-
ness and yet to be the reverse of chaos—all this
was the first condition, the long secret work, and
the artistic mastery of my instinct. Its superior
guardianship manifested itself with such ex-
ceeding strength, that not once did I ever dream
of what was growing within me—until suddenly
all my capacities were ripe, and one day burst
forth in all the perfection of their highest bloom.
I cannot remember ever having exerted myself, I
can point to no trace of struggle in my life; I am
the reverse of a heroic nature. To " will " some-
thing, to "strive" after something, to have an
"aim" or a "desire" in my mind—I know none
of these things from experience. Even at this
moment I look out upon my future—a broad
future ! —as upon a calm sea: no sigh of longing


## p. 51 (#79) ##############################################

WHY I AM SO CLEVER
51
makes a ripple on its surface. I have not the
slightest wish that anything should be otherwise
than it is : I myself would not be otherwise. . . .
But in this matter I have always been the same.
I have never had a desire. A man who, after his
four-and-fortieth year, can say that he has never
bothered himself about honours, women, or money!
--not that they did not come his way. . . . It was
thus that I became one day a University Professor
-I had never had the remotest idea of such a
thing; for I was scarcely four-and-twenty years
of age. In the same way, two years previously,
I had one day become a philologist, in the sense
that my first philological work, my start in every
way, was expressly obtained by my master Ritschl
for publication in his Rheinisches Museum. * (Ritschl
—and I say it in all reverence—was the only
genial scholar that I have ever met. He possessed
that pleasant kind of depravity which distinguishes
us Thuringians, and which makes even a German
sympathetic-even in the pursuit of truth we pre-
fer to avail ourselves of roundabout ways. In
saying this I do not mean to underestimate in any
way my Thuringian brother, the intelligent Leopold
von Ranke, . . . )
10
You may be wondering why I should actually
have related all these trivial and, according to tra-
ditional accounts, insignificant details to you ; such
action can but tell against me, more particularly if
* See note on page 37.


## p. 52 (#80) ##############################################

52 ECCE HOMO
I am fated to figure in great causes. To this I reply
that these trivial matters—diet, locality, climate,
and one's mode of recreation, the whole casuistry of
self-love—are inconceivably more important than
all that which has hitherto been held in high esteem.
It is precisely in this quarter that we must begin
to learn afresh. All those things which mankind
has valued with such earnestness heretofore are not
even real; they are mere creations of fancy, or,
more strictly speaking, lies born of the evil instincts
of diseased and, in the deepest sense, noxious
natures—all the concepts, " God," " soul," " virtue,"
"sin," " Beyond," "truth," "eternal life. " . . . But
the greatness of human nature, its "divinity," was
sought for in them. . . . All questions of politics,
of social order, of education, have been falsified, root
and branch, owing to the fact that the most noxious
men have been taken for great men, and that
people were taught to despise the small things, or
rather the fundamental things, of life. If I now
choose to compare myself with those creatures who
have hitherto been honoured as the first among men,
the difference becomes obvious. I do not reckon
the so-called " first" men even as human beings—
for me they are the excrements of mankind, the
products of disease and of the instinct of revenge:
they are so many monsters laden with rottenness,
so many hopeless incurables, who avenge them-
selves on life. . . . I wish to be the opposite of
these people: it is my privilege to have the very
sharpest discernment for every sign of healthy in-
stincts. There is no such thing as a morbid trait
in me: even in times of serious illness I have never


## p. 53 (#81) ##############################################

WHY I AM SO CLEVER 53
grown morbid, and you might seek in vain for a
trace of fanaticism in my nature. No one can point
to any moment of my life in which I have assumed
either an arrogant or a pathetic attitude. Pathetic
attitudes are not in keeping with greatness; he whc
needs attitudes is false. . . . Beware of all pictur-
esque men! Life was easy—in fact easiest—to me,
in those periods when it exacted the heaviest duties
from me. Whoever could have seen me during the
seventy days of this autumn, when, without inter-
ruption, I did a host of things of the highest rank—
things that no man can do nowadays—with a sense
of responsibility for all the ages yet to come, would
have noticed no sign of tension in my condition, but
rather a state of overflowing freshness and good
cheer. Never have I eaten with more pleasant sen-
sations, never has my sleep been better. I know of
no other manner of dealing with great tasks, than
as play: this, as a sign of greatness, is an essential
prerequisite. The slightest constraint, a sombre
mien, any hard accent in the voice—all these things
are objections to a man, but how much more to his
work! . . . One must not have nerves. . . . Even
to suffer from solitude is an objection—the only
thing I have always suffered from is " multitude. " *
* The German words are, Einsamkeit and Vielsamkcit.
The latter was coined by Nietzsche. The English word
"multitude "' should, therefore, be understood as signifying
multifarious instincts and gifts, which in Nietzsche strove for
ascendancy and caused him more suffering than any solitude.
Complexity of this sort, held in check by a dominant instinct,
as in Nietzsche's case, is of course the only possible basis of
an artistic nature. —Tr.


## p. 53 (#82) ##############################################

52
ECCE HOMO
I am fated to figure in great causes. To this I reply
that these trivial matters—diet, locality, climate,
and one's mode of recreation, the whole casuistry of
self-love—are inconceivably more important than
all that which has hitherto been held in high esteem.
It is precisely in this quarter that we must begin
to learn afresh. All those things which mankind
has valued with such earnestness heretofore are not
even real; they are mere creations of fancy, or,
more strictly speaking, lies born of the evil instincts
of diseased and, in the deepest sense, noxious
natures—all the concepts, “ God," "soul,” “ virtue,"
“sin," “ Beyond,” “truth,” “ eternal life. ” . . . But
the greatness of human nature, its “divinity,” was
sought for in them. . . . All questions of politics,
of social order, of education, have been falsified, root
and branch, owing to the fact that the most noxious
men have been taken for great men, and that
people were taught to despise the small things, or
rather the fundamental things, of life. If I now
choose to compare myself with those creatures who
have hitherto been honoured as the first among men,
the difference becomes obvious. I do not reckon
the so-called “first” men even as human beings-
for me they are the excrements of mankind, the
products of disease and of the instinct of revenge:
they are so many monsters laden with rottenness,
so many hopeless incurables, who avenge them-
selves on life. . . . I wish to be the opposite of
these people: it is my privilege to have the very
sharpest discernment for every sign of healthy in-
stincts. There is no such thing as a morbid trait
in me; even in times of serious illness I have never


## p. 53 (#83) ##############################################

WHY I AM SO CLEVER
grown morbid, and you might seek in vain for a
trace of fanaticism in my nature. No one can point
to any moment of my life in which I have assumed
either an arrogant or a pathetic attitude. Pathetic
attitudes are not in keeping with greatness; he who
needs attitudes is false. . . . Beware of all pictur-
esque men! Life was easy—in fact easiest—to me,
in those periods when it exacted the heaviest duties
from me. Whoever could have seen me during the
seventy days of this autumn, when, without inter-
ruption, I did a host of things of the highest rank-
things that no man can do nowadays—with a sense
of responsibility for all the ages yet to come, would
have noticed no sign of tension in my condition, but
rather a state of overflowing freshness and good
cheer. Never have I eaten with more pleasant sen-
sations, never has my sleep been better. I know of
no other manner of dealing with great tasks, than
as play: this, as a sign of greatness, is an essential
prerequisite. The slightest constraint, a sombre
mien, any hard accent in the voice—all these things
are objections to a man, but how much more to his
work! . . . One must not have nerves. . . . Even
to suffer from solitude is an objection—the only
thing I have always suffered from is “multitude. ” *
* The German words are, Einsamkeit and Vielsamkeit.
The latter was coined by Nietzsche. The English word
“multitude" should, therefore, be understood as signifying
multifarious instincts and gifts, which in Nietzsche strove for
ascendancy and caused him more suffering than any solitude.
Complexity of this sort, held in check by a dominant instinct,
as in Nietzsche's case, is of course the only possible basis of
an artistic nature. -TR.


## p. 53 (#84) ##############################################

52
ECCE HOMO
I am fated to figure in great causes. To this I reply
that these trivial matters—diet, locality, climate,
and one's mode of recreation, the whole casuistry of
self-love—are inconceivably more important than
all that which has hitherto been held in high esteem.
It is precisely in this quarter that we must begin
to learn afresh.
All those things which mankind
has valued with such earnestness heretofore are not
even real; they are mere creations of fancy, or,
more strictly speaking, lies born of the evil instincts
of diseased and, in the deepest sense, noxious
natures—all the concepts, “ God,”“soul,” “virtue,"
“sin,” “ Beyond,” “truth,” “ eternal life. ” . . . But
the greatness of human nature, its “ divinity," was
sought for in them. . . . All questions of politics,
of social order, of education, have been falsified, root
and branch, owing to the fact that the most noxious
men have been taken for great men, and that
people were taught to despise the small things, or
rather the fundamental things, of life. If I now
choose to compare myself with those creatures who
have hitherto been honoured as the first among men,
the difference becomes obvious. I do not reckon
the so-called “first” men even as human beings-
for me they are the excrements of mankind, the
products of disease and of the instinct of revenge:
they are so many monsters laden with rottenness,
so many hopeless incurables, who avenge them-
selves on life, . . . I wish to be the opposite of
these people: it is my privilege to have the very
sharpest discernment for every sign of healthy in-
stincts. There is no such thing as a morbid trait
in me; even in times of serious illness I have never


## p. 53 (#85) ##############################################

WHY I AM SO CLEVER
53
grown morbid, and you might seek in vain for a
trace of fanaticism in my nature. No one can point
to any moment of my life in which I have assumed
either an arrogant or a pathetic attitude. Pathetic
attitudes are not in keeping with greatness; he who
needs attitudes is false. . . . Beware of all pictur-
esque men! Life was easy-in fact easiest—to me,
in those periods when it exacted the heaviest duties
from me. Whoever could have seen me during the
seventy days of this autumn, when, without inter-
ruption, I did a host of things of the highest rank-
things that no man can do nowadays—with a sense
of responsibility for all the ages yet to come, would
have noticed no sign of tension in my condition, but
rather a state of overflowing freshness and good
cheer. Never have I eaten with more pleasant sen-
sations, never has my sleep been better. I know of
no other manner of dealing with great tasks, than
as play: this, as a sign of greatness, is an essential
prerequisite. The slightest constraint, a sombre
mien, any hard accent in the voice-all these things
are objections to a man, but how much more to his
work! . . . One must not have nerves. . . . Even
to suffer from solitude is an objection—the only
thing I have always suffered from is “multitude. "*
* The German words are, Einsamkeit and Vielsamkeit.
The latter was coined by Nietzsche. The English word
“multitude" should, therefore, be understood as signifying
multifarious instincts and gifts, which in Nietzsche strove for
ascendancy and caused him more suffering than any solitude.
Complexity of this sort, held in check by a dominant instinct,
as in Nietzsche's case, is of course the only possible basis of
an artistic nature. -TR.


## p. 53 (#86) ##############################################

52
ECCE HOMO
I am fated to figure in great causes. To this I reply
that these trivial matters—diet, locality, climate,
and one's mode of recreation, the whole casuistry of
self-love—are inconceivably more important than
all that which has hitherto been held in high esteem.
It is precisely in this quarter that we must begin
to learn afresh. All those things which mankind
has valued with such earnestness heretofore are not
even real; they are mere creations of fancy, or,
more strictly speaking, lies born of the evil instincts
of diseased and, in the deepest sense, noxious
natures—all the concepts, “God,"“soul,” “ virtue,"
“sin," “ Beyond," “ truth,” “ eternal life. ” . . . But
the greatness of human nature, its “ divinity," was
sought for in them. . . . All questions of politics,
of social order, of education, have been falsified, root
and branch, owing to the fact that the most noxious
men have been taken for great men, and that
people were taught to despise the small things, or
rather the fundamental things, of life. If I now
choose to compare myself with those creatures who
have hitherto been honoured as the first among men,
the difference becomes obvious. I do not reckon
the so-called “ first” men even as human beings-
for me they are the excrements of mankind, the
products of disease and of the instinct of revenge:
they are so many monsters laden with rottenness,
so many hopeless incurables, who avenge them-
selves on life. . . . I wish to be the opposite of
these people: it is my privilege to have the very
sharpest discernment for every sign of healthy in-
stincts. There is no such thing as a morbid trait
in me; even in times of serious illness I have never


## p. 53 (#87) ##############################################

WHY I AM SO CLEVER
53
grown morbid, and you might seek in vain for a
trace of fanaticism in my nature. No one can point
to any moment of my life in which I have assumed
either an arrogant or a pathetic attitude. Pathetic
attitudes are not in keeping with greatness; he who
needs attitudes is false. . . . Beware of all pictur-
esque men! Life was easy-in fact easiest—to me,
in those periods when it exacted the heaviest duties
from me. Whoever could have seen me during the
seventy days of this autumn, when, without inter-
ruption, I did a host of things of the highest rank—
things that no man can do nowadays—with a sense
of responsibility for all the ages yet to come, would
have noticed no sign of tension in my condition, but
rather a state of overflowing freshness and good
cheer. Never have I eaten with more pleasant sen-
sations, never has my sleep been better. I know of
no other manner of dealing with great tasks, than
as play: this, as a sign of greatness, is an essential
prerequisite. The slightest constraint, a sombre
mien, any hard accent in the voice—all these things
are objections to a man, but how much more to his
work! . . . One must not have nerves. . . . Even
to suffer from solitude is an objection—the only
thing I have always suffered from is “multitude. ” *
* The German words are, Einsamkeit and Vielsamkeit.
The latter was coined by Nietzsche. The English word
“multitude" should, therefore, be understood as signifying
multifarious instincts and gifts, which in Nietzsche strove for
ascendancy and caused him more suffering than any solitude.
Complexity of this sort, held in check by a dominant instinct,
as in Nietzsche's case, is of course the only possible basis of
an artistic nature. —TR.


## p. 53 (#88) ##############################################

52
ECCE HOMO
I am fated to figure in great causes. To this I reply
that these trivial matters-diet, locality, climate,
and one's mode of recreation, the whole casuistry of
self-love—are inconceivably more important than
all that which has hitherto been held in high esteem.
It is precisely in this quarter that we must begin
to learn afresh. All those things which mankind
has valued with such earnestness heretofore are not
even real; they are mere creations of fancy, or,
more strictly speaking, lies born of the evil instincts
of diseased and, in the deepest sense, noxious
natures—all the concepts, “ God," "soul,” “ virtue,"
“sin,” “ Beyond,” “truth,” “eternal life. " . . . But
the greatness of human nature, its “divinity," was
sought for in them. . . . All questions of politics,
of social order, of education, have been falsified, root
and branch, owing to the fact that the most noxious
men have been taken for great men, and that
people were taught to despise the small things, or
rather the fundamental things, of life. If I now
choose to compare myself with those creatures who
have hitherto been honoured as the first among men,
the difference becomes obvious. I do not reckon
the so-called “first” men even as human beings-
for me they are the excrements of mankind, the
products of disease and of the instinct of revenge:
they are so many monsters laden with rottenness,
so many hopeless incurables, who avenge them-
selves on life. . . . I wish to be the opposite of
these people: it is my privilege to have the very
sharpest discernment for every sign of healthy in-
stincts. There is no such thing as a morbid trait
in me; even in times of serious illness I have never


## p. 53 (#89) ##############################################

WHY I AM SO CLEVER
53
grown morbid, and you might seek in vain for a
trace of fanaticism in my nature. No one can point
to any moment of my life in which I have assumed
either an arrogant or a pathetic attitude. Pathetic
attitudes are not in keeping with greatness; he who
needs attitudes is false. . . . Beware of all pictur-
esque men! Life was easy-in fact easiest—to me,
in those periods when it exacted the heaviest duties
from me. Whoever could have seen me during the
seventy days of this autumn, when, without inter-
ruption, I did a host of things of the highest rank—
things that no man can do nowadays—with a sense
of responsibility for all the ages yet to come, would
have noticed no sign of tension in my condition, but
rather a state of overflowing freshness and good
cheer. Never have I eaten with more pleasant sen-
sations, never has my sleep been better. I know of
no other manner of dealing with great tasks, than
as play: this, as a sign of greatness, is an essential
prerequisite. The slightest constraint, a sombre
mien, any hard accent in the voice-all these things
are objections to a man, but how much more to his
work! . . . One must not have nerves. . . . Even
to suffer from solitude is an objection—the only
thing I have always suffered from is “multitude. ” *
* The German words are, Einsamkeit and Vielsamkeit.
The latter was coined by Nietzsche. The English word
“multitude" should, therefore, be understood as signifying
multifarious instincts and gifts, which in Nietzsche strove for
ascendancy and caused him more suffering than any solitude.
Complexity of this sort, held in check by a dominant instinct,
as in Nietzsche's case, is of course the only possible basis of
an artistic nature. --TR.


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52
ECCE HOMO
I am fated to figure in great causes. To this I reply
that these trivial matters—diet, locality, climate,
and one's mode of recreation, the whole casuistry of
self-love-are inconceivably more important than
all that which has hitherto been held in high esteem.
It is precisely in this quarter that we must begin
to learn afresh. All those things which mankind
has valued with such earnestness heretofore are not
even real; they are mere creations of fancy, or,
more strictly speaking, lies born of the evil instincts
of diseased and, in the deepest sense, noxious
natures—all the concepts, “God,” “soul,” “virtue,"
“sin,” “Beyond," "truth,” “eternal life. ” . . . But
the greatness of human nature, its “ divinity," was
sought for in them. . . . All questions of politics,
of social order, of education, have been falsified, root
and branch, owing to the fact that the most noxious
men have been taken for great men, and that
people were taught to despise the small things, or
rather the fundamental things, of life. If I now
choose to compare myself with those creatures who
have hitherto been honoured as the first among men,
the difference becomes obvious. I do not reckon
the so-called “first” men even as human beings-
for me they are the excrements of mankind, the
products of disease and of the instinct of revenge:
they are so many monsters laden with rottenness,
so many hopeless incurables, who avenge them-
selves on life. . . . I wish to be the opposite of
these people: it is my privilege to have the very
sharpest discernment for every sign of healthy in-
stincts. There is no such thing as a morbid trait
in me; even in times of serious illness I have never


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WHY I AM SO CLEVER
53
grown morbid, and you might seek in vain for a
trace of fanaticism in my nature. No one can point
to any moment of my life in which I have assumed
either an arrogant or a pathetic attitude. Pathetic
attitudes are not in keeping with greatness; he who
needs attitudes is false. . . . Beware of all pictur-
esque men! Life was easy—in fact easiest—to me,
in those periods when it exacted the heaviest duties
from me. Whoever could have seen me during the
seventy days of this autumn, when, without inter-
ruption, I did a host of things of the highest rank-
things that no man can do nowadays—with a sense
of responsibility for all the ages yet to come, would
have noticed no sign of tension in my condition, but
rather a state of overflowing freshness and good
cheer. Never have I eaten with more pleasant sen-
sations, never has my sleep been better. I know of
no other manner of dealing with great tasks, than
as play: this, as a sign of greatness, is an essential
prerequisite. The slightest constraint, a sombre
mien, any hard accent in the voice—all these things
are objections to a man, but how much more to his
work! . . . One must not have nerves. . . . Even
to suffer from solitude is an objection-the only
thing I have always suffered from is “multitude. ”*
* The German words are, Einsamkeit and Vielsamkeit.
The latter was coined by Nietzsche. The English word
“multitude" should, therefore, be understood as signifying
multifarious instincts and gifts, which in Nietzsche strove for
ascendancy and caused him more suffering than any solitude.
Complexity of this sort, held in check by a dominant instinct,
as in Nietzsche's case, is of course the only possible basis of
an artistic nature. —TR.


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54 ECCE HOMO
At an absurdly tender age, in fact when I was seven
years old, I already knew that no human speech
would ever reach me: did any one ever see me sad
on that account? At present I still possess the same
affability towards everybody, I am even full of con-
sideration for the lowest: in all this there is not an
atom of haughtiness or of secret contempt. He
whom I despise soon guesses that he is despised by
me: the very fact of my existence is enough to rouse
indignation in all those who have polluted blood in
their veins. My formula for greatness in man is
amor fati: the fact that a man wishes nothing to
be different, either in front of him or behind him,
or for all eternity. Not only must the necessary be
borne, and on no account concealed,—all idealism
is falsehood in the face of necessity,—but it must
also be loved. . . .


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WHY I WRITE SUCH EXCELLENT BOOKS
I AM one thing, my creations are another. Here,
before I speak of the books themselves, I shall
touch upon the question of the understanding and
misunderstanding with which they have met. I
shall proceed to do this in as perfunctory a manner
as the occasion demands; for the time has by no
means come for this question. My time has not
yet come either; some are born posthumously. One
day institutions will be needed in which men will
live and teach, as I understand living and teaching;
maybe, also, that by that time, chairs will be
founded and endowed for the interpretation of
Zarathustra. But I should regard it as a complete
contradiction of myself, if I expected to find ears
and eyes for my truths to-day: the fact that no one
listens to me, that no one knows how to receive at
my hands to-day, is not only comprehensible, it
seems to me quite the proper thing. I do not wish
to be mistaken for another—and to this end I must
not mistake myself. To repeat what I have al-
ready said, I can point to but few instances of ill-
will in my life: and as for literary ill-will, I could
mention scarcely a single example of it. On the
other hand, I have met with far too much pure
foolery! . . . It seems to me that to take up one


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56
ECCE HOMO
of my books is one of the rarest honours that a man
can pay himself—even supposing that he put his
shoes from off his feet beforehand, not to mention
boots. . .