No More Learning

127
121.
A Dangerous Game. —Whoever now allows
scope to his religious feelings must also let them
increase, he cannot do otherwise. His nature
then gradually changes; it favours whatever is
connected with and near to the religious element,
the whole extent of judgment and feeling becomes
clouded, overcast with religious shadows. Sensa-
tion cannot stand still; one must therefore take
care.
122.
The Blind Disciples. —So long as one
knows well the strength and weakness of one's
doctrine, one's art, one's religion, its power is
still small. The disciple and apostle who has
no eyes for the weaknesses of the doctrine, the
religion, and so forth, dazzled by the aspect of
the master and by his reverence for him, has on
that account usually more power than the master
himself. Without blind disciples the influence of
a man and his work has never yet become great.
To help a doctrine to victory often means only
so to mix it with stupidity that the weight of the
latter carries off also the victory for the former.
123.
Church Disestablishment. —There is not
enough religion in the world even to destroy
religions.


## p. 128 (#192) ############################################

128 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
124.
The Sinlessness of Man. —If it is under-
stood how "sin came into the world," namely
through errors of reason by which men held each
other, even the single individual held himself, to
be much blacker and much worse than was
actually the case, the whole sensation will be
much lightened, and man and the world will
appear in a blaze of innocence which it will do
one good to contemplate. In the midst of nature
man is always the child per se. This child some-
times has a heavy and terrifying dream, but when
it opens its eyes it always finds itself back again
in Paradise.
125.
The Irreligiousness of Artists. —Homer
is so much at home amongst his gods, and is so
familiar with them as a poet, that he must have
been deeply irreligious; that which the popular
faith gave him—a meagre, rude, partly terrible
superstition—he treated as freely as the sculptor
does his clay, with the same unconcern, therefore,
which ^Eschylus and Aristophanes possessed, and
by which in later times the great artists of the
Renaissance distinguished themselves, as also did
Shakespeare and Goethe.
126.
The Art and Power of False Inter-
pretations. —All the visions, terrors, torpors,
>


## p. 129 (#193) ############################################

THE RELIGIOUS LIFE. 129
and ecstasies of saints are well-known forms of
disease, which are only, by reason of deep-rooted
religious and psychological errors, differently
explained by him, namely not as diseases. Thus,
perhaps, the Daimonion of Socrates was only an
affection of the ear, which he, in accordance with
his ruling moral mode of thought, expounded
differently from what would be the case now.
It is the same thing with the madness and
ravings of the prophets and soothsayers; it is
always the degree of knowledge, fantasy, effort,
morality in the head and heart of the interpreters
which has made so much of it. For the greatest
achievements of the people who are called geniuses
and saints it is necessary that they should secure
interpreters by force, who misunderstand them for
the good of mankind.
127.
The Veneration of Insanity. —Because
it was remarked that excitement frequently made
the mind clearer and produced happy inspirations,
it was believed that the happiest inspirations and
suggestions were called forth by the greatest
excitement; and so the insane were revered as
wise and oracular. This is based on a false
conclusion.
128.
The Promises of Science. —The aim of
modern science is: as little pain as possible, as
long a life as possible,—a kind of eternal blessed-


## p. 130 (#194) ############################################

130 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
>
ness, therefore; but certainly a very modest one
as compared with the promises of religions.
129.
Forbidden Generosity. — There is not
sufficient love and goodness in the world to permit
us to give some of it away to imaginary beings.
130.
The Continuance of the Religious
Cult in the Feelings. —The Roman Catholic
Church, and before that all antique cults, domin-
ated the entire range of means by which man
was put into unaccustomed moods and rendered
incapable of the cold calculation of judgment or
the clear thinking of reason. A church quivering
with deep tones; the dull, regular, arresting
appeals of a priestly throng, unconsciously com-
municates its tension to the congregation and
makes it listen almost fearfully, as if a miracle
were in preparation; the influence of the archi-
tecture, which, as the dwelling of a Godhead,
extends into the uncertain and makes its appari-
tion to be feared in all its sombre spaces,—who
would wish to bring such things back to mankind if
the necessary suppositions are no longer believed?
But the results of all this are not lost, never-
theless; the inner world of noble, emotional,
deeply contrite dispositions, full of presentiments,
blessed with hope, is inborn in mankind mainly
through this cult; what exists of it now in the
_


## p. 131 (#195) ############################################

THE RELIGIOUS LIFE. 131
soul was then cultivated on a large scale as it
germinated, grew up and blossomed.
I3i-
The Painful Consequences of Religion.
—However much we may think we have weaned
ourselves from religion, it has nevertheless not
been done so thoroughly as to deprive us of
pleasure in encountering religious sensations and
moods in music, for instance; and if a philosophy
shows us the justification of metaphysical hopes
and the deep peace of soul to be thence acquired,
and speaks, for instance, of the "whole, certain
gospel in the gaze of Raphael's Madonnas,"
we receive such statements and expositions
particularly warmly; here the philosopher finds
it easier to prove; that which he desires to
give corresponds to a heart that desires to receive.
Hence it may be observed how the less thoughtful
free spirits really only take offence at the dogmas,
but are well acquainted with the charm of religious
sensations; they are sorry to lose hold of the
latter for the sake of the former. Scientific
philosophy must be very careful not to smuggle
in errors on the ground of that need,—a need
which has grown up and is consequently
temporary,—even logicians speak of "presenti-
ments" of truth in ethics and in art (for instance,
of the suspicion that "the nature of things is
one"), which should be forbidden to them.
Between the carefully established truths and
such "presaged" things there remains the un-


## p. 132 (#196) ############################################

132 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
bridgable chasm that those are due to intellect
and these to requirement. Hunger does not
prove that food exists to satisfy it, but that it
desires food. To "presage" does not mean
the acknowledgment of the existence of a thing
in any one degree, but its possibility, in so far
as it is desired or feared; "presage" does not
advance one step into the land of certainty. We
believe involuntarily that the portions of a
philosophy which are tinged with religion are
better proved than others; but actually it is
the contrary, but we have the inward desire that
it may be so, that that which makes blessed,
therefore, may be also the true. This desire
misleads us to accept bad reasons for good ones.
132.
Of the Christian Need of Redemption. —
With careful reflection it must be possible to
obtain an explanation free from mythology of
that process in the soul of a Christian which
is called the need of redemption, consequently
a purely psychological explanation. Up to the
\ present, the psychological explanations of religious
conditions and processes have certainly been
C. held in some disrepute, inasmuch as a theology
which called itself free carried on its unprofitable
practice in this domain; for here from the
beginning (as the mind of its founder, Schleier-
macher, gives us reason to suppose) the preserva-
tion of the Christian religion and the continuance
of Christian theology was kept in view; a
-v


## p. 133 (#197) ############################################

THE RELIGIOUS LIFE. 133
theology which was to find a new anchorage
in the psychological analyses of religious " facts,"
and above all a new occupation. Unconcerned
about such predecessors we hazard the following
interpretation of the phenomenon in question.
Man is conscious of certain actions which stand
far down in the customary rank of actions; he
even discovers in himself a tendency towards
similar actions, a tendency which appears to him
almost as unchangeable as his whole nature.
How willingly would he try himself in that
other species of actions which in the general
valuation are recognised as the loftiest and
highest, how gladly would he feel himself to
be full of the good consciousness which should
follow an unselfish mode of thought! But
unfortunately he stops short at this wish, and
the discontent at not being able to satisfy it
is added to all the other discontents which his
lot in life or the consequences of those above-
mentioned evil actions have aroused in him;
so that a deep ill-humour is the result, with the
search for a physician who could remove this
and all its causes. This condition would not
be felt so bitterly if man would only compare
himself frankly with other men,—then he would
have no reason for being dissatisfied with himself
to a particular extent, he would only bear his
share of the common burden of human dis-
satisfaction and imperfection. But he compares
himself with a being who is said to be capable
only of those actions which are called unegoistic,
and to live in the perpetual consciousness of an
r


## p. 134 (#198) ############################################

134 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
unselfish mode of thought, i. e. with God; it is
because he gazes into this clear mirror that his
image appears to him so dark, so unusually
warped. Then he is alarmed by the thought
of that same creature, in so far as it floats
before his imagination as a retributive justice;
in all possible small and great events he thinks
he recognises its anger and menaces, that he
even feels its scourge-strokes as judge and
executioner. Who will help him in this danger,
which, by the prospect of an immeasurable
duration of punishment, exceeds in horror all
the other terrors of the idea?
133-
Before we examine the further consequences of
this mental state, let us acknowledge that it is
not through his "guilt" and "sin" that man
has got into this condition, but through a series
of errors of reason; that it was the fault of the
mirror if his image appeared so dark and hateful
to him, and that that mirror was his work, the
very imperfect work of human imagination and
power of judgment. In the first place, a nature
that is only capable of purely unegoistic actions
is more fabulous than the phcenix; it cannot
even be clearly imagined, just because, when
closely examined, the whole idea "unegoistic
action" vanishes into air. No man ever did
a thing which was done only for others and
without any personal motive; how should he
be able to do anything which had no relation


## p. 135 (#199) ############################################

THE RELIGIOUS LIFE. 135
to himself, and therefore without inward obligation
(which must always have its foundation in a
personal need)? How could the ego act without
ego} A God who, on the contrary, is all love,
as such a one is often represented, would not
be capable of a single unegoistic action, whereby
one is reminded of a saying of Lichtenberg's
which is certainly taken from a lower sphere:
"We cannot possibly feel for others, as the
saying is; we feel only for ourselves. This
sounds hard, but it is not so really if it be
rightly understood. We do not love father or
mother or wife or child, but the pleasant
sensations they cause us;" or, as Rochefoucauld
says: "Si on croit aimer sa maitresse pour F amour
d'elle, on est bien trompi" To know the reason
why actions of love are valued more than others,
not on account of their nature, namely, but of
their usefulness, we should compare the examina-
tions already mentioned, On the Origin of
Moral Sentiments. But should a man desire
to be entirely like that God of Love, to do and
wish everything for others and nothing for
himself, the latter is impossible for the reason
that he must do very much for himself to be
able to do something for the love of others.
Then it is taken for granted that the other is
sufficiently egoistic to accept that sacrifice again
and again, that living for him,—so that the people
of love and sacrifice have an interest in the
continuance of those who are loveless and
incapable of sacrifice, and, in order to exist,
the highest morality would be obliged positively


## p. 136 (#200) ############################################

136 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
to compel the existence of un-morality (whereby
it would certainly annihilate itself). Further:
the conception of a God disturbs and humbles
so long as it is believed in; but as to how it
arose there can no longer be any doubt in the
present state of the science of comparative
ethnology; and with a comprehension of this
origin all belief falls to the ground. The
V Christian who compares his nature with God's
is like Don Quixote, who under-valued his own
bravery because his head was full of the
marvellous deeds of the heroes of the chivalric
romances,—the standard of measurement in both
L, cases belongs to the domain of fable. But if the
idea of God is removed, so is also the feeling
of "sin" as a trespass against divine laws, as
a stain in a creature vowed to God. Then,
perhaps, there still remains that dejection which
is intergrown and connected with the fear of
the punishment of worldly justice or of the
scorn of men; the dejection of the pricks of
conscience, the sharpest thorn in the conscious-
ness of sin, is always removed if we recognise
that though by our own deed we have sinned
against human descent, human laws and
ordinances, still that we have not imperilled the
"eternal salvation of the Soul" and its relation
to the Godhead. And if man succeeds in
gaining philosophic conviction of the absolute
necessity of all actions and their entire irresponsi-
bility, and absorbing this into his flesh and blood,
even those remains of the pricks of conscience
vanish.


## p. 137 (#201) ############################################

THE RELIGIOUS LIFE. 137
134-
Now if the Christian, as we have said, has fallen
into the way of self-contempt in consequence of
certain errors through a false, unscientific inter-
pretation of his actions and sensations, he must
notice with great surprise how that state of con-
tempt, the pricks of conscience and displeasure
generally, does not endure, how sometimes there
come hours when all this is wafted away from
his soul and he feels himself once more free and
courageous. In truth, the pleasure . in himself,
the comfort of his own strength, together with
the necessary weakening through time of every
deep emotion, has usually been victorious; man
loves himself once again, he feels it,—but precisely
this new love, this self-esteem, seems to him
incredible, he can only see in it the wholly un-
deserved descent of a stream of mercy from on high.
If he formerly believed that in every event he
could recognise warnings, menaces, punishments,
and every kind of manifestation of divine anger,
he now finds divine goodness in all his experiences,
—this event appears to him to be full of love, that
one a helpful hint, a third, and, indeed, his whole
happy mood, a proof that God is merciful. As
formerly, in his state of pain, he interpreted his
actions falsely, so now he misinterprets his ex-
periences; his mood of comfort he believes to be
the working of a power operating outside of him-
self, the love with which he really loves himself
seems to him to be divine love; that which he


## p. 138 (#202) ############################################

138 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
-
calls mercy, and the prologue to redemption, is
actually self-forgiveness, self-redemption.
135-
Therefore: A certain false psychology, a
certain kind of imaginative interpretation of
motives and experiences, is the necessary pre-
liminary for one to become a Christian and to
feel the need of redemption. When this error
of reason and imagination is recognised, one ceases
to be a Christian.
136.
Of Christian Asceticism and Holiness.
—As greatly as isolated thinkers have endeavoured
to depict as a miracle the rare manifestations of
morality, which are generally called asceticism and
holiness, miracles which it would be almost an out-
rage and sacrilege to explain by the light of common
sense, as strong also is the inclination towards this
outrage. A mighty impulse of nature has at all
times led to a protest against those manifestations;
science, in so far as it is an imitation of nature, at
least allows itself to rise against the supposed in-
explicableness and unapproachableness of these
objections. So far it has certainly not succeeded:
those appearances are still unexplained, to the
great joy of the above-mentioned worshippers of
the morally marvellous. For, speaking generally,
the unexplained must be absolutely inexplicable,
the inexplicable absolutely unnatural, supernatural,
wonderful,—thus runs the demand in the souls of


## p. 139 (#203) ############################################

THE RELIGIOUS LIFE. 139
all religious and metaphysical people (also of
artists, if they should happen to be thinkers at the
same time); whilst the scientist sees in this de-
mand the " evil principle" in itself. The general,
first probability upon which one lights in the
contemplation of holiness and asceticism is this,
that their nature is a complicated one, for almost
everywhere, within the physical world as well as
in the moral, the apparently marvellous has been
successfully traced back to the complicated, the
many-conditioned. Let us venture, therefore, to
isolate separate impulses from the soul of saints
and ascetics, and finally to imagine them as inter-
grown.
137-
There is a defiance of self, to the sublimest
manifestation of which belong many forms of
asceticism. Certain individuals have such great
need of exercising their power and love of ruling
that, in default of other objects, or because they
have never succeeded otherwise, they finally ex-
cogitate the idea of tyrannising over certain parts of
their own nature, portions or degrees of themselves.
Thus many a thinker confesses to views which
evidently do not serve either to increase or im-
prove his reputation; many a one deliberately
calls down the scorn of others when by keeping
silence he could easily have remained respected;
others contradict former opinions and do not
hesitate to be called inconsistent—on the contrary,
they strive after this, and behave like reckless


## p. 140 (#204) ############################################

140 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
riders who like a horse best when it has grown
wild, unmanageable, and covered with sweat.
Thus man climbs dangerous paths up the highest
mountains in order that he may laugh to scorn
his own fear and his trembling knees; thus the
philosopher owns to views on asceticism, humility,
holiness, in the brightness of which his own
picture shows to the worst possible disadvantage.
This crushing of one's self, this scorn of one's own
nature, this spernere se sperni, of which religion
has made so much, is really a very high degree of
vanity. The whole moral of the Sermon on the
Mount belongs here; man takes a genuine delight
in doing violence to himself by these exaggerated
claims, and afterwards idolising these tyrannical
demands of his soul. In every ascetic morality
man worships one part of himself as a God, and
is obliged, therefore, to diabolise the other parts.
138.
Man is not equally moral at all hours, this is
well known. If his morality is judged to be the
capability for great self-sacrificing resolutions and
self-denial (which, when continuous and grown
habitual, are called holiness), he is most moral in
the passions; the higher emotion provides him
with entirely new motives, of which he, sober and
cold as usual, perhaps does not even believe him-
self capable. How does this happen? Probably
because of the proximity of everything great
and highly exciting; if man is once wrought up


## p. 141 (#205) ############################################

THE RELIGIOUS LIFE. 141
to a state of extraordinary suspense, he is as
capable of carrying out a terrible revenge as of
a terrible crushing of his need for revenge. Under
the influence of powerful emotion, he desires in
any case the great, the powerful, the immense; and
if he happens to notice that the sacrifice of himself
satisfies him as well as, or better than, the sacrifice
of others, he chooses that. Actually, therefore,
he only cares about discharging his emotion; in
order to ease his tension he seizes the enemy's
spears and buries them in his breast. That there
was something great in self-denial and not in
revenge had to be taught to mankind by long
habit; a Godhead that sacrificed itself was the
strongest, most effective symbol of this kind of
greatness. As the conquest of the most difficult
enemy, the sudden mastering of an affection—
thus this denial appears; and so far it passes for
the summit of morality. In reality it is a question
of the confusion of one idea with another, while
the temperament maintains an equal height, an
equal level. Temperate men who are resting from
their passions no longer understand the morality
of those moments; but the general admiration of
those who had the same experiences upholds them;
pride is their consolation when affection and the
understanding of their deed vanish. Therefore,
at bottom even those actions of self-denial are not
moral, inasmuch as they are not done strictly
with regard to others; rather the other only pro-
vides the highly-strung temperament with an
opportunity of relieving itself through that
denial.


## p. 142 (#206) ############################################

142 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
139-
In many respects the ascetic seeks to make life
easy for himself, usually by complete subordination
to a strange will or a comprehensive law and
ritual; something like the way a Brahmin leaves
nothing whatever to his own decision but refers
every moment to holy precepts. This submission
is a powerful means of attaining self-mastery:
man is occupied and is therefore not bored, and
yet has no incitement to self-will or passion ; after a
completed deed there is no feeling of responsibility
and with it no tortures of remorse. We have
renounced our own will once and for ever, and
this is easier than only renouncing it occasionally;
as it is also easier to give up a desire entirely than
to keep it within bounds. When we remember
the present relation of man to the State, we find
that, even here, unconditional obedience is more
convenient than conditional. The saint, therefore,
makes his life easier by absolute renunciation of
his personality, and we are mistaken if in that
phenomenon we admire the loftiest heroism of
morality. In any case it is more difficult to carry
one's personality through without vacillation and
unclearness than to liberate one's self from it in
the above-mentioned manner; moreover, it requires
far more spirit and consideration.
140.
After having found in many of the less easily
explicable actions manifestations of that pleasure



## p. 143 (#207) ############################################

THE RELIGIOUS LIFE. I43
in emotion per se, I should like to recognise also in
self-contempt, which is one of the signs of holiness,
and likewise in the deeds of self-torture (through
hunger and scourging, mutilation of limbs, feigning
of madness) a means by which those natures fight
against the general weariness of their life-will
(their nerves); they employ the most painful
irritants and cruelties in order to emerge for a
time, at all events, from that dulness and boredom
into which they so frequently sink through their
great mental indolence and that submission to a
strange will already described.
141.
The commonest means which the ascetic and
saint employs to render life still endurable and
amusing consists in occasional warfare with
alternate victory and defeat. For this he requires
an opponent, and finds it in the so-called "inward
enemy. " He principally makes use of his inclina- ^~)
tion to vanity, love of honour and rule, and of his
sensual desires, that he may be permitted to regard
his life as a perpetual battle and himself as a battle-
field upon which good and evil spirits strive with
alternating success. It is well known that sensual
imagination is moderated, indeed almost dispelled,
by regular sexual intercourse, whereas, on the
contrary, it is rendered unfettered and wild by
abstinence or irregularity. The imagination of
many Christian saints was filthy to an extra-
ordinary degree; by virtue of those theories that I
these desires were actual demons raging within


## p. 144 (#208) ############################################

144 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
them they did not feel themselves to be too
responsible; to this feeling we owe the very
instructive frankness of their self-confessions. It
was to their interest that this strife should always
be maintained in one degree or another, because,
as we have already said, their empty life was thereby
entertained. But in order that the strife might
seem sufficiently important and arouse the enduring
sympathy and admiration of non-saints, it was
necessary that sensuality should be ever more
reviled and branded, the danger of eternal
damnation was so tightly bound up with these
things that it is highly probable that for whole
centuries Christians generated children with a
bad conscience, wherewith humanity has certainly
suffered a great injury. And yet here truth is
all topsy-turvy, which is particularly unsuitable
for truth. Certainly Christianity had said that
every man is conceived and born in sin, and
in the insupportable superlative-Christianity of
/ Calderon this thought again appears, tied up and
twisted, as the most distorted paradox there is, in
the well-known lines —
"The greatest sin of man
Is that he was ever born. "
In all pessimistic religions the act of generation
was looked upon as evil in itself. This is by no
means the verdict of all mankind, not even of
all pessimists. For instance, Empedocles saw in
all erotic things nothing shameful, diabolical, or
sinful; but rather, in the great plain of disaster,
he saw only one hopeful and redeeming figure, that
i
x


## p. 145 (#209) ############################################

THE RELIGIOUS LIFE. 145
of Aphrodite; she appeared to him as a guarantee
that the strife should not endure eternally, but
that the sceptre should one day be given over to
a gentler dcemon. The actual Christian pessimists
had, as has been said, an interest in the dominance
of a diverse opinion; for the solitude and spiritual
wilderness of their lives they required an ever
living enemy, and a generally recognised enemy,
through whose fighting and overcoming they could
constantly represent themselves to the non-saints
as incomprehensible, half - supernatural beings.
But when at last this enemy took to flight for ever
in consequence of their mode of life and their
impaired health, they immediately understood how
to populate their interior with new daemons.
The rising and falling of the scales of pride and
humility sustained their brooding minds as well
as the alternations of desire and peace of soul.
At that time psychology served not only to cast
suspicion upon everything human, but to oppress,
to scourge, to crucify; people wished to find
themselves as bad and wicked as possible, they
sought anxiety for the salvation of their souls,
despair of their own strength. Everything natural
with which man has connected the idea of evil and
sin (as, for instance, he is still accustomed to do
with regard to the erotic) troubles and clouds the
imagination, causes a frightened glance, makes
man quarrel with himself and uncertain and dis-
trustful of himself. Even his dreams have the
flavour of a restless conscience. And yet in the
reality of things this suffering from what is natural
is entirely without foundation, it is only the
vol. 1. K


## p. 146 (#210) ############################################

146 HUMAN, AL. L-TOO-HUMAN.
consequence of opinions about things. It is easily
seen how men grow worse by considering the
inevitably-natural as bad, and afterwards always
feeling themselves made thus. It is the trump-
card of religion and metaphysics, which wish to
have man evil and sinful by nature, to cast sus-
picion on nature and thus really to make him bad,
for he learns to feel himself evil since he cannot
divest himself of the clothing of nature. After
living for long a natural life, he gradually comes
to feel himself weighed down by such a burden
of sin that supernatural powers are necessary to
lift this burden, and therewith arises the so-called
need of redemption, which corresponds to no real
but only to an imaginary sinfulness. If we survey
the separate moral demands of the earliest times
of Christianity it will everywhere be found that
requirements are exaggerated in order that man
cannot satisfy them; the intention is not that he
should become more moral, but that he should
feel himself as sinful as possible. If man had not
found this feeling agreeable—why would he have
thought out such an idea and stuck to it so long?
As in the antique world an immeasurable power
of intellect and inventiveness was expended in
multiplying the pleasure of life by festive cults, so
also in the age of Christianity an immeasurable
amount of intellect has been sacrificed to another
endeavour,—man must by all means be made
to feel himself sinful and thereby be excited,
enlivened, ensouled. To excite, enliven, en-soul
at all costs—is not that the watchword of a
relaxed, over-ripe, over-cultured age? The range


## p. 147 (#211) ############################################

THE RELIGIOUS LIFE. 147
of all natural sensations had been gone over a
hundred times, the soul had grown weary, where-
upon the saint and the ascetic invented a new
species of stimulants for life. They presented
themselves before the public eye, not exactly as an
example for the many, but as a terrible and yet
ravishing spectacle, which took place on that
border-land between world and over-world, wherein
at that time all people believed they saw now
rays of heavenly light and now unholy tongues of
flame glowing in the depths. The saint's eye, fixed
upon the terrible meaning of this short earthly life,
upon the nearness of the last decision concerning
endless new spans of existence, this burning eye
in a half-wasted body made men of the old world
tremble to their very depths; to gaze, to turn
shudderingly away, to feel anew the attraction of
the spectacle and to give way to it, to drink deep
of it till the soul quivered with fire and ague,—
that was the last pleasure that antiquity invented
after it had grown blunted even at the sight of
beast-baitings and human combats.
142.
Now to sum up. That condition of soul in
which the saint or embryo saint rejoiced, was
composed of elements which we all know well,
only that under the influence of other than
religious conceptions they exhibit themselves in
other colours and are then accustomed to en-
counter man's blame as fully as, with that
decoration of religion and the ultimate meaning


## p. 148 (#212) ############################################

I48 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
of existence, they may reckon on receiving ad-
miration and even worship,—might reckon, at
least, in former ages.
Sometimes the saint
practises that defiance of himself which is a
near relative of domination at any cost and
gives a feeling of power even to the most
lonely; sometimes his swollen sensibility leaps
from the desire to let his passions have full
play into the desire to overthrow them like
wild horses under the mighty pressure of a
proud spirit; sometimes he desires a complete
cessation of all disturbing, tormenting, irritating
sensations, a waking sleep, a lasting rest in the
lap of a dull, animal, and plant-like indolence;
sometimes he seeks strife and arouses it within
himself, because boredom has shown him its
yawning countenance. He scourges his self-
adoration with self-contempt and cruelty, he
rejoices in the wild tumult of his desires and
the sharp pain of sin, even in the idea of being
lost; he understands how to lay a trap for his
emotions, for instance even for his keen love of
ruling, so that he sinks into the most utter
abasement and his tormented soul is thrown out
of joint by this contrast; and finally, if he longs
for visions, conversations with the dead or with
divine beings, it is at bottom a rare kind of de-
light that he covets, perhaps that delight in which
all others are united. Novalis, an authority on
questions of holiness through experience and
instinct, tells the whole secret with naive joy:
, "It is strange enough that the association of
lust, religion, and cruelty did not long ago
"


## p. 149 (#213) ############################################

THE RELIGIOUS LIFE. I49
draw men's attention to their close relationship
and common tendency. "
143.
That which gives the saint his historical value
is not the thing he is, but the thing he represents
in the eyes of the unsaintly. It was through the
fact that errors were made about him, that the
state of his soul wasfa/sefy interpreted, that men
separated themselves from him as much as
possible, as from something incomparable and
strangely superhuman, that he acquired the
extraordinary power which he exercised over
the imagination of whole nations and whole ages.
He did not know himself; he himself interpreted
the writing of his moods, inclinations, and actions
according to an art of interpretation which was
as exaggerated and artificial as the spiritual inter-
pretation of the Bible. The distorted and diseased
in his nature, with its combination of intellectual
poverty, evil knowledge, ruined health, and over-
excited nerves, remained hidden from his own
sight as well as from that of his spectators. He
was not a particularly good man, and still less
was he a particularly wise one; but he represented
something that exceeded the human standard in
goodness and wisdom. The belief in him sup-
ported the belief in the divine and miraculous,
in a religious meaning of all existence, in an
impending day of judgment. In the evening
glory of the world's sunset, which glowed over


## p. 150 (#214) ############################################

150 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
\
the Christian nations, the shadowy form of the
saint grew to vast dimensions, it grew to such
a height that even in our own age, which no
longer believes in God, there are still thinkers
who believe in the saint.
144.
It need not be said that to this description of
the saint which has been made from an average
of the whole species, there may be opposed many
a description which could give a more agreeable
impression. Certain exceptions stand out from
among this species, it may be through great
mildness and philanthropy, it may be through
the magic of unusual energy; others are attrac-
tive in the highest degree, because certain wild
ravings have poured streams of light on their whole
being, as is the case, for instance, with the famous
founder of Christianity, who thought he was the
Son of God and therefore felt himself sinless—so
that through this idea—which we must not judge
too hardly because the whole antique world
swarms with sons of God—he reached that same
goal, that feeling of complete sinlessness, com-
plete irresponsibility, which every one can now
acquire by means of science. Neither have I
mentioned the Indian saints, who stand midway
between the Christian saint and the Greek
philosopher, and in so far represent no pure
type. Knowledge, science—such as existed then
-the uplifting above other men through logical


## p. 151 (#215) ############################################

THE RELIGIOUS LIFE. 151
discipline and training of thought, were as much
fostered by the Buddhists as distinguishing signs
of holiness as the same qualities in the Christian
world are repressed and branded as signs of
unholiness.


## p. 152 (#216) ############################################



## p. 153 (#217) ############################################

FOURTH DIVISION.
CONCERNING THE SOUL OF ARTISTS
AND AUTHORS.
145.
The Perfect should not have Grown. —
With regard to everything that is perfect we
are accustomed to omit the question as to how
perfection has been acquired, and we only rejoice
in the present as if it had sprung out of the
ground by magic. Probably with regard to this
matter we are still under the effects of an ancient
mythological feeling. It still almost seems to
us (in such a Greek temple, for instance, as that
of Paestum) as if one morning a god in sport
had built his dwelling of such enormous masses,
at other times it seems as if his spirit had
suddenly entered into a stone and now desired
to speak through it. The artist knows that his
work is only fully effective if it arouses the
belief in an improvisation, in a marvellous
instantaneousness of origin; and thus he assists
this illusion and introduces into art those elements
of inspired unrest, of blindly groping disorder, of
listening dreaming at the beginning of creation,
as a means of deception, in order so to influence
the soul of the spectator or hearer that it may


## p. 154 (#218) ############################################

154 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
believe in the sudden appearance of the perfect.
It is the business of the science of art to con-
tradict this illusion most decidedly, and to show up
the mistakes and pampering of the intellect, by
means of which it falls into the artist's trap.
146.
The Artist's Sense of Truth. —With
regard to recognition of truths, the artist has
a weaker morality than the thinker; he will
on no account let himself be deprived of brilliant
and profound interpretations of life, and defends
himself against temperate and simple methods
and results. He is apparently fighting for the
higher worthiness and meaning of mankind;
in reality he will not renounce the most effective
suppositions for his art, the fantastical, mythical,
uncertain, extreme, the sense of the symbolical,
the over-valuation of personality, the belief that
genius is something miraculous,—he considers,
therefore, the continuance of his art of creation
as more important than the scientific devotion
to truth in every shape, however simple this
may appear.
147.
Art as Raiser of the Dead. —Art also
fulfils the task of preservation and even of
brightening up extinguished and faded memories;
when it accomplishes this task it weaves a rope
round the ages and causes their spirits to return.
It is, certainly, only a phantom-life that results
■
k.


## p. 155 (#219) ############################################

THE SOUL OF ARTISTS AND AUTHORS. 155
therefrom, as out of graves, or like the return
in dreams of our beloved dead, but for some
moments, at least, the old sensation lives again
and the heart beats to an almost forgotten time.
Hence, for the sake of the general usefulness
of art, the artist himself must be excused if he
does not stand in the front rank of the enlighten-
ment and progressive civilisation of humanity;
all his life long he has remained a child or a
youth, and has stood still at the point where he
was overcome by his artistic impulse; the feelings
of the first years of life, however, are ac-
knowledged to be nearer to those of earlier
times than to those of the present century.
Unconsciously it becomes his mission to make
mankind more childlike; this is his glory and
his limitation.
148.
Poets as the Lighteners of Life. —
Poets, inasmuch as they desire to lighten the
life of man, either divert his gaze from the
wearisome present, or assist the present to
acquire new colours by means of a life which
they cause to shine out of the past. To be
able to do this, they must in many respects
themselves be beings who are turned towards
the past, so that they can be used as bridges
to far distant times and ideas, to dying or dead
religions and cultures. Actually they are always
and of necessity epigoni. There are, however,
certain drawbacks to their means of lightening
life,—they appease and heal only temporarily,


## p. 156 (#220) ############################################

156 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
only for the moment; they even prevent men
from labouring towards a genuine improvement
in their conditions, inasmuch as they remove
and apply palliatives to precisely that passion
of discontent that induces to action.
149.
The Slow Arrow of Beauty. —The noblest
kind of beauty is that which does not transport
us suddenly, which does not make stormy and
intoxicating impressions (such a kind easily
arouses disgust), but that which slowly filters
into our minds, which we take away with us
almost unnoticed, and which we encounter again
in our dreams; but which, however, after having
long lain modestly on our hearts, takes entire
possession of us, fills our eyes with tears and
our hearts with longing. What is it that we
long for at the sight of beauty? We long to
be beautiful, we fancy it must bring much
happiness with it. But that is a mistake.
150.
The Animation of Art. —Art raises its head
where . cjeecis-j^lax. It takes over many feelings
and moods engendered by religion, lays them to
its heart, and itself becomes deeper, more full
of soul, so that it is capable of transmitting
exultation and enthusiasm, which it previously
was not able to do. The abundance of religious
feelings which have grown into a stream are
\


## p. 157 (#221) ############################################

THE SOUL OF ARTISTS AND AUTHORS. 157
always breaking forth again and desire to
conquer new kingdoms, but the growing enlighten-
ment has shaken the dogmas of religion and
inspired a deep mistrust,—thus the feeling, thrust
by enlightenment out of the religious sphere,
throws itself upon art, in a few cases into political
life, even straight into science. Everywhere where
human endeavour wears a loftier, gloomier aspect,
it may be assumed that the fear of spirits, incense,
and church-shadows have remained attached to it.
151.
How Rhythm Beautifies. —Rhythm casts
a veil over reality; it causes various artificialities
of speech and obscurities of thought; by the
shadow it throws upon thought it sometimes
conceals it, and sometimes brings it into
prominence. As shadow is necessary to beauty,
so the "dull" is necessary to lucidity. Art
makes the aspect of life endurable by throwing
over it the veil of obscure thought.
152.
The Art of the Ugly Soul. —Art is
confined within too narrow limits if it be required
that only the orderly, respectable, well-behaved
soul should be allowed to express itself therein.
As in the plastic arts, so also in music and
poetry: there is an art of the ugly soul side
by side with the art of the beautiful soul; and
the mightiest effects of art, the crushing of souls,


## p. 158 (#222) ############################################

158 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
moving of stones and humanising of beasts, have
perhaps been best achieved precisely by that art.
153-
Art makes Heavy the Heart of the
Thinker. —How strong metaphysical need is
and how difficult nature renders our departure
from it may be seen from the fact that even in
the free spirit, when he has cast off everything
metaphysical, the loftiest effects of art can easily
produce a resounding of the long silent, even
broken, metaphysical string,—it may be, for
instance, that at a passage in Beethoven's Ninth
Symphony he feels himself floating above the
earth in a starry dome with the dream of immor-
tality in his heart; all the stars seem to shine
round him, and the earth to sink farther and
farther away. —If he becomes conscious of this
state, he feels a deep pain at his heart, and sighs
for the man who will lead back to him his lost
darling, be it called religion or metaphysics. In
such moments his intellectual character is put to
the test.
154-
Playing with Life. —The lightness and
frivolity of the Homeric imagination was necessary
to calm and occasionally to raise the immoderately
passionate temperament and acute intellect of the
Greeks. If their intellect speaks, how harsh and
cruel does life then appear! They do not deceive
themselves, but they intentionally weave lies round


## p. 159 (#223) ############################################

THE SOUL OF ARTISTS AND AUTHORS. 159
life. Simonides advised his countrymen to look
upon life as a game; earnestness was too well-
known to them as pain (the gods so gladly hear
the misery of mankind made the theme of song),
and they knew that through art alone misery
might be turned into pleasure. As a punishment
for this insight, however, they were so plagued
with the love of romancing that it was difficult
for them in everyday life to keep themselves free
from falsehood and deceit; for all poetic nations
have such a love of falsehood, and yet are innocent
withal. Probably this occasionally drove the neigh-
bouring nations to desperation.
155-
The Belief in Inspiration. —It is to the
interest of the artist that there should be a belief
in sudden suggestions, so-called inspirations; as
if the idea of a work of art, of poetry, the funda-
mental thought of a philosophy shone down from
heaven like a ray of grace. In reality the imagina-
tion of the good artist or thinker constantly pro-
duces good, mediocre, and bad, but his judgment,
most clear and practised, rejects and chooses
and joins together, just as we now learn from
Beethoven's notebooks that he gradually com-
posed the most beautiful melodies, and in a
manner selected them, from many different
attempts. He who makes less severe distinctions,
and willingly abandons himself to imitative
memories, may under certain circumstances be-
come a great improvisatore; but artistic impro-


## p. 159 (#224) ############################################

158 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
moving of stones and humanising of beasts, have
perhaps been best achieved precisely by that art.
153-
Art makes Heavy the Heart of the
Thinker. —How strong metaphysical need is
and how difficult nature renders our departure
from it may be seen from the fact that even in
the free spirit, when he has cast off everything
metaphysical, the loftiest effects of art can easily
produce a resounding of the long silent, even
broken, metaphysical string,—it may be, for
instance, that at a passage in Beethoven's Ninth
Symphony he feels himself floating above the
earth in a starry dome with the dream of immor-
tality in his heart; all the stars seem to shine
round him, and the earth to sink farther and
farther away. —If he becomes conscious of this
state, he feels a deep pain at his heart, and sighs
for the man who will lead back to him his lost
darling, be it called religion or metaphysics. In
such moments his intellectual character is put to
the test.
154.
Playing with Life. —The lightness and
frivolity of the Homeric imagination was necessary
to calm and occasionally to raise the immoderately
passionate temperament and acute intellect of the
Greeks. If their intellect speaks, how harsh and
cruel docs life then appear! They do not deceive
themselves, but they intentionally weave lies round


## p. 159 (#225) ############################################

THE SOUL OF ARTISTS AND AUTHORS. 159
life. Simonides advised his countrymen to look
upon life as a game; earnestness was too well-
known to them as pain (the gods so gladly hear
the misery of mankind made the theme of song),
and they knew that through art alone misery
might be turned into pleasure. As a punishment
for this insight, however, they were so plagued
with the love of romancing that it was difficult
for them in everyday life to keep themselves free
from falsehood and deceit; for all poetic nations
have such a love of falsehood, and yet are innocent
withal. Probably this occasionally drove the neigh-
bouring nations to desperation.
155-
The Belief in Inspiration. —It is to the
interest of the artist that there should be a belief
in sudden suggestions, so-called inspirations; as
if the idea of a work of art, of poetry, the funda-
mental thought of a philosophy shone down from
heaven like a ray of grace. In reality the imagina-
tion of the good artist or thinker constantly pro-
duces good, mediocre, and bad, but his judgment,
most clear and practised, rejects and chooses
and joins together, just as we now learn from
Beethoven's notebooks that he gradually com-
posed the most beautiful melodies, and in a
manner selected them, from many different
attempts. He who makes less severe distinctions,
and willingly abandons himself to imitative
memories, may under certain circumstances be-
come a great improvisatore; but artistic impro-


## p. 160 (#226) ############################################

l6o HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
visation ranks low in comparison with serious and
laboriously chosen artistic thoughts. All great
men were great workers, unwearied not only in
invention but also in rejection, reviewing, trans-
forming, and arranging.
156.
Inspiration Again. —If the productive power
has been suspended for a length of time, and has
been hindered in its outflow by some obstacle,
there comes at last such a sudden out-pouring, as
if an immediate inspiration were taking place
without previous inward working, consequently a
miracle. This constitutes the familiar deception,
in the continuance of which, as we have said, the
interest of all artists is rather too much concerned.
The capital has only accumulated, it has not
suddenly fallen down from heaven. Moreover,
such apparent inspirations are seen elsewhere, for
instance in the realm of goodness, of virtue and
of vice.
157.
The Suffering of Genius and its Value.
—The artistic genius desires to give pleasure, but
if his mind is on a very high plane he does not easily
find any one to share his pleasure; he offers en-
tertainment but nobody accepts it. This gives
him, in certain circumstances, a comically touching
pathos; for he has really no right to force pleasure
on men. He pipes, but none will dance: can that
be tragic? Perhaps. —As compensation for this
deprivation, however, he finds more pleasure in


## p. 161 (#227) ############################################

THE SOUL OF ARTISTS AND AUTHORS. l6l
creating than the rest of mankind experiences in
all other species of activity. His sufferings are con-
sidered as exaggerated, because the sound of his
complaints is louder and his tongue more eloquent;
and yet sometimes his sufferings are really very
great; but only because his ambition and his envy
are so great. The learned genius, like Kepler
and Spinoza, is usually not so covetous and does
not make such an exhibition of his really greater
sufferings and deprivations. He can reckon with
greater certainty on future fame and can afford to
do without the present, whilst an artist who does
this always plays a desperate game that makes
his heart ache. In very rare cases, when in one
and the same individual are combined the genius
of power and of knowledge and the moral genius,
there is added to the above-mentioned pains that
species of pain which must be regarded as the
most curious exception in the world; those extra-
and super-personal sensations which are experienced
on behalf of a nation, of humanity, of all civili-
sation, all suffering existence, which acquire their
value through the connection with particularly
difficult and remote perceptions (pity in itself is
worth but little). But what standard, what proof
is there for its genuineness? Is it not almost
imperative to be mistrustful of all who talk of
feeling sensations of this kind?
f 158.
The Destiny of Greatness. —Every great
phenomenon is followed by degeneration, especially


## p. 162 (#228) ############################################

l62 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
in the world of art. The example of the great
tempts vainer natures to superficial imitation or
exaggeration; all great gifts have the fatality of
crushing many weaker forces and germs, and
of laying waste all nature around them. The
happiest arrangement in the development of an
art is for several geniuses mutually to hold one
another within bounds; in this strife it generally
happens that light and air are also granted to the
weaker and more delicate natures.
159.
Art Dangerous for the Artist. —When
art takes strong hold of an individual it draws
him back to the contemplation of those times
when art flourished best, and it has then a retro-
grade effect. The artist grows more and more
to reverence sudden inspirations; he believes in
gods and daemons, he spiritualises all nature,
hates science, is changeable in his moods like the
ancients, and longs for an overthrow of all exist-
ing conditions which are not favourable to art,
and does this with the impetuosity and unreason-
ableness of a child. Now, in himself, the artist
is already a backward nature, because he halts at
a game that belongs properly to youth and child-
hood; to this is added the fact that he is educated
back into former times. Thus there gradually
arises a fierce antagonism between him and his
contemporaries, and a sad ending; according to
the accounts of the ancients, Homer and ^Eschylus
spent their last years, and died, in melancholy.



## p. 163 (#229) ############################################

THE SOUL OF ARTISTS AND AUTHORS. 163
160.
Created Individuals. —When it is said that
the dramatist (and the artist above all) creates real
characters, it is a fine deception and exaggeration,
in the existence and propagation of which art cele-
brates one of its unconscious but at the same time
abundant triumphs. As a matter of fact, we do
not understand much about a real, living man, and
we generalise very superficially when we ascribe to
him this and that character; this very imperfect
attitude of ours towards man is represented by
the poet, inasmuch as he makes into men (in
this sense " creates ") outlines as superficial as our
knowledge of man is superficial. There is a great
deal of delusion about these created characters of
artists; they are by no means living productions
of nature, but are like painted men, somewhat too
thin, they will not bear a close inspection. And
when it is said that the character of the ordinary
living being contradicts itself frequently, and that
the one created by the dramatist is the original
model conceived by nature, this is quite wrong.
A genuine man is something absolutely necessary
(even in those so-called contradictions), but we
do not always recognise this necessity. The
imaginary man, the phantasm, signifies something
necessary, but only to those who understand a real
man only in a crude, unnatural simplification, so
that a few strong, oft-repeated traits, with a great
deal of light and shade and half-light about them,
amply satisfy their notions. They are, therefore,
ready to treat the phantasm as a genuine, necessary


## p. 164 (#230) ############################################

164 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
man, because with real men they are accustomed
to regard a phantasm, an outline, an intentional
abbreviation as the whole. That the painter and
the sculptor express the "idea" of man is a vain
imagination and delusion; whoever says this is in
subjection to the eye, for this only sees the
surface, the epidermis of the human body,—the
inward body, however, is equally a part of the
idea. Plastic art wishes to make character visible!
on the surface ; . histrionic art employs speech for'
the same purpose, it reflects character in sounds.
Art starts from the natural ignorance of man about
his interior condition (in body and character); it is
not meant for philosophers or natural scientists.
161.
The Over-valuation of Self in the
Belief in Artists and Philosophers. —We
are all prone to think that the excellence of a
work of art or of an artist is proved when it moves
and touches us. But there our own excellence in
judgment and sensibility must have been proved
first, which is not the case. In all plastic art, who
had greater power to effect a charm than Bernini,
who made a greater effect than the orator that
appeared after Demosthenes introduced the Asiatic
style and gave it a predominance which lasted
throughout two centuries? This predominance
during whole centuries is not a proof of the
excellence and enduring validity of a style;
therefore we must not be too certain in our good
opinion of any artist,—this is not only belief


## p. 165 (#231) ############################################

THE SOUL OF ARTISTS AND AUTHORS. 165
in the truthfulness of our sensations but also in
the infallibility of our judgment, whereas judgment
or sensation, or even both, may be too coarse or
too fine, exaggerated or crude. Neither are the
blessings and blissfulness of a philosophy or of a
religion proofs of its truth; just as little as the
happiness which an insane person derives from his
fixed idea is a proof of the reasonableness of this
idea.
162.
The Cult of Genius for the sake of
Vanity. —Because we think well of ourselves, but
nevertheless do not imagine that we are capable
of the conception of one of Raphael's pictures or
of a scene such as those of one of Shakespeare's
dramas, we persuade ourselves that the faculty
for doing this is quite extraordinarily wonderful, a
very rare case, or, if we are religiously inclined, a
grace from above. Thus the cult of genius fosters
our vanity, our self-love, for it is only when we
think of it as very far removed from us, as a
miraculum, that it does not wound us (even
Goethe, who was free from envy, called Shakespeare
a star of the farthest heavens, whereby we are
reminded of the line " die Sterne, die begehrt man
nicht" *). But, apart from those suggestions of our
* The allusion is to Goethe's lines:
Die Sterne, die begehrt man nicht,
Man freut sich ihrer Pracht.
We do not want the stars themselves,
Their brilliancy delights our hearts. —J. M. K.


## p. 166 (#232) ############################################

l66 HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN.
vanity, the activity of a genius does not seem so
radically different from the activity of a mechanical
inventor, of an astronomer or historian or strategist.
All these forms of activity are explicable if we
realise men whose minds are active in one special
direction, who make use of everything as material,
who always eagerly study their own inward life
and that of others, who find types and incitements
everywhere, who never weary in the employment
of their means. Genius does nothing but learn
how to lay stones, then to build, always to seek for
material and always to work upon it. Every
human activity is marvellously complicated, and
not only that of genius, but it is no " miracle. "
Now whence comes the belief that genius is found
only in artists, orators, and philosophers, that they
alone have "intuition" (by which we credit them
with a kind of magic glass by means of which
they see straight into one's "being ")? It is clear
that men only speak of genius where the workings
of a great intellect are most agreeable to them
and they have no desire to feel envious. To call
any one " divine" is as much as saying "here we
have no occasion for rivalry.