No More Learning

216.
EVIL PEOPLE AND MUSIC. —Should the full
bliss of love, which consists in unlimited confidence,


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226
THE DAWN OF DAY.
having failed in life. Other men are formed of such
peculiar material—it need not be a particularly
noble one, but simply rarer—that they are sure to
fare ill except in one single instance: when they
can live according to their own designs,—in all
other cases the injury has to be borne by society.
For everything that seems to the individual to
be a wasted or blighted life, his entire burden of
discouragement, powerlessness, sickness, irritation,
covetousness, is attributed by him to society-and
thus a heavy, vitiated atmosphere is gradually
formed round society, or, in the most favourable
cases, a thundercloud.
214.
WHAT INDULGENCE ! — You suffer, and call
upon us to be indulgent towards you, even when
in your suffering you are unjust towards things and
men! But what does our indulgence matter !
You, however, should take greater precautions for
your own sake! That's a nice way of compensating
yourself for your sufferings, by imposing still fur-
ther suffering on your own judgment! Your own
revenge recoils upon yourselves when you start
reviling something: you dim your own eyes in this
way, and not the eyes of others; you accustom
yourself to looking at things in the wrong way, and
with a squint.
215.
THE MORALITY OF VICTIMS. —“Enthusiastic
sacrifice," " self-immolation "—these are the catch-
words of your morality, and I willingly believe that


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THE DAWN OF DAY.
227
you, as you say, “mean it honestly": but I know
you better than you know yourselves, if your
“honesty” is capable of going arm in arm with such
a morality. You look down from the heights of this
morality upon that other sober morality which calls
for self-control, severity, and obedience; you even
go so far as to call it egoistic—and you are indeed
frank towards yourselves in saying that it displeases
you—it must displease you! For, in sacrificing
and immolating yourselves with such enthusiasm,
you delight in the intoxication of the thought that
you are now one with the powerful being, God or
man, to whom you are consecrating yourselves :
you revel in the feeling of his power, which is again
attested by this sacrifice.
In reality, however, you only appear to sacrifice
yourselves; for your imagination turns you into
gods and you enjoy yourselves as such. Judged
from the point of view of this enjoyment, how poor
and feeble must that other "egoistic” morality of
obedience, duty, and reason seem to you: it is dis-
pleasing to you because in this instance true self-
sacrifice and self-surrender are called for, without the
victim thinking himself to be transformed into a god,
as you do. In a word, you want intoxication and
excess, and this morality which you despise takes
up a stand against intoxication and excess—no
wonder it causes you some displeasure !
216.
Evil PEOPLE AND MUSIC. —Should the full
bliss of love, which consists in unlimited confidence,


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226
THE DAWN OF DAY.
having failed in life. Other men are formed of such
peculiar material-it need not be a particularly
noble one, but simply rarer—that they are sure to
fare ill except in one single instance: when they
can live according to their own designs,—in all
other cases the injury has to be borne by society.
For everything that seems to the individual to
be a wasted or blighted life, his entire burden of
discouragement, powerlessness, sickness, irritation,
covetousness, is attributed by him to society-and
thus a heavy, vitiated atmosphere is gradually
formed round society, or, in the most favourable
cases, a thundercloud.
214.
WHAT INDULGENCE! - You suffer, and call
upon us to be indulgent towards you, even when
in your suffering you are unjust towards things and
men! But what does our indulgence matter!
You, however, should take greater precautions for
your own sake! That's a nice way of compensating
yourself for your sufferings, by imposing still fur-
ther suffering on your own judgment! Your own
revenge recoils upon yourselves when you start
reviling something: you dim your own eyes in this
way, and not the eyes of others; you accustom
yourself to looking at things in the wrong way, and
with a squint.
215.
THE MORALITY OF Victims. —“ Enthusiastic
sacrifice," " self-immolation "—these are the catch-
words of your morality, and I willingly believe that


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THE DAWN OF DAY.
227
you, as you say, “mean it honestly": but I know
you better than you know yourselves, if your
“ honesty” is capable of going arm in arm with such
a morality. You look down from the heights of this
morality upon that other sober morality which calls
for self-control, severity, and obedience ; you even
go so far as to call it egoistic—and you are indeed
frank towards yourselves in saying that it displeases
you-it must displease you ! For, in sacrificing
and immolating yourselves with such enthusiasm,
you delight in the intoxication of the thought that
you are now one with the powerful being, God or
man, to whom you are consecrating yourselves :
you revel in the feeling of his power, which is again
attested by this sacrifice.
In reality, however, you only appear to sacrifice
yourselves; for your imagination turns you into
gods and you enjoy yourselves as such. Judged
from the point of view of this enjoyment, how poor
and feeble must that other “egoistic” morality of
obedience, duty, and reason seem to you: it is dis-
pleasing to you because in this instance true self-
sacrifice and self-surrender are called for, without the
victim thinking himself to be transformed into a god,
as you do. In a word, you want intoxication and
excess, and this morality which you despise takes
up a stand against intoxication and excess—no
wonder it causes you some displeasure !
216.
EVIL PEOPLE AND MUSIC. —Should the full
bliss of love, which consists in unlimited confidence,


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226
THE DAWN OF DAY.
having failed in life. Other men are formed of such
peculiar material—it need not be a particularly
noble one, but simply rarer—that they are sure to
fare ill except in one single instance: when they
can live according to their own designs,—in all
other cases the injury has to be borne by society.
For everything that seems to the individual to
be a wasted or blighted life, his entire burden of
discouragement, powerlessness, sickness, irritation,
covetousness, is attributed by him to society—and
thus a heavy, vitiated atmosphere is gradually
formed round society, or, in the most favourable
cases, a thundercloud.
214.
What INDULGENCE! - You suffer, and call
upon us to be indulgent towards you, even when
in your suffering you are unjust towards things and
men! But what does our indulgence matter !
You, however, should take greater precautions for
your own sake! That's a nice way of compensating
yourself for your sufferings, by imposing still fur-
ther suffering on your own judgment! Your own
revenge recoils upon yourselves when you start
reviling something: you dim your own eyes in this
way, and not the eyes of others; you accustom
yourself to looking at things in the wrong way, and
with a squint.
215.
THE MORALITY OF VICTIMS. -"Enthusiastic
sacrifice," " self-immolation ”—these are the catch-
words of your morality, and I willingly believe that


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THE DAWN OF DAY. 227
you, as you say, " mean it honestly ": but I know
you better than you know yourselves, if your
"honesty " is capable of going arm in arm with such
a morality. You look down from the heights of this
morality upon that other sober morality which calls
for self-control, severity, and obedience; you even
go so far as to call it egoistic—and you are indeed
frank towards yourselves in saying that it displeases
you—it must displease you! For, in sacrificing
and immolating yourselves with such enthusiasm,
you delight in the intoxication of the thought that
you are now one with the powerful being, God or
man, to whom you are consecrating yourselves:
you revel in the feeling of his power, which is again
attested by this sacrifice.
In reality, however, you only appear to sacrifice
yourselves; for your imagination turns you into
gods and you enjoy yourselves as such. Judged
from the point of view of this enjoyment, how poor
and feeble must that other " egoistic" morality of
obedience, duty, and reason seem to you: it is dis-
pleasing to you because in this instance true self-
sacrifice and self-surrender are called for, without the
victim thinking himself to be transformed into a god,
as you do. In a word, you want intoxication and
excess, and this morality which you despise takes
up a stand against intoxication and excess—no
wonder it causes you some displeasure!
216.
Evil People and Music. —Should the full
bliss of love, which consists in unlimited confidence,


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228 THE DAWN OF DAY.
ever have fallen to the lot of persons other than
those who are profoundly suspicious, evil,and bitter?
For such people enjoy in this bliss the gigantic, un-
looked-for, and incredible exception of their souls!
One day they are seized with that infinite, dreamy
sensation which is entirely opposed to the re-
mainder of their private and public life, like a
delicious enigma, full of golden splendour, and im-
possible to be described by mere words or similes.
Implicit confidence makes them speechless—there
is even a species of suffering and heaviness in this
blissful silence; and this is why souls that are over-
come with happiness generally feel more grateful
to music than others and better ones do: for they
see and hear through music, as through a coloured
mist, their love becoming, as it were, more distant,
more touching, and less heavy. Music is the only
means that such people have of observing their
extraordinary condition and of becoming aware of
its presence with a feeling of estrangement and
relief. When the sound of music reaches the ears
of every lover he thinks: "It speaks of me, it
speaks in my stead; it knows everything! "
217.
The Artist. —The Germans wish to be trans-
ported by the artist into a state of dreamy
passion; by his aid the Italians wish to rest
from their real passions; the French wish him
to give them an opportunity of showing their
judgment and of making speeches. So let us
be just!


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THE DAWN OF DAY. 229
2 I 8.
TO DEAL LIKE AN ARTIST WITH ONE'S WEAK-
NEssEs. —If we must positively have weaknesses
and come in the end to look upon them as laws
beyond ourselves, I wish that everybody may be
possessed of as much artistic capacity as will enable
him to set off his virtues by means of his weak-
nesses, and to make us, through his weaknesses,
desirous of acquiring his virtues: a power which
great musicians have possessed in quite an excep-
tional degree. How frequently do we notice in
Beethoven's music a coarse, dogmatic, and im-
patient tone; in Mozart, the joviality of an honest
man, whose heart and mind have not overmuch to
give us; in Richard Wagner, an abrupt and aggres-
sive restlessness, in the midst of which, just as the
most patient listener is on the point of losing his
temper, the composer regains his powers, and like-
wise the others. Through their very weaknesses,
these musicians have created in us an ardent desire
for their virtues, and have given us a palate which is
ten times more sensitive to every note of this tune-
ful intellect, tuneful beauty, and tuneful goodness.
219.
Deceit in Humiliation. —By your foolishness
you have done a great wrong to your neighbour
and destroyed his happiness irretrievably—and
then, having overcome your vanity, you humble
yourself before him, surrender your foolishness to
his contempt, and fancy that, after this difficult


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230 THE DAWN OF DAY.
scene, which is an exceedingly painful one for you,
everything has been set right, that your own volun-
tary loss of honour compensates your neighbour for
the injury you have done to his happiness. With
this feeling you take your leave comforted, believ-
ing that your virtue has been re-established.
Your neighbour, however, suffers as intensely as
before. He finds nothing to comfort him in the
fact that you have been irrational and have told
him so: on the contrary, he remembers the painful
appearance you presented to him when you were
disparaging yourself in his presence—it is as if
another wound had been inflicted on him. He
does not think of revenging himself, however; and
cannot conceive how a proper balance can be struck
between you and him. In point of fact, you have
been acting that scene for yourself and before
yourself: you invited a witness to be present, not
on his account, but on your own—don't deceive
yourself!
220.
Dignity and Timidity. —Ceremonies, official
robes and court dresses, grave countenances, solemn
aspects, the slow pace, involved speech—every-
thing, in short, known as dignity—are all pretences
adopted by those who are timid at heart: they
wish to make themselves feared (themselves or the
things they represent). The fearless {i. e. origin-
ally those who naturally inspire others with awe)
have no need of dignity and ceremonies: they
bring into repute—or, still more, into ill-repute
—honesty and straightforward words and bear-


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THE DAWN OF DAY. 231
ing, as characteristics of their self-confident awe-
fulness.
221.
The Morality of Sacrifice. —The morality
which is measured by the spirit of sacrifice is that
of a semi-civilised state of society. Reason in this
instance gains a hard-fought and bloody victory
within the soul; for there are powerful contrary
instincts to be overcome. This cannot be brought
about without the cruelty which the sacrifices to
cannibal gods demand.
222.
Where Fanaticism is to be desired. —
Phlegmatic natures can be rendered enthusiastic
only by being fanaticised.
223.
The dreaded Eye. —Nothing is dreaded more
by artists, poets, and writers than the eye which
sees through their little deceptions and subsequently
notices how often they have stopped at the boundary
where the paths branch off either to innocent delight
in themselves or to the straining after effect; the
eye which checks them when they try to sell little
things dear, or when they try to exalt and adorn
without being exalted themselves; the eye which,
despite all the artifices of their art, sees the thought
as it first presented itself to them, perhaps as a
charming vision of light, perhaps also, however, as
a theft from the whole world, or as an everyday
conception which they had to expand, contract,


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232 THE DAWN OF DAY.
colour, wrap up, and spice, in order to make some-
thing out of it, instead of the thought making
something out of them. —Oh, this eye, which sees
in your work all your restlessness, inquisitiveness,
and covetousness, your imitation and exaggeration
(which is only envious imitation) which knows both
your blush of shame and your skill in concealing
it from others and interpreting it to yourselves!
224.
The "Edifying" Element in our Neigh-
bour's Misfortune. —He is in distress, and
straightway the "compassionate" ones come to
him and depict his misfortune to him. At last they
go away again, satisfied and elevated, after having
gloated over the unhappy man's misfortune and
their own, and spent a pleasant Sunday afternoon.
225.
To be quickly Despised. —A man who speaks
a great deal, and speaks quickly, soon sinks exceed-
ingly low in our estimation, even when he speaks
rationally—not only to the extent that he annoys
us personally, but far lower. For we conjecture
how great a burden he has already proved to many
other people, and we thus add to the discomfort
which he causes us all the contempt which we
presume he has caused to others.
226.
Relations with Celebrities. —A. But why
do you shun this great man ? —B. I should not like


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THE DAWN OF DAY. 233
to misunderstand him. Our defects are incom-
patible with one another: I am short-sighted and
suspicious, and he wears his false diamonds as
willingly as his real ones.
227.
The Chain-Wearers. —Beware of all those
intellects which are bound in chains! clever women,
for example, who have been banished by fate to
narrowand dull surroundings,amid which they grow
old. True, there they lie in the sun, apparently
lazy and half-blind; but at every unknown step, at
everything unexpected, they start up to bite: they
revenge themselves on everything that has escaped
their kennel.
228.
Revenge in Praise. —Here we have a written
page which is covered with praise, and you call it
flat; but when you find out that revenge is concealed
in this praise you will find it almost too subtle,
and you will experience a great deal of pleasure in
its numerous delicate and bold strokes and similes.
It is not the man himself, but his revenge, which is
so subtle, rich, and ingenious: he himself is scarcely
aware of it.
229.
Pride. —Ah, not one of you knows the feeling
of the tortured man after he has been put to the
torture, when he is being carried back to his cell,
and his secret with him! —he still holds it in a
stubborn and tenacious grip. What know ye of
the exultation of human pride?


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234 THE DAWN OF DAV.
23C.
"Utilitarian. "—At the present time men's
sentiments on moral things run in such labyrinthic
paths that, while we demonstrate morality to one
man by virtue of its utility, we refute it to another
on account of this utility.
231-
On German VIRTUE. —How degenerate in its
taste,how servile to dignities, ranks, uniforms, pomp,
and splendour must a nation have been, when it
began to consider the simple as the bad, the simple
man (scMicht) as the bad man {schUchf}! We
should always oppose the moral bumptiousness of
the Germans with this one little word " bad," and
nothing else.
232.
FROM a DISPutE. —A. Friend, you have talked
yourself hoarse. —B. Then I am refuted, so let's
drop the subject.
233-
The "Conscientious" Ones. — Have you
noticed the kind of men who attach the greatest
value to the most scrupulous conscientiousness?
Those who are conscious of many mean and petty
sentiments, who are anxiously thinking of and
about themselves, are afraid of others, and are
desirous of concealing their inmost feelings as far
as possible. They endeavour to impose upon
themselves by means of this strict conscientiousness


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THE DAWN OF DAY. 235
and rigorousness of duty, and by the stern and harsh
impression which others, especially their inferiors,
cannot fail to receive of them.
234.
Dread of Fame. —A. The endeavour to avoid
one's renown, the intentional offending of one's
panegyrists, the dislike of hearing opinions about
one's self, and all through fear of renown: in-
stances like these are to be met with ; they actually
exist—believe it or not! —B. They are found,
no doubt! They exist! A little patience, Sir
Arrogance!
235-
Refusing Thanks. —We are perfectly justified
in refusing a request, but it is never right to refuse
thanks—or, what comes to the same thing, to accept
them coldly and conventionally. This gives deep
offence—and why?
236.
PUNISHMENt. —A strange thing, this punish-
ment of ours! It does not purify the criminal; it
is not a form of expiation; but, on the contrary, it
is even more defiling than the crime itself.
237-
Party Grievances. —In almost every party
there is a ridiculous, but nevertheless somewhat
dangerous grievance. The sufferers from it are
those who have long been the faithful and honour-
able upholders of the doctrine propagated by the


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236 THE DAWN OF DAY.
party, and who suddenly remark that one day a
much stronger figure than themselves has got the
ear of the public. How can they bear being reduced
to silence? So they raise their voices, sometimes
changing their notes.
238.
Striving for Gentleness.
—When a vigorous
nature has not an inclination towards cruelty, and
is not always preoccupied with itself, it involun-
tarily strives after gentleness—this is its distinctive
characteristic. Weak natures, on the other hand,
have a tendency towards harsh judgments—they
associate themselves with the heroes of the contempt
of mankind, the religious or philosophical traducers
of existence, or they take up their position behind
strict habits and punctilious "callings": in this
way they seek to give themselves a character and a
kind of strength. This is likewise done quite in-
voluntarily.
239-
A Hint to Moralists. —Our musicians have
made a great discovery. They have found out that
interesting ugliness is possible even in their art;
this is why they throw themselves with such en-
thusiastic intoxication into this ocean of ugliness,
and never before has it been so easy to make music.
It is only now that we have got the general,
dark - coloured background, upon which every
luminous ray of fine music, however faint, seems
tinged with golden emerald lustre; it is only now
that we dare to inspire our audience with feelings


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THE DAWN OF DAY. 237
of impetuosity and indignation, taking away their
breath, so to speak, in order that we may afterwards,
in an interval of restful harmony, inspire them with
a feeling of bliss which will be to the general
advantage of a proper appreciation of music.
We have discovered the contrast: it is only now
that the strongest effects are possible—and cheap.
No one bothers any more about good music. But
you must hurry up! When any art has once made
this discovery, it has but a short space of time to
live. —Oh, if only our thinkers could probe into the
depths of the souls of our musicians when listening
to their music! How Jong we must wait until we
again have an opportunity of surprising the inward
man in the very act of his evil doing, and his in-
nocence of this act! For our musicians have not
the slightest suspicion that it is their own history,
the history of the disfigurement of the soul, which
they are transposing into music. In former times
a good musician was almost forced by the exigencies
of his art to become a good man—and now!
240.
The Morality of the Stage. —The man who
imagines that the effect of Shakespeare's plays is a
moral one, and that the sight of Macbeth irresist-
ibly induces us to shun the evil of ambition, is mis-
taken, and he is mistaken once more if he believes
that Shakespeare himself thought so. He who is
truly obsessed by an ardent ambition takes delight
in beholding this picture of himself; and when the
hero is driven to destruction by his passion, this is


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238 THE DAWN OF DAY.
the most pungent spice in the hot drink of this de-
light . Did the poet feel this in another way? How
royally and with how little of the knave in him does
his ambitious hero run his course from the moment
of his great crime! It is only from this moment that
he becomes "demoniacally" attractive, and that he
encourages similar natures to imitate him. —There
is something demoniacal here: something which is
in revolt against advantage and life, in favour of a
thought and an impulse. Do you think that Tristan
and Isolde are warnings against adultery, merely
because adultery has resulted in the death of both
of them? This would be turning poets upside down,
these poets who, especially Shakespeare, are in love
with the passions in themselves, and not less so
with the readiness for death which they give rise to:
this mood in which the heart no more clings to life
than a drop of water does to the glass. It is not
the guilt and its pernicious consequences which
interests these poets—Shakespeare as little as
Sophocles (in the Ajax, Philoctetes, CEdipus)—
however easy it might have been in the cases just
mentioned to make the guilt the lever of the play,
it was carefully avoided by the poets.
In the same way the tragic poet by his images
of life does not wish to set us against life. On
the contrary, he exclaims: "It is the charm of
charms, this exciting, changing, and dangerous
existence of ours, so often gloomy and so often
bathed in sun! Life is an adventure—whichever
side you may take in life it will always retain this
character! "—Thus speaks the poet of a restless and
vigorous age,an age which is almost intoxicated and


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THE DAWN OF DAY. 239
stupefied by its superabundance of blood and energy,
in an age more evil than our own: and this is why
it is necessary for us to adapt and accommodate
ourselves first to the purpose of a Shakespearian
play, that is, by misunderstanding it.
241.
Fear and Intelligence. —If that which is
now expressly maintained is true, viz. that the
cause of the black pigment of the skin must not be
sought in light, might this phenomenon perhaps be
the ultimate effect of frequent fits of passion ac-
cumulated for century after century (and an afflux
of blood under the skin)? while in other and more
intelligent races the equally frequent spasms of
fear and blanching may have resulted in the white
colour of the skin ? —For the degree of timidity is
the standard by which the intelligence may be
measured; and the fact that men give themselves
up to blind anger is an indication that their animal
nature is still near the surface, and is longing for an
opportunity to make its presence felt once more.
Thus a brownish-grey would probably be the
primitive colour of man—something of the ape and
the bear, as is only proper.
242.
Independence. —Independence (which in its
weakest form is called "freedom of thought") is
the type of resignation which the tyrannical man
ends by accepting—he who for a long time had


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240 THE DAWN OF DAY.
been looking for something to govern, but without
finding anything except himself.
243-
The two Courses. —When we endeavour to
examine the mirror in itself we discover in the end
that we can detect nothing there but the things
which it reflects. If we wish to grasp the things
reflected we touch nothing in the end but the
mirror. —This is the general history of knowledge.
244.
Delight in Reality. —Our present inclination
to take delight in reality—for almost every one of
us possesses it—can only be explained by the fact
that we have taken delight in the unreal for such
a long time that we have got tired of it. This
inclination in its present form, without choice and
without refinement, is not without danger—its least
danger is its want of taste.
245.
The Subtlety of the Feeling of Power. —
Napoleon was greatly mortified at the fact that he
could not speak well, and he did not deceive him-
self in this respect: but his thirst for power, which
never despised the slightest opportunity of showing
itself, and which was still more subtle than his subtle
intellect, led him to speak even worse than he might
have done. It was in this way that he revenged
himself upon his own mortification (he was jealous


## p. 241 (#321) ############################################

THE DAWN OF DAY. 24I
of all his emotions because they possessed power)
in order to enjoy his autocratic pleasure.
He enjoyed this pleasure a second time in respect
to the ears and judgment of his audience, as if it
were good enough for them to be addressed in this
way. He even secretly enjoyed the thought of
bewildering their judgment and good taste by the
thunder and lightning of his highest authority—
that authority which lies in the union of power and
genius—whileboth his judgment and his good taste
held fast proudly and indifferently to the truth that
he did not speak well. —Napoleon, as the complete
and fully developed type of a single instinct, belongs
to ancient humanity, whose characteristic—the
simple construction and ingenious development and
realisation of a single motive or a small number of
motives—may be easily enough recognised.
246.
Aristotle and Marriage. —Insanity makes
its appearance in the children of great geniuses, and
stupidity in those of the most virtuous—so says
Aristotle. Did he mean by this to invite excep-
tional men to marry?
247.
The Origin of a bad Temperament. —In-
justice and instability in the minds of certain men,
their disordered and immoderate manner, are the
ultimate consequences of the innumerable logical
inexactitudes, superficialities, and hasty conclusions
of which their ancestors have been guilty. Men of
a good temperament, on the other hand, are de-
Q


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242 THE DAWN OF DAY.
scended from solid and meditative races which have
set a high value upon reason—whether for praise-
worthy or evil purposes is of no great importance.
248.
Dissimulation as a Duty. —Kindness has
been best developed by the long dissimulation which
endeavoured to appear as kindness: wherever great
power existed the necessity for dissimulation of
this nature was recognised—it inspires security
and confidence, and multiplies the actual sum of
our physical power. Falsehood, if not actually
the mother, is at all events the nurse of kindness.
In the same way, honesty has been brought
to maturity by the need for a semblance of
honesty and integrity: in hereditary aristocracies.
The persistent exercise of such a dissimulation ends
by bringing about the actual nature of the thing
itself: the dissimulation in the long run suppresses
itself, and organs and instincts are the unexpected
fruits in this garden of hypocrisy.
249.
Who, then, is ever Alone. — The faint-
hearted wretch does not know what it means to be
lonely. An enemy is always prowling in his tracks.
Oh, for the man who could give us the history of
that subtle feeling called loneliness!
250.
NIGHT AND MUSic. —It was only at night time,
and in the semi-obscurity of dark forests and
caverns, that the ear, the organ of fear, was able to


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THE DAWN OF DAY. 243
develop itself so well, in accordance with the mode
of living of the timid—that is, the longest human
epoch which has ever yet existed: whenit isclearday-
light the ear is less necessary. Hence the character
of music, which is an art of night and twilight.
251.
STOicAl. —The Stoic experiences a certain sense
of cheerfulness when he feels oppressed by the
ceremonial which he has prescribed for himself:
he enjoys himself then as a ruler.
252.
Consider. —The man who is being punished is
no longer he who has done the deed. He is always
the scapegoat.
253.
Appearance. —Alas! what must be best and
most resolutely proved is appearance itself; for
only too many people lack eyes to observe it.
But it is so tiresome!
254.
Those who Anticipate. —What distinguishes
poetic natures, but is also a danger for them, is their
imagination, which exhausts itself in advance:
which anticipates what will happen or what may
happen, which enjoys and suffers in advance, and
which at the final moment of the event or the action
is already fatigued. Lord Byron, who was only
too familiar with this, wrote in his diary: "If ever


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244 THE DAWN OF DAY.
I have a son he shall choose a very prosaic profes-
sion—that of a lawyer or a pirate. "
255-
CONVERSATION ON MUSIC. —
A. What do you say to that music?
B. It has overpowered me, I can say nothing
about it. Listen! there it is beginning again.
A. All the better! This time let us do our best
to overpower it. Will you allow me to add a few
words to this music? and also to show you a drama
which perhaps at your first hearing you did not wish
to observe?
B. Very well, I have two ears and even more if
necessary; move up closer to me.
A. We have not yet heard what he wishes to
say to us, up to the present he has only promised
to say something—something as yet unheard, so he
gives us to understand by his gestures, for they are
gestures. How he beckons! How he raises him-
self up! How he gesticulates ! and now the moment
of supreme tension seems to have come to him:
two more fanfares, and he will present us with his
superb and splendidly-adorned theme, rattling, as
it were, with precious stones.
Is it a handsome woman? or a beautiful horse?
Enough, he looks about him as if enraptured, for
he must assemble looks of rapture. It is only now
that his theme quite pleases him: it is only now
that he becomes inventive and risks new and
audacious features. How he forces out his theme!
Ah, take care ! —he not only understands how to


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THE DAWN OF DAY. 245
adorn, but also how to gloss it over! Yes, he knows
what the colour of health is, and he knows how to
make it up,—he is more subtle in his self-conscious-
ness than I thought. And now he is convinced that
he has convinced his hearers; he sets off his im-
promptus as if they were the most important things
under the sun: he points to his theme with an
insolent finger as if it were too good for this world.
—Ah, how distrustful he is! He is afraid we may
get tired ! —that is why he buries his melody in
sweet notes. —Now he even appeals to our coarser
senses that he may excite us and thus get us once
again into his power. Listen to him as he conjures
up the elementary force of tempestuous and
thundering rhythms!
And now that he sees that these things have
captivated our attention, strangle us, and almost
overwhelm us, he once again ventures to introduce
his theme amidst this play of the elements in order
to convince us, confused and agitated as we are, that
our confusion and agitation are the effects of his
miraculous theme. And from now onwards his
hearers believe in him: as soon as the theme is
heard once more they are reminded of its thrilling
elementary effects. The theme profits by this re-
collection—now it has become demoniacal! What
a connoisseur of the soul he is! He gains command
over us by all the artifices of the popular orator.
But the music has stopped again.
B. And I am glad of it; for I could no longer
bear listening to your observations! I should prefer
ten times over to let myself be deceived to knowing
the truth once after your version.


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246 THE DAWN OF DAY.
A. That is just what I wished to hear from you.
The best people now are just like you: you are
quite content to let yourselves be deceived. You
come here with coarse, lustful ears, and you do not
bring with you your conscience of the art of listen-
ing. On the way here you have cast away your
intellectual honesty, and thus you corrupt both art
and artists. Whenever you applaud and cheer
you have in your hands the conscience of the
artists — and woe to art if they get to know
that you cannot distinguish between innocent and
guilty music! I do not indeed refer to "good"
and "bad" music—we meet with both in the two
kinds of music mentioned! but I call innocent
music that which thinks only of itself and be-
lieves only in itself, and which on account of itself
has forgotten the world at large—this spontaneous
expression of the most profound solitude which
speaks of itself and with itself, and has entirely for-
gotten that there are listeners, effects, misunder-
standings and failures in the world outside. In
short, the music which we have just heard is pre-
cisely of this rare and noble type; and everything
I said about it was a fable—pardon my little trick
if you will!
B. Oh, then you like this music, too? In that
case many sins shall be forgiven you!
256.
The Happiness of the Evil Ones. —These
silent, gloomy, and evil men possess a peculiar some-
thing which you cannot dispute with them—an


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THE DAWN OF DAY. 247
uncommon and strange enjoyment in the dolce far
niente; a sunset and evening rest, such as none can
enjoy but a heart which has been too often devoured,
lacerated, and poisoned by the passions.
257.
Words Present in our Minds. —We always
express our thoughts with those words which lie
nearest to hand. Or rather, if I may reveal my
full suspicion; at every moment we have only the
particular thought for the words that are present in
our minds.
258.
Flattering the Dog. —You have only to
stroke this dog's coat once, and he immediately
splutters and gives off sparks like any other flatterer
—and he is witty in his own way. Why should
we not endure him thus?
259.
The Quondam Panegyrist. —" He has now
become silent now in regard to me, although he
knows the truth and could tell it; but it would sound
like vengeance—and he values truth so highly, this
honourable man! "
260.
The Amulet of Dependent Men. —He who
is unavoidably dependent upon some masterought to
possess something by which he can inspire his master
with fear, and keep him in check: integrity, for
example, or probity, or an evil tongue.


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248 THE DAWN OF DAY.
26i.
Why so Sublime ! —Oh, I know them well this
breed of animals! Certainly it pleases them better
to walk on two legs " like a god "—but it pleases
me better when they fall back on their four feet.
This is incomparably more natural for them!
262.
The Demon of Power. —Neither necessity
nor desire, but the love of power, is the demon of
mankind. You may give men everything possible
—health,food,shelter,enjoyment—but they are and
remain unhappy and capricious, for the demon waits
and waits; and must be satisfied. Let everything
else be taken away from men, and let this demon
be satisfied, and then they will nearly be happy—
as happy as men and demons can be; but why do I
repeat this? Luther has already said it, and better
than I have done, in the verses:
"And though they take our life,
Goods, honour, children, wife,
Yet is their profit small,
These things shall vanish all,
The Kingdom it remaineth.