No More Learning

I can think of absolutely no century in history, in
which a netful of more inquisitive and at the same
time more subtle psychologists could be drawn up
together than in the Paris of the present day. Let
me mention a few at random—for their number is
by no means small—Paul Bourget, Pierre Loti,
Gyp, Meilhac, Anatole France, Jules Lemattre; or,
to point to one of strong race, a genuine Latin, of
whom I am particularly fond, Guy de Maupassant.
Between ourselves, I prefer this generation even to
its masters, all of whom were corrupted by German
philosophy (Taine, for instance, by Hegel, whom he
has to thank for his misunderstanding of great men
and great periods). Wherever Germany extends
her sway, she ruins culture. It was the war which
first saved the spirit of France. . . . Stendhal is one
of the happiest accidents of my life—for everything


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WHY I AM SO CLEVER 39
that marks an epoch in it has been brought to me
by accident and never by means of a recommenda-
tion. He is quite priceless, with his psychologist's
eye, quick at forestalling and anticipating; with his
grasp of facts, which is reminiscent of the same art
in the greatest of all masters of facts {ex ungue Napo-
leonem); and, last but not least, as an honest atheist
—a specimen which is both rare and difficult to
discover in France—all honour to Prosper MeVi-
mee! . . . Maybe that I am even envious of Stend-
hal? He robbed me of the best atheistic joke, which
I of all people could have perpetrated: "God's only
excuse is that He does not exist. " . . . I myself
have said somewhere—What has been the greatest
objection to Life hitherto? —God. . . .
It was Heinrich Heine who gave me the most
perfect idea of what a lyrical poet could be. In
vain do I search through all the kingdoms of an-
tiquity or of modern times for anything to resemble
his sweet and passionate music. He possessed that
divine wickedness, without which perfection itself
becomes unthinkable to me,—I estimate the value
of men, of races, according to the extent to which
they are unable to conceive of a god who has not a
dash of the satyr in him. And with what mastery he
wields his native tongue! One day it will be said
of Heine and me that we were by far the greatest
artists of the German language that have ever ex-
isted, and that we left all the efforts that mere Ger-
man's made in this language an incalculable distance


## p. 40 (#66) ##############################################

40 ECCE HOMO
behind us. I must be profoundly related to Byron's
Manfred: of all the dark abysses in this work I found
the counterparts in my own soul—at the age of
thirteen I was ripe for this book. Words fail me,
I have only a look, for those who dare to utter the
name of Faust in the presence of Manfred. The
Germans are incapable of conceiving anything sub-
lime: for a proof of this, look at Schumann! Out
of anger for this mawkish Saxon, I once deliber-
ately composed a counter-overture to Manfred, of
which Hans von Billow declared he had never
seen the like before on paper: such compositions
amounted to a violation of Euterpe. When I cast
about me for my highest formula of Shakespeare, I
find invariably but this one: that he conceived the
type of Caesar. Such things a man cannot guess—
he either is the thing, or he is not. The great poet
draws his creations only from out of his own reality.
This is so to such an extent, that often after a lapse
of time he can no longer endure his own work. . . .
After casting a glance between the pages of my
Zarathustra, I pace my room to and fro for half an
hour at a time, unable to overcome an insufferable
fit of tears. I know of no more heartrending read-
ing than Shakespeare: how a man must have
suffered to be so much in need of playing the clown!
Is Hamlet understood? It is not doubt, but certi-
tude that drives one mad. . . . But in order to feel
this, one must be profound, one must be an abyss,
a philosopher. . . . We all fear the truth. . . . And,
to make a confession; I feel instinctively certain and
convinced that Lord Bacon is the originator, the
self-torturer, of this most sinister kind of litera-


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WHY I AM SO CLEVER 41
ture: what do I care about the miserable gabble
of American muddlers and blockheads? But the
power for the greatest realism in vision is not only
compatible with the greatest realism in deeds, with
the monstrous in deeds, with crime—it actually pre-
supposes the latter. . . . We do not know half enough
about Lord Bacon—the first realist in all the highest
acceptation of this word—to be sure of everything
he did, everything he willed, and everything he ex-
perienced in his inmost soul. . . . Let the critics go
to hell! Suppose I had christened my Zarathustra
with a name not my own,—let us say with Richard
Wagner's name,—the acumen of two /thousand
years would not have sufficed to guess that the
author of Human, ail-too-Human was the visionary
of Zarathustra.
As I am speaking here of the recreations of my
life, I feel I must express a word or two of gratitude
for that which has refreshed me by far the most
heartily and most profoundly. This, without the
slightest doubt, was my intimate relationship with
Richard Wagner. All my other relationships with
men I treat quite lightly; but I would not have the
days I spent at Tribschen—those days of con-
fidence, of cheerfulness, of sublime flashes, and of
profound moments—blotted from my life at any
price. I know not what Wagner may have been
for others; but no cloud ever darkened our sky.
And this brings me back again to France,—I have
no arguments against Wagnerites, and hoc genus
omne, who believe that they do honour to Wagner


## p. 42 (#68) ##############################################

42 ECCE HOMO
by believing him to be like themselves; for such
people I have only a contemptuous curl of my lip.
With a nature like mine, which is so strange to
everything Teutonic, that even the presence of a
German retards my digestion, my first meeting with
Wagner was the first moment in my life in which
I breathed freely: I felt him, I honoured him, as
a foreigner, as the opposite and the incarnate con-
tradiction of all"German virtues. " We who as chil-
dren breathed the marshy atmosphere of the fifties,
are necessarily pessimists in regard to the concept
"German"; we cannot be anything else than revolu-
tionaries—we can assent to no state of affairs which
allows the canting bigot to be at the top. I care
not a jot whether this canting bigot acts in different
colours to-day, whether he dresses in scarlet or dons
the uniform of a hussar. * Very well, then! Wagner
was a revolutionary—he fled from the Germans. . . .
As an artist, a man has no home in Europe save
in Paris; that subtlety of all the five senses which
Wagner's art presupposes, those fingers that can de-
tect slight gradations, psychological morbidity—all
these things can be found only in Paris. Nowhere
else can you meet with this passion for questions of
form, this earnestness in matters of mise-en-scene,
which is the Parisian earnestness/ar excellence. In
Germany no one has any idea of the tremendous am-
bition that fills the heart of a Parisian artist. The
German is a good fellow. Wagner was by no means
a good fellow. . . . But I have already said quite
* The favourite uniform of the German Emperor, William
II. —Tr.


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WHY I AM SO CLEVER 43
enough on the subject of Wagner's real nature (see
Beyond Good and Evil, Aphorism 269), and about
those to whom he is most closely related. He is one
of the late French romanticists, that high-soaring
and heaven-aspiring band of artists, like Delacroix
and Berlioz, who in their inmost natures are sick and
incurable, and who are all fanatics of expression, and
virtuosos through and through. . . . Who, in sooth,
was the first intelligent followerof Wagner? Charles
Baudelaire, the very man who first understood Dela-
croix—that typical decadent, in whom a whole gen-
eration of artists saw their reflection; he was per-
haps the last of them too. . . . What is it that I have
never forgiven Wagner? The fact that he conde-
scended to the Germans—that he became a German
Imperialist. . . . Wherever Germany spreads, she
ruins culture.
Taking everything into consideration, I could
never have survived my youth without Wagnerian
music. For I was condemned to the society of
Germans. If a man wish to get rid of a feeling of
insufferable oppression, he has to take to hashish.
Well, I had to take to Wagner. Wagner is the
counter-poison to everything essentially German—
the fact that he is a poison too, I do not deny. From
the moment that Tristan was arranged for the piano
—all honour to you, Herr von Bulow! —I was a
Wagnerite. Wagner's previous works seemed be-
neath me—they were too commonplace, too " Ger-
man. " . . . But to this day I am still seeking for
a work which would be a match to Tristan in


## p. 44 (#70) ##############################################

44 • ECCE HOMO
dangerous fascination, and possess the same grue-
some and dulcet quality of infinity; I seek among
all the arts in vain. All the quaint features of
Leonardo da Vinci's work lose their charm at the
sound of the first bar in Tristan. This work is
without question Wagner's non plus ultra; after its
creation, the composition of the Mastersingers and
of the Ring was a relaxation to him. To become
more healthy—this in a nature like Wagner's
amounts to going backwards. The curiosity of the
psychologist is so great in me, that I regard it as
quite a special privilege to have lived at the right,
time, and to have lived precisely among Germans,
in order to be ripe for this work. The world must
indeed be empty for him who has never been un-
healthy enough for this " infernal voluptuousness ":
it is allowable, it is even imperative, to employ a
mystic formula for this purpose. I suppose I know
better than any one the prodigious feats of which
Wagner was capable, the fifty worlds of strange
ecstasies to which no one else had wings to soar;
and as I am alive to-day and strong enough to turn
even the most suspicious and most dangerous things
to my own advantage, and thus to grow stronger,
I declare Wagner to have been the greatest bene-
factor of my life. The bond which unites us is the
fact that we have suffered greater agony, even at
each other's hands, than most men are able to bear
nowadays, and this will always keep our names
associated in the minds of men. For, just as Wagner
is merely a misunderstanding among Germans, so,
in truth, am I, and ever will be. Ye lack two
centuries of psychological and artistic discipline, my


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WHY I AM SO CLEVER 45
dear countrymen! . . . But ye can never recover
the time lost.
To the most exceptional of my readers I should
like to say just one word about what I really exact
from music. It must be cheerful and yet profound,
like an October afternoon. It must be original,
exuberant, and tender, and like a dainty,soft woman
in roguishness and grace. . . . I shall never admit
that a German can understand what music is. Those
musicians who are called German, the greatest and
most famous foremost, are allforeigners,either Slavs,
Croats, Italians, Dutchmen—or Jews; or else, like
Heinrich Schiitz, Bach, and Handel, they are Ger-
mans of a strong race which is now extinct. For
my own part, I have still enough of the Pole left in
me to let all other music go, if only I can keep
Chopin. For three reasons I would except Wag-
ner's Siegfried Idyll, and perhaps also one or two
things of Liszt, who excelled all other musicians in
the noble tone of his orchestration; and finally
everything that has been produced beyond the Alps
—this side of the Alps. * I could not possibly dis-
pense with Rossini, and still less with my Southern
soul in music, the work of my Venetian maestro,
Pietro Gasti. And when I say beyond the Alps, all
I really mean is Venice. If I try to find a new
word for music, I can never find any other than
Venice. I know not how to draw any distinction
* In the latter years of his life, Nietzsche practically made
Italy his home. —Tr.


## p. 46 (#72) ##############################################

46 ECCE HOMO
between tears and music. I do not know how to
think either of joy, or of the south, without a
shudder of fear.
On the bridge I stood
Lately, in gloomy night.
Came a distant song:
In golden drops it rolled
Over the glittering rim away.
Music, gondolas, lights—
Drunk, swam far forth in the gloom. . . .
A stringed instrument, my soul,
Sang, imperceptibly moved,
A gondola song by stealth,
Gleaming for gaudy blessedness.
—Hearkened any thereto?
8
In all these things—in the choice of food, place,
climate, and recreation—the instinct of self-pre-
servation is dominant, and this instinct manifests
itself with least ambiguity when it acts as an in-
stinct of defence. To close one's eyes to much,
to seal one's ears to much, to keep certain things
at a distance—this is the first principle of prudence,
the first proof of the fact that a man is not an
accident but a necessity. The popular word for
this instinct of defence is taste. A man's impera-
tive command is not only to say " no" in cases
where "yes " would be a sign of "disinterested-
ness," but also to say "no" as seldom as possible.
One must part with all that which compels one to
repeat "no," with ever greater frequency. The
rationale of this principle is that all discharges of


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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