No More Learning

+ Unfortunately it is impossible to render this play on the
words in English. —Tr.
X The German National Song (Deutschland, Deutschland
titer alles). —Tn.


## p. 124 (#180) ############################################

124 ECCE HOMO
stand for the "moral order of the universe" in history;
compared with the Roman Empire, they are the up-
holders of freedom; compared with the eighteenth
century, they are the restorers of morality, of the
"Categorical Imperative. " There is such a thing
as the writing of history according to the lights of
Imperial Germany; there is, I fear, anti-Semitic
history—there is also history written with an eye
to the Court, and Herr von Treitschke is not
ashamed of himself. Quite recently an idiotic
opinion in historicis, an observation of Vischer the
Swabian aesthete, since happily deceased, made the
round of the German newspapers as a "truth" to
which every German must assent. The observation
was this: "The Renaissance and the Reformation
only together constitute a whole—the aesthetic re-
birth, and the moral rebirth. " When I listen to
such things, I lose all patience, and I feel inclined,
I even feel it my duty, to tell the Germans, for once
in a way, all that they have on their conscience.
Every gi-eat crime against culture for the last four
centuries lies on their conscience. . . . And always
for the same reason, always owing to their bottom-
less cowardice in the face of reality, which is also
cowardice in the face of truth; always owing to the
love of falsehood which has become almost instinc-
tive in them—in short, "idealism. " It was the
Germans who caused Europe to lose the fruits, the
whole meaning of her last period of greatness—the
period of the Renaissance. At a moment when a
higher order of values, values that were noble, that
said yea to life, and that guaranteed a future, had
succeeded in triumphing over the opposite values,


## p. 125 (#181) ############################################

WHY I WRITE SUCH EXCELLENT BOOKS 125
the values of degeneration, in the very seat of
Christianity itself,—and even in the hearts of those
sitting there,—Luther, that cursed monk, not only
restored the Church, but, what was a thousand times
worse, restored Christianity, and at a time too when
it lay defeated. Christianity, the Denial of the Will
to Live, exalted to a religion! Luther was an im-
possible monk who, thanks to his own "impossi-
bility," attacked the Church, and in so doing restored
it! Catholics would be perfectly justified in cele-
brating feasts in honour of Luther, and in produc-
ing festival plays * in his honour. Luther and the
"rebirth of morality "! May all psychology go to
the devil! Without a shadow of a doubt the Ger-
mans are idealists. On two occasions when, at the
cost of enormous courage and self-control, an up-
right, unequivocal, and perfectly scientific attitude
of mind had been attained, the Germans were able
to discover back stairs leading down to the old
"ideal" again, compromises between truth and the
"ideal," and, in short, formulas for the right to reject
science and to perpetrate falsehoods. Leibniz and
Kant—these two great breaks upon the intellectual
honesty of Europe! Finally, at a moment when
there appeared on the bridge that spanned two cen-
turies of decadence, a superior force of genius and
will which was strong enough to consolidate Europe
and to convert it into a political and economic unit,
with the object of ruling the world, the Germans,
with their Wars of Independence, robbed Europe
* Ever since the year 1617 such plays have been produced
by the Protestants of Germany. —Tr.


## p. 126 (#182) ############################################

126 ECCE HOMO
of the significance—the marvellous significance, of
Napoleon's life. And in so doing they laid on their
conscience everything that followed, everything that
exists to-day,—this sickliness and want of reason
which is most opposed to culture, and which is called
Nationalism,—this nivrose nationale from which
Europe is suffering acutely; this eternal subdivision
of Europe into petty states, with politics on a muni-
cipal scale: they have robbed Europe itself of its
significance, of its reason,—and have stuffed it into
a cul-de-sac. Is there any one except me who
knows the way out of this cul-de-sac? Does any-
one except me know of an aspiration which would
be great enough to bind the people of Europe once
more together?
And after all, why should I not express my
suspicions? In my case, too, the Germans will
attempt to make a great fate give birth merely to
a mouse. Up to the present they have compro-
mised themselves with me; I doubt whether the
future will improve them. Alas! how happy I
should be to prove a false prophet in this matter!
My natural readers and listeners are already Rus-
sians, Scandinavians, and Frenchmen—will they
always be the same? In the history of knowledge,
Germans are represented only by doubtful names,
they have been able to produce only " unconscious"
swindlers (this word applies to Fichte, Schelling,
Schopenhauer, Hegel, and Schleiermacher, just as
well as to Kant or Leibniz; they were all mere


## p. 127 (#183) ############################################

WHY I WRITE SUCH EXCELLENT BOOKS 127
Schleiermachers). * The Germans must not have
the honour of seeing, the first upright intellect in
their history of intellects, that intellect in which
truth ultimately got the better of the fraud of four
thousand years, reckoned as one with the German
intellect. "German intellect" is my foul air: I
breathe with difficulty in the neighbourhood of this
psychological uncleanliness that has now become
instinctive—an uncleanliness which in every word
and expression betrays a German. They have
never undergone a seventeenth century of hard self-
examination, as the French have,—a La Roche-
foucauld, a Descartes, are a thousand times more
upright than the very first among Germans,—the
latter have not yet had any psychologists. But
psychology is almost the standard of measurement
for the cleanliness or uncleanliness of a race. . . .
For if a man is not even clean, how can he be deep?
The Germans are like women, you can scarcely ever
fathom their depths—they haven't any, and that's
the end of it. Thus they cannot even be called
shallow. That which is called " deep " in Germany,
is precisely this instinctive uncleanliness towards
one's self, of which I have just spoken : people refuse
to be clear in regard to their own natures. Might
I be allowed, perhaps, to suggest the word " Ger-
man " as an international epithet denoting this psy-
chological depravity ? —At the moment of writing,
for instance, the German Emperor is declaring it to
be his Christian duty to liberate the slaves in Africa;
* Schleiermacker literally means a weaver or maker of veils.
-Tr.


## p. 128 (#184) ############################################

128 ECCE HOMO
among us Europeans, then, this would be called
simply "German. " . . . Have the Germans ever
produced even a book that had depth? They are
lacking in the mere idea of what constitutes a book.
I have known scholars who thought that Kant was
deep. At the Court of Prussia I fear that Herr
von Treitschke is regarded as deep. And when I
happen to praise Stendhal as a deep psychologist,
I have often been compelled, in the company of
German University Professors, to spell his name
aloud.
4
And why should I not proceed to the end? I
am fond of clearing the air. It is even part of my
ambition to be considered as essentially a despiser
of Germans. I expressed my suspicions of the
German character even at the age of six-and-twenty
(see Thoughts out of Season, vol. ii. pp. 164, 165),
—to my mind the Germans are impossible. When
I try to think of the kind of man who is opposed
to me in all my instincts, my mental image takes
the form of a German. The first thing I ask my-
self when I begin analysing a man, is, whether he
has a feeling for distance in him; whether he sees
rank, gradation, and order everywhere between man
and man; whether he makes distinctions; for this
is what constitutes a gentleman. Otherwise he be-
longs hopelessly to that open-hearted, open-minded
—alas! and always very good-natured species, la
canaille! But the Germans are canaille—alas!
they are so good-natured! A man lowers himself
by frequenting the society of Germans: the German
places every one on an equal footing. With the


## p. 129 (#185) ############################################

WHY I WRITE SUCH EXCELLENT BOOKS 129
exception of my intercourse with one or two artists,
and above all with Richard Wagner, I cannot say
that I have spent one pleasant hour with Germans.
Suppose, for one moment, that the profoundest
spirit of all ages were to appear among Germans,
then one of the saviours of the Capitol would be
sure to arise and declare that his own ugly soul
was just as great. I can no longer abide this race
with which a man is always in bad company, which
has no idea of nuances—woe to me! I am a nuance
—and which has not esprit in its feet, and cannot
even walk withal! In short, the Germans have no
feet at all, they simply have legs. The Germans have
not the faintest idea of how vulgar they are—but this
in itself is the acme of vulgarity,—they are not even
ashamed of being merely Germans. They will have
their say in everything, they regard themselves as
fit to decide all questions; I even fear that they
have decided about me. My whole life is essenti-
ally a proof of this remark. In vain have I sought
among them for a sign of tact and delicacy towards
myself. Among Jews I did indeed find it, but not
among Germans. I am so constituted as to be
gentle and kindly to every one,—I have the right
not to draw distinctions,—but this does not prevent
my eyes from being open. I except no one, and
least of all my friends,—I only trust that this has
not prejudiced my reputation for humanity among
them? There are five or six things which I have
always made points of honour. Albeit, the truth
remains that for many years I have considered
almost every letter that has reached me as a piece
of cynicism. There is more cynicism in an attitude
1


## p. 130 (#186) ############################################

130 ECCE HOMO
of goodwill towards me than in any sort of hatred.
I tell every friend to his face that he has never
thought it worth his while to study any one of my
writings: from the slightest hints I gather that they
do not even know what lies hidden in my books.
And with regard even to my Zarathustra, which of
my friends would have seen more in it than a piece
of unwarrantable, though fortunately harmless, ar-
rogance? Ten years have elapsed, and no one has
yet felt it a duty to his conscience to defend my
name against the absurd silence beneath which it
has been entombed. It was a foreigner, a Dane,
who first showed sufficient keenness of instinct and
of courage to do this, and who protested indignantly
against my so-called friends. At what German
University to-day would such lectures on my philo-
sophy be possible, as those which Dr. Brandes de-
livered last spring in Copenhagen, thus proving once
more his right to the title psychologist? For my
part, these things have never caused me any pain;
that which is necessary does not offend me. Amor
fati is the core of my nature. This, however, does
not alter the fact that I love irony and even world-
historic irony. And thus, about two years before
hurling the destructive thunderbolt of the Trans-
valuation, which will send the whole of civilisation
into convulsions, I sent my Case of Wagner out
into the world. The Germans were given the chance
of blundering and immortalising their stupidity once
more on my account, and they still have just enough
time to do it in. And have they fallen in with my
plans? Admirably! my dear Germans. Allow
me to congratulate you.


## p. 131 (#187) ############################################

WHY I AM A FATALITY
I KNOW my destiny. There will come a day
when my name will recall the memory of some-
thing formidable—a crisis the like of which has
never been known on earth, the memory of the
most profound clash of consciences, and the passing
of a sentence upon all that which theretofore had
been believed, exacted, and hallowed. I am not a
man, I am dynamite. And with it all there is
nought of the founder of a religion in me. Re-
ligions are matters for the mob; after coming in
contact with a religious man, I always feel that I
must wash my hands. . . . I require no "be-
lievers," it is my opinion that I am too full of
malice to believe even in myself; I never address
myself to masses. I am horribly frightened that
one day I shall be pronounced "holy. " You will
understand why I publish this book beforehand—
it is to prevent people from wronging me. I refuse
to be a saint; I would rather be a clown. Maybe
I am a clown. And I am notwithstanding, or
rather not /^^withstanding, the mouthpiece of
truth; for nothing more blown-out with falsehood
has ever existed, than a saint. But my truth is
terrible: for hitherto lies have been called truth.
The Transvaluation of all Values, this is my formula
for mankind's greatest step towards coming to its
'3'


## p. 132 (#188) ############################################

132 ECCE HOMO
senses—a step which in me became flesh and
genius. My destiny ordained that I should be the
first decent human being, and that I should feel
myself opposed to the falsehood of millenniums. I
was the first to discover truth, and for the simple
reason that I was the first who became conscious
of falsehood as falsehood—that is to say, I smelt
it as such. My genius resides in my nostrils. I
contradict as no one has contradicted hitherto, and
am nevertheless the reverse of a negative spirit I
am the harbinger of joy, the like of which has never
existed before; I have discovered tasks of such
lofty greatness that, until my time, no one had any
idea of such things. Mankind can begin to have
fresh hopes, only now that I have lived. Thus, I
am necessarily a man of Fate. For when Truth
enters the lists against the falsehood of ages, shocks
are bound to ensue, and a spell of earthquakes,
followed by the transposition of hills and valleys,
such as the world has never yet imagined even in
its dreams. The concept " politics " then becomes
elevated entirely to the sphere of spiritual warfare.
All the mighty realms of the ancient order of
society are blown into space—for they are all based
on falsehood: there will be wars, the like of which
have never been seen on earth before. Only from
my time and after me will politics on a large scale
exist on earth.
If you should require a formula for a destiny of
this kind that has taken human form, you will find
it in my Zarathustra,


## p. 133 (#189) ############################################

WHY I AM A FATALITY 133
"And he who would be a creator in good and
evil—verily, he must first be a destroyer, and break
values into pieces.
"Thus the greatest evil belongeth unto the
greatest good: but this is the creative good. "
I am by far the most terrible man that has ever
existed; but this does not alter the fact that I shall
become the most beneficent. I know the joy of
annihilation to a degree which is commensurate
with my power to annihilate. In both cases I obey
my Dionysian nature, which knows not how to
separate the negative deed from the saying of yea.
I am the first immoralist, and in this sense I am
essentially the annihilator.
People have never asked me as they should have
done, what the name of Zarathustra precisely meant
in my mouth, in the mouth of-the first immoralist;
for that which distinguishes this Persian from all
others in the past is the very fact that he was the
exact reverse of an immoralist. Zarathustra was
the first to see in the struggle between good and
evil the essential wheel in the working of things.
The translation of morality into the realm of meta-
physics, as force, cause, end-in-itself, is his work.
But the very question suggests its own answer.
Zarathustra created this most portentous of all
errors,—morality; therefore he must be the first
to expose it. Not only because he has had longer
and greater experience of the subject than any other
thinker,—all history is indeed the experimental re-


## p. 134 (#190) ############################################

134 ECCE HOMO
futation of the theory of the so-called moral order
of things,—but because of the more important fact
that Zarathustra was the most truthful of thinkers.
In his teaching alone is truthfulness upheld as the
highest virtue—that is to say, as the reverse of the
cowardice of the " idealist" who takes to his heels
at the sight of reality. Zarathustra has more pluck
in his body than all other thinkers put together.
To tell the truth and to aim straight: that is the
first Persian virtue. Have I made myself clear?
. . . The overcoming of morality by itself, through
truthfulness, the moralist's overcoming of himself in
his opposite—in me—that is what the name Zara-
thustra means in my mouth.
In reality two negations are involved in my title
Immoralist. I first of all deny the type of man
that has hitherto been regarded as the highest—the
good, the kind, and the charitable; and I also deny
that kind of morality which has become recognised
and paramount as morality-in-itself—I speak of
the morality of decadence, or, to use a still cruder
term, Christian morality. I would agree to the
second of the two negations being regarded as the
more decisive, for, reckoned as a whole, the over-
estimation of goodness and kindness seems to me
already a consequence of decadence, a symptom of
weakness, and incompatible with any ascending and
yea-saying life. Negation and annihilation are in-
separable from a yea-saying attitude towards life.
Let me halt for a moment at the question of the


## p. 135 (#191) ############################################

WHY I AM A FATALITY 135
psychology of the good man. In order to appraise
the value of a certain type of man, the cost of his
maintenance must be calculated,—and the condi-
tions of his existence must be known. The con-
dition of the existence of the good is falsehood:
or, otherwise expressed, the refusal at any price to
see how reality is actually constituted. The refusal
to see that this reality is not so constituted as
always to be stimulating beneficent instincts, and
still less, so as to suffer at all moments the intrusion
of ignorant and good-natured hands. To consider
distress of all kinds as an objection, as something
which must be done away with, is the greatest non-
sense on earth; generally speaking, it is nonsense
of the most disastrous sort, fatal in its stupidity—
almost as mad as the will to abolish bad weather,
out of pity for the poor, so to speak. In the great
economy of the whole universe, the terrors of reality
(in the passions, in the desires, in the will to power)
are incalculably more necessary than that form of
petty happiness which is called " goodness "; it is
even needful to practise leniency in order so much
as to allow the latter a place at all, seeing that it
is based upon a falsification of the instincts. I shall
have an excellent opportunity of showing the incal-
culably calamitous consequences to the whole of
history, of the credo of optimism, this monstrous
offspring of the homines optimi. Zarathustra,* the
first who recognised that the optimist is just as
degenerate as the pessimist, though perhaps more
* Needless to say this is Nietzsche, and no longer the
Persian. —Tr.


## p. 136 (#192) ############################################

I36 ECCE HOMO
detrimental, says: "Good men never speak the
truth. False shores and false harbours were ye
taught by the good. In the lies of the good were
ye born and bred. Through the good everything
hath become false and crooked front the roots"
Fortunately the world is not built merely upon
those instincts which would secure to the good-
natured herd animal his paltry happiness. To desire
everybody to become a " good man," " a gregarious
animal,' "a blue-eyed, benevolent, beautiful soul,"
or—as Herbert Spencer wished—a creature of al-
truism, would mean robbing existence of its greatest
character, castrating man, and reducing humanity
to a sort of wretched Chinadom. And this some
have tried to do! It is precisely this that men
called morality. In this sense Zarathustra calls "the
good," now "the last men," and anon "the be-
ginning of the end "; and above all, he considers
them as the most detrimental kind of men, because
they secure their existence at the cost of Truth and
at the cost of the Future.
"The good—they cannot create; they are ever
the beginning of the end.
"They crucify him who writeth new values on
new tables; they sacrifice unto themselves the future;
they crucify the whole future of humanity!
"The good—they are ever the beginning of the
end.
"And whatever harm the slanderers of the world
may do, the harm of the good is the most calamitous
of all harm! '


## p. 137 (#193) ############################################

WHY I AM A FATALITY 137
Zarathustra, as the first psychologist of the good
man, is perforce the friend of the evil man. When
a degenerate kind of man has succeeded to the
highest rank among the human species, his position
must have been gained at the cost of the reverse
type—at the cost of the strong man who is certain
of life. When the gregarious animal stands in the
glorious rays of the purest virtue, the exceptional
man must be degraded to the rank of the evil. If
falsehood insists at all costs on claiming the word
"truth " for its own particular standpoint, the really
truthful man must be sought out among the de-
spised. Zarathustra allows of no doubt here; he
says that it was precisely the knowledge of the
good, of the "best," which inspired his absolute
horror of men. And it was out of this feeling of
repulsion that he grew the wings which allowed
him to soar into remote futures. He does not
conceal the fact that his type of man is one which
is relatively superhuman—especially as opposed to
the "good" man, and that the good and the just
would regard his superman as the devil.
"Ye higher men, on whom my gaze now falls, this
is the doubt that ye wake in my breast, and this is
my secret laughter: methinks ye would call my
Superman—the devil! So strange are ye in your
souls to all that is great, that the Superman would
be terrible in your eyes for his goodness. "
It is from this passage, and from no other, that
you must set out to understand the goal to which
Zarathustra aspires—the kind of man that he con-


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138 ECCE HOMO
ceives sees reality as it is; he is strong enough for
this—he is not estranged or far removed from it,
he is that reality himself, in his own nature can be
found all the terrible and questionable character of
reality: only thus can man have greatness.
But I have chosen the title of Immoralist as a
surname and as a badge of honour in yet another
sense; I am very proud to possess this name which
distinguishes me from all the rest of mankind. No
one hitherto has felt Christian morality beneath
him; to that end there were needed height, a re-
moteness of vision, and an abysmal psychological
depth, not believed to be possible hitherto. Up to
the present Christian morality has been the Circe of
all thinkers—they stood at her service. What man,
before my time, had descended into the under-
ground caverns from out of which the poisonous
fumes of this ideal—of this slandering of the world
—burst forth? What man had even dared to sup-
pose that they were underground caverns? Was
a single one of the philosophers who preceded me
a psychologist at all, and not the very reverse of a
psychologist—that is to say, a " superior swindler,"
an "Idealist"? Before my time there was no
psychology. To be the first in this new realm
may amount to a curse ; at all events, it is a fatality:
for one is also the first to despise. My danger is the
loathing of mankind.


## p. 139 (#195) ############################################

WHY I AM A FATALITY 139
Have you understood me? That which defines
me, that which makes me stand apart from the
whole of the rest of humanity, is the fact that I
unmasked Christian morality. For this reason I
was in need of a word which conveyed the idea of
a challenge to everybody. Not to have awakened
to these discoveries before, struck me as being the
sign of the greatest uncleanliness that mankind has
on its conscience, as self-deception become instinc-
tive, as the fundamental will to be blind to every
phenomenon, all causality and all reality; in fact,
as an almost criminal fraud inpsychologicis. Blind-
ness in regard to Christianity is the essence of
criminality—for it is the crime against life. Ages
and peoples, the first as well as the last, philo-
sophers and old women, with the exception of five
or six moments in history (and of myself, the
seventh), are all alike in this. Hitherto the Chris-
tian has been the " moral being," a peerless oddity,
and, as " a moral being," he was more absurd, more
vain, more thoughtless, and a greater disadvantage
to himself, than the greatest despiser of humanity
could have deemed possible. Christian morality is
the most malignant form of all falsehood, the actual
Circe of humanity: that which has corrupted man-
kind. It is not error as error which infuriates me
at the sight of this spectacle; it is not the millen-
niums of absence of "goodwill," of discipline, of
decency, and of bravery in spiritual things, which
betrays itself in the triumph of Christianity; it is
rather the absence of nature, it is the perfectly


## p. 140 (#196) ############################################

140 ECCE HOMO
ghastly fact that anti-nature itself received the
highest honours as morality and as law, and re-
mained suspended over man as the Categorical Im-
perative. Fancy blundering in this way, not as an
individual, not as a people, but as a whole species!
as humanity! To teach the contempt of all the
principal instincts of life; to posit falsely the ex-
istence of a " soul," of a " spirit," in order to be able
to defy the body; to spread the feeling that there
is something impure in the very first prerequisite
of life—in sex; to seek the principle of evil in the
profound need of growth and expansion—that is to
say, in severe self-love (the term itself is slander-
ous); and conversely to see a higher moral value—
but what am I talking about ? —I mean the moral
value per se, in the typical signs of decline, in the
antagonism of the instincts, in "selflessness," in the
loss of ballast, in "the suppression of the personal
element," and in " love of one's neighbour " (neigh-
bour-itis ! ). What! is humanity itself in a state
of degeneration? Has it always been in this state?
One thing is certain, that ye are taught only the
values of decadence as the highest values. The
morality of self-renunciation is essentially the mor-
ality of degeneration ; the fact, " I am going to the
dogs," is translated into the imperative," Yeshall all
go to the dogs "—and not only into the imperative.
This morality of self-renunciation, which is the only
kind of morality that has been taught hitherto, be-
trays the will to nonentity—it denies life to the very
roots. There still remains the possibility that it
is not mankind that is in a state of degeneration,
but only that parasitical kind of man—the priest,


## p. 141 (#197) ############################################

WHY I AM A FATALITY 141
who, by means of morality and lies, has climbed up
to his position of determinator of values, whodivined
in Christian morality his road to power. And, to
tell the truth, this is my opinion. The teachers and
leaders of mankind—including the theologians—
have been, every one of them, decadents: hence their
transvaluation of all values into a hostility towards
life; hence morality. The definition of morality;
Morality is the idiosyncrasy of decadents, actuated
by a desire to avenge themselves with success upon
life. I attach great value to this definition.
8
Have you understood me? I have not uttered
a single word which I had not already said five
years ago through my mouthpiece Zarathustra.
The unmasking of Christian morality is an event
which is unequalled in history, it is a real catas-
trophe. The man who throws light upon it is a
force majeure, a fatality; he breaks the history of
man into two. Time is reckoned up before him
and after him. The lightning flash of truth struck
precisely that which theretofore had stood highest:
he who understands what was destroyed by that
flash should look to see whether he still holds any-
thing in his hands. Everything which until then
was called truth, has been revealed as the most de-
trimental, most spiteful, and most subterranean form
of life; the holy pretext, which was the "improve-
ment" of man, has been recognised as a ruse for
draining life of its energy and of its blood. Mor-
ality conceived as Vampirism. . . . The man who


## p. 142 (#198) ############################################

142 ECCE HOMO
unmasks morality has also unmasked the worth-
lessness of the values in which men either believe
or have believed; he no longer sees anything to be
revered in the most venerable man—even in the
types of men that have been pronounced holy; all
he can see in them is the most fatal kind of ab-
ortions, fatal, because they fascinate. The concept
"God " was invented as the opposite of the concept
life—everything detrimental, poisonous, and slan-
derous, and all deadly hostility to life, was bound
together in one horrible unit in Him. The concepts
"beyond " and " true world " were invented in order
to depreciate the only world that exists—in order
that no goal or aim, no sense or task, might be left
to earthly reality. The concepts " soul," "spirit,"
and last of all the concept "immortal soul," were
invented in order to throw contempt on the body,
in order to make it sick and "holy," in order to
cultivate an attitude of appalling levity towards all
things in life which deserve to be treated seriously,
i. e. the questions of nutrition and habitation, of in-
tellectual diet, the treatment of the sick, cleanli-
ness, and weather. Instead of health, we find the
"salvation of the soul"—that is to say, a folie cir-
culaire fluctuating between convulsions and peni-
tence and the hysteria of redemption. The concept
"sin," together with the torture instrument apper-
taining to it, which is the concept " free will," was
invented in order to confuse and muddle our in-
stincts, and to render the mistrust of them man's
second nature! In the concepts "disinterested-
ness and "self-denial," the actual signs of de-
cadence are to be found. The allurement of that


## p. 143 (#199) ############################################

WHY I AM A FATALITY 143
which is detrimental, the inability to discover one's
own advantage and self-destruction, are made into
absolute qualities, into the " duty," the " holiness,"
and the " divinity " of man. Finally—to keep the
worst to the last—by the notion of the good man,
all that is favoured which is weak, ill, botched, and
sick-in-itself, which ought to be wiped out. The law
of selection is thwarted, an ideal is made out of
opposition to the proud, well-constituted man, to
him who says yea to life, to him who is certain of
the future, and who guarantees the future—this
man is henceforth called the evil one. And all this
was believed in as morality! —Ecrasez Vinfdme!
Have you understood me? Dionysus versus
Christ.


## p. 144 (#200) ############################################



## p. 145 (#201) ############################################

EDITORIAL NOTE TO POETRY
The editor begs to state that, contrary to his an-
nouncement in the Editorial Note to The Joyful
Wisdom, in which he declared his intention of pub-
lishing all of Nietzsche's poetry, he has nevertheless
withheld certain less important verses from publi-
cation. This alteration in his plans is due to his
belief that it is an injustice and an indiscretion on
the part of posterity to surprise an author, as it
were, in his n/giig/, or, in plain English, "in his
shirt-sleeves. " Authors generally are very sensitive
on this point, and rightly so: a visit behind the
scenes is not precisely to the advantage of the
theatre, and even finished pictures not yet framed
are not readily shown by the careful artist. As the
German edition, however, contains nearly all that
Nietzsche left behind, either in small notebooks or
on scraps of paper, the editor could not well sup-
press everything that was not prepared for publica-
tion by Nietzsche himself, more particularly as some
of the verses are really very remarkable. He has,
therefore, made a very plentiful selection from the
Songs and Epigrams, nearly all of which are to be
found translated here, and from the Fragments of
the Dionysus Dithyrambs, of which over half have
been given. All the complete Dionysus Dithyrambs


## p. 146 (#202) ############################################

146 EDITORIAL NOTE TO POETRY
appear in this volume, save those which are dupli-
cates of verses already translated in the Fourth Part
of Zarathustra. These Dionysus Dithyrambs were
prepared ready for press by Nietzsche himself.
He wrote the final manuscript during the summer
of 1888 in Sils Maria; their actual composition,
however, belongs to an earlier date.
All the verses, unless otherwise stated, have been
translated by Mr. Paul Victor Cohn.


## p. 147 (#203) ############################################

SONGS, EPIGRAMS, ETC.


## p. 148 (#204) ############################################



## p. 149 (#205) ############################################

SONGS
TO MELANCHOLY*
O MELANCHOLY, be not wroth with me
That I this pen should point to praise thee only,
And in thy praise, with head bowed to the knee,
Squat like a hermit on a tree-stump lonely.
Thus oft thou saw'st me, yesterday, at least,-
Full in the morning sun and its hot beaming,
While, visioning the carrion of his feast,
The hungry vulture valleyward flew screaming.
Thou cou hither, thith a not soar
Yet didst thou err, foul bird, albeit I,
So like a mummy 'gainst my log lay leaning!
Thou couldst not see these eyes whose ecstasy
Rolled hither, thither, proud and overweening.
What though they did not soar unto thine height,
Nor reached those far-off, cloud-reared precipices,
For that they sank the deeper so they might
Within themselves light Destiny's abysses.
Thus oft in sullenness perverse and free,
Bent hideous like a savage at his altar,
There, Melancholy, held I thought of thee,
A penitent, though youthful, with his psalter.
* Translated by Herman Scheffauer.
149


## p. 150 (#206) ############################################

150
POETRY
crouched all of the avalanche false like mal' faces.
So crouched did I enjoy the vulture's span,
The thunder of the avalanche's paces,
Thou spakest to me-nor wast false like man,
Thou spakest, but with stern and dreadful faces.
Harsh goddess thou of Nature wild and stark,
Mistress, that com'st with threats to daunt and
quell me,
To point me out the vulture's airy arc
And laughing avalanches, to repel me.
Around us gnashing pants the lust to kill,
The torment to win life in all its changes;
Alluring on some cliff, abrupt and chill,
Some flower craves the butterfly that ranges.
All this am 1-shuddering I feel it all-
O butterfly beguiled, O lonely flower,
The vulture and the ice-pent waterfall,
The moaning storm-all symbols of thy power,
Thou goddess grim before whom deeply bowed,
With head on knee, my lips with pæans bursting,
I lift a dreadful song and cry aloud
For Life, for Life, for Life-forever thirsting!
O vengeful goddess, be not wroth, I ask,
That I to mesh thee in my rhymes have striven.
He trembles who beholds thine awful mask;
He quails to whom thy dread right hand is given.
Song upon trembling song by starts and fits
I chant, in rhythm all my thought unfolding,
The black ink flows, the pointed goose-quill spits,
O goddess, goddess—leave me to my scolding !


## p. 151 (#207) ############################################

SONGS, EPIGRAMS, ETC.
151
AFTER A NIGHT STORM *
TO-DAY in misty veils thou hangest dimly,
Gloomy goddess, o'er my window-pane.
Grimly whirl the pallid snow-flakes, grimly
Roars the swollen brook unto the plain.
Ah, by light of haggard levins glaring,
'Neath the untamed thunder's roar and roll,
'Midst the valley's murk wast thou preparing-
Sorceress ! thy dank and poisoned bowl.
Shuddering, I heard through midnight breaking
Raptures of thy voice—and howls of pain.
Saw thy bright orbs gleam, thy right hand shaking
With the mace of thunder hurled amain.
Near my dreary couch I heard the crashes
Of thine armoured steps, heard weapons slam,
Heard thy brazen chain strike 'gainst the sashes,
And thy voice: “Come! hearken who I am!
The immortal Amazon they call me;
All things weak and womanish I shun;
Manly scorn and hate in war enthral me;
Victress I and tigress all in one!
Where I tread there corpses fall before me;
From mine eyes the furious torches fly,
And my brain thinks poisons. Bend, adore me!
Worm of Earth and Will o' Wisp-or die! ”
* Translated by Herman Scheffauer.


## p. 152 (#208) ############################################

152
POETRY
HYMNS TO FRIENDSHIP
(Two Fragments)
GODDESS FRIENDSHIP, deign to hear the song
That we sing in friendship's honour!
Where the eye of friendship glances,
Filled with all the joy of friendship
Come thou nigh to aid me,
Rosy dawn in thy gaze and
In holy hand the faithful pledge of youth eternal.
Morning's past: the sun of noonday
Scorches with hot ray our heads.
Let us sit beneath the arbour
Singing songs in praise of friendship.
Friendship was our life's red dawning,
And its sunset red shall be.
THE WANDERER *
ALL through the night a wanderer walks
Sturdy of stride,
With winding vale and sloping height
E'er at his side.
Fair is the night:
On, on he strides, nor slackens speed,
And knows not where his path will lead.
* This poem was written on the betrothal of one of
Nietzsche's Bale friends. -TR.


## p. 153 (#209) ############################################

SONGS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 153
A bird's song in the night is heard,
"Ah me, what hast thou done, O bird,
How dost thou grip my sense and feet
And pourest heart-vexation sweet
Into mine ear—I must remain,
To hearken fain:
Why lure me with inviting strain? "
The good bird speaks, staying his song:
"I lure not thee,—no, thou art wrong—
With these my trills
I lure my mate from off the hills—
Nor heed thy plight.
To me alone the night's not fair.
What's that to thee? Forth must thou fare,
On, onward ever, resting ne'er.
Why stand'st thou now?
What has my piping done to thee,
Thou roaming wight? "
The good bird pondered, silent quite,
"Why doth my piping change his plight?
Why stands he now,
That luckless, luckless, roaming wight? "
To the Glacier
At noontide hour, when first,
Into the mountains Summer treads,
Summer, the boy with eyes so hot and weary,
Then too he speaks,
Yet we can only see his speech.


## p. 153 (#210) ############################################

152
POETRY
HYMNS TO FRIENDSHIP
(Two Fragments)
GODDESS FRIENDSHIP, deign to hear the song
That we sing in friendship's honour!
Where the eye of friendship glances,
Filled with all the joy of friendship
Come thou nigh to aid me,
Rosy dawn in thy gaze and
In holy hand the faithful pledge of youth eternal.
Morning's past: the sun of noonday
Scorches with hot ray our heads.
Let us sit beneath the arbour
Singing songs in praise of friendship.
Friendship was our life's red dawning,
And its sunset red shall be.
THE WANDERER *
ALL through the night a wanderer walks
Sturdy of stride,
With winding vale and sloping height
E'er at his side.
Fair is the night:
On, on he strides, nor slackens speed,
And knows not where his path will lead.
* This poem was written on the betrothal of one of
Nietzsche's Bâle friends. -TR.


## p. 153 (#211) ############################################

SONGS, EPIGRAMS, ETC.
153
A bird's song in the night is heard,
“Ah me, what hast thou done, o bird,
How dost thou grip my sense and feet
And pourest heart-vexation sweet
Into mine ear-I must remain,
To hearken fain:
Why lure me with inviting strain ? "
The good bird speaks, staying his song :
"I lure not thee,-no, thou art wrong-
With these my trills
I lure my mate from off the hills-
Nor heed thy plight.
To me alone the night's not fair.
What's that to thee? Forth must thou fare,
On, onward ever, resting ne'er.
Why stand'st thou now?
What has my piping done to thee,
Thou roaming wight? "
The good bird pondered, silent quite,
“Why doth my piping change his plight ?
Why stands he now,
That luckless, luckless, roaming wight? ”
TO THE GLACIER
At noontide hour, when first,
Into the mountains Summer treads,
Summer, the boy with eyes so hot and weary,
Then too he speaks,
Yet we can only see his speech.


## p. 154 (#212) ############################################

154 POETRY
His breath is panting, like the sick man's breath
On fevered couch.
The glacier and the fir tree and the spring
Answer his call
—Yet we their answer only see.
For faster from the rock leaps down
The torrent stream, as though to greet,
And stands, like a white column trembling,
All yearning there.
And darker yet and truer looks the fir-tree
Than e'er before.
And 'twixt the ice-mass and the cold grey
stone
A sudden light breaks forth
Such light I once beheld, and marked the
sign.
Even the dead man's eye
Surely once more grows light,
When, sorrowful, his child
Gives him embrace and kiss:
Surely once more the flame of light
Wells out, and glowing into life
The dead eye speaks: "My child!
Ah child, you know I love you true! "
So all things glow and speak — the glacier
speaks,
The brook, the fir,
Speak with their glance the selfsame words:
We love you true,
Ah, child, you know we love you, love you true!


## p. 155 (#213) ############################################

SONGS, EPIGRAMS, ETC.
155
And he,
Summer, the boy with eyes so hot and weary,
Woe-worn, gives kisses
More ardent ever,
And will not go:
But like to veils he blows his words
From out his lips,
His cruel words:
“My greeting's parting,
My coming going,
In youth I die. ”
All round they hearken
And scarcely breathe
(No songster sings),
And shuddering run
Like gleaming ray
Over the mountain;
All round they ponder,-
Nor speak-
'Twas at the noon,
At noontide hour, when first
Into the mountains Summer treads,
Summer, the boy with eyes so hot and weary.
AUTUMN *
'Tis Autumn :-Autumn yet shall break thy heart !
Fly away! fly away ! -
The sun creeps 'gainst the hill
And climbs and climbs
And rests at every step.
* Translated by Herman Scheffauer.


## p. 156 (#214) ############################################

156
POETRY
How faded grew the world!
On weary, slackened strings the wind
Playeth his tune.
Fair Hope fled far-
He waileth after.
Fayeth his lackened world !
'Tis Autumn :-Autumn yet shall break thy heart !
Fly away! Ay away!
O fruit o' the tree,
Thou tremblest, fallest ?
What secret whispered unto thee
The Night,
That icy shudders deck thy cheek,
Thy cheek of purple hue ?
Silent art thou, nor dost reply
Who speaketh still ? —
'Tis Autumn :-Autumn yet shall break thy heart !
Fly away! fly away! -
“I am not fair,” —
So speaks the lone star-flower,-
“Yet men I love
And comfort men-
Many flowers shall they behold,
And stoop to me,
And break me, ah !
So that within their eyes shall gleam
Remembrance swift,
Remembrance of far fairer things than I :-
I see it-see it—and I perish so. ”
'Tis Autumn:-Autumn yet shall break thy heart!
Fly away! fly away!


## p. 157 (#215) ############################################

songs, epigrams, etc. 157
Campo Santo di Staglieno*
Maiden, in gentle wise
You stroke your lamb's soft fleece,
Yet flashing from your eyes
Both light and flame ne'er cease.
Creature of merry jest
And favourite near and far,
Pious, with kindness blest,
Amorosissima!
What broke so soon the chain,
What does your heart deplore?
And who, pray, would not fain,
If you loved him, adore ?