Friedrich
Nietzsche
Beyond Good and Evil
[This
document, which has been prepared by Ian
Johnston of Vancouver Island University, Nanaimo, BC, has certain
copyright restrictions. For information, please consult Copyright.
Editorial comments and translations in square brackets and italics are by Ian
Johnston; comments in normal brackets are from Nietzsche's text. Last
revised in January 2009]
Part
Three
The Religious Nature
45
The
human soul and its boundaries, the range of human inner experiences so far
attained, the heights, depths, and extent of these experiences, the whole
history of the soul up to this point and its still undrained
possibilities: for a born psychologist and lover of the “great hunt” that is
the predestined hunting ground. But how often must such a man say to himself in
despair: “I’m just one man! Alas, only one man! And this is a huge wood, a
primordial forest!” And so he wishes he could have few hundred helpers in the
hunt and finely trained tracking dogs which he could drive into the history of
the human soul in order to corner his wild animal there. A vain hope. He
experiences over and over again, thoroughly and bitterly, how difficult it is to
find helpers and hounds for all things which appeal to his curiosity. The
problem he has in sending scholars out into new and dangerous hunting grounds,
where courage, intelligence, and refinement are necessary in every sense, is
that that’s precisely the place where scholars are no longer useful, where the
“great hunt” but also the great danger begins:—right there they
lose their eyes and noses for hunting. In order to ascertain and to establish,
for example, what sort of history the problem of knowledge and conscience
in the soul of the homines religiosi [religious men] has had up to now,
the individual would himself perhaps have to be as profound, as wounded, and as
monstrous as the intellectual conscience of Pascal was:—and then it would
still be necessary to have that expansive heaven of bright, malicious
spirituality capable of surveying this teeming mass of dangerous and painful
experiences from above, of ordering it, and of forcing it into formulas.*
But who would perform this service for me? And who would have
time to wait for such servants?—It’s clear they arise too rarely. In all
ages they are so unlikely! In the end, a person must do everything himself
in order to know a few things himself: that means that one has much to
do!—But at all events a curiosity of the sort I have remains the most pleasant
of all burdens.—Forgive me. I wanted to say this: the love of the truth has
its reward in heaven and even on earth.—
46
The
faith demanded and not rarely attained by early Christianity in the midst of a
sceptical and southern world of free spirits that had behind and within it a
centuries-long battle among philosophical schools, in addition to the education
in tolerance provided by the imperium Romanum [Roman empire]—this faith
is not that naive and gruff faith of the subordinate, something like the
faith with which a Luther or a Cromwell or some other northern barbarian of the
spirit hung onto his God and his Christianity.*
That earlier faith resonates much more with Pascal’s belief, which looks, in a
terrifying way, something like a constant suicide of reason, a tenacious,
long-lived, worm-like reason, which cannot be killed once and for all with a
single blow. From the start Christian faith has been sacrifice: a sacrifice of
all freedom, all pride, all inherent certainty about the spirit, and at the same
time slavery and self-mockery, self-mutilation. There is cruelty and a religious
Phoenicianism in this faith, which one expects in a crumbling, multi-layered,
and very spoilt conscience: its assumption is that the subjection of the spirit
is indescribably painful, that the entire past and the habits of such a
spirit resist the absurdissimum [the most extreme absurdity], which is
how he encounters this “faith.” Modern people, with their insensitivity to
all Christian nomenclature, do not sense any more the ghastly superlative that
lay in the paradox of the formula “God on the cross” for the taste of
classical antiquity. To this point there has never yet been anywhere such an
audacious reversal—anything as dreadful, questioning, and questionable, as
this formula: it promised an inversion of all ancient values.—It is the
Orient, the deep Orient, it is the oriental slave who in this way took
his revenge on Rome and its noble and frivolous tolerance, on the Roman
“catholicity” of faith:—and what always enraged the slaves about their
masters and against their masters was not their faith but their freedom from
faith, that half-stoic, smiling lack of concern about the seriousness of belief.
“Enlightenment” fills people with rage, for the slave wants something
absolute; he understands only the tyrannical, even in morality; he loves as he
hates, without subtlety, to the depths, to the point of pain, to the point of
sickness. His many hidden sufferings grow incensed against the noble
taste, which seems to deny suffering. The scepticism against suffering,
basically only an attitude of aristocratic morality, was also not the most
insignificant factor in the origin of the last great slave revolt, which began
with the French Revolution.
47
Up
to this point, wherever religious neurosis has appeared on earth, we find it
tied up with three dangerous dietary rules: isolation, fasting, and sexual
abstinence—although it would be impossible to determine with certainty what in
this may be cause and what may be effect and whether there might be in
general a relationship between cause and effect here. This final doubt is
justified by the fact that among its most regular symptoms, both with savage and
docile peoples, belongs also the most sudden and most dissolute sensuousness
which then, just as suddenly, turns into spasms of repentance and a denial of
the world and of the will: we could interpret both perhaps as masked epilepsy?
But nowhere should people resist interpretations more than here. About no type
up to this point has such a glut of absurdity and superstition proliferated. No
other type so far seems to have interested human beings, even the philosophers,
more than this one. It’s high time to become a little cool on this issue, to
learn caution, or better yet, to look away, to go away. Even in the
background of the most recent philosophy, the work of Schopenhauer, there
stands, almost as the essential problem, this dreadful question mark of the
religious crisis and awakening. How is denial of the will possible? How
is the saint possible?—This seems, in fact, to have been the question which
prompted Schopenhauer to become a philosopher and to begin. Hence, it was a
result really worthy of Schopenhauer that his most convinced follower (perhaps
also his last, where Germany is concerned), namely, Richard Wagner, brought his
own life’s work to an end at this very point and finally led out onto the
stage the living physical embodiment of that fearful and eternal type as Kundry,
type vécu [a real-life type], at the very time when the psychiatrists of
almost all the countries of Europe had an opportunity to study it up close, in
every place where the religious neurosis—or as I call it, “the religious
nature”—had its most recent epidemic outbreak and paraded around as the
“Salvation Army.”*
But if we ask ourselves what has really been so wildly
interesting in the whole phenomenon of the saint for people of all types and
ages, even for philosophers, then undoubtedly it is the appearance of a miracle
which is associated with it, that is, the immediate succession of opposites,
of conditions of the soul which are valued in morally opposed ways. People
thought here they could get a grip on the fact that all of a sudden a “bad
man” became a “saint,” a good man. On this point, psychology so far has
suffered a shipwreck. Didn’t that happen primarily because psychology
subordinated itself to the control of morality, because it itself believed
in opposite moral evaluations and saw, allowed, and interpreted these
opposites into the text and the facts? How’s that? The “miracle” is only a
failure of interpretation? A lack of philology?—
48
It
seems that Catholicism is much more inwardly bound up with the Latin races than
all of Christianity is in general for us northerners and that, as a result, in
Catholic countries unbelief means something entirely different from what it
means in Protestant countries—namely, a form of rebellion against the spirit
of the race; whereas, among us it means rather a turning back to the spirit (or
non spirit) of the race. We northerners undoubtedly stem from races of
barbarians, and this also holds with respect to our talent for religion. We are badly
equipped for it. One can make the Celtic people an exception to that, and for
this reason they also provided the best soil for the start of the Christian
infection in the north:—in France the Christian ideal bloomed only as much as
the pale northern sun permitted. How strangely devout for our taste even these
recent French sceptics still are, to the extent they have some Celtic blood in
their ancestry! How Catholic, how un-German, August Comte’s sociology smells
to us, with its Roman logic of the instincts! How Jesuitical that charming and
clever cicerone [tour guide] from Port Royal, Sainte-Beuve, in spite of
all his hostility to the Jesuits! And then there’s Ernest Renan: how
inaccessible to us northerners the language of such a Renan sounds, in which at
every moment some nothing of religious tension destroys the equilibrium of his
soul, which is, in a more refined sense, sensual and reclining comfortably! One
should repeat after him these beautiful sentences—and how much malice and high
spirits at once arise in response in our probably less beautiful and harder,
that is, more German souls: “Let us then boldly assert that religion is a
product of the normal man, that man is most in touch with truth when he is most
religious and most assured of an infinite destiny . . . When he is good he wants
virtue to correspond to an eternal order, when he contemplates things in a
disinterested manner he finds death revolting and absurd. How can we not assume
that it is in those former moments that man sees best? . . .”*
These sentences are so entirely antithetical to my ears and habits that
when I found them my initial rage wrote beside them “la niaiserie
religieuse par excellence!” [the finest example of religious stupidity]—until
my later anger grew to like them, these sentences which turn the truth on its
head! It is so nice, so distinguished, to have one’s very own antithesis!
49
The
thing that astonishes one about the religiosity of the ancient Greeks is the
unrestrained fullness of gratitude which streams out of it:—it is a very noble
kind of man who stands before nature and life in this way! Later, as the
rabble gained prominence in Greece, fear grew all over religion as well,
and preparations were made for Christianity.
50
The
passion for God: there are sincere, peasant, pushy types, like Luther’s—all
Protestantism lacks the southern delicatezza [delicacy]. There is an
oriental way of existing beyond the self [Aussersichsein], as with a
slave who, without deserving it, has been blessed or ennobled, for example,
Augustine, who lacks in an offensive way all nobility of gestures and desires.*
There is some feminine tenderness and desire in it which pushes
itself bashfully and ignorantly towards a unio mystica et physica [a mystical
and physical union], as with Madame de Guyon.*
Strangely enough, in many cases it appears as a disguise for puberty in a young
woman or man, and here and there even as the hysteria of an old spinster, also
as her last ambition:—in such cases the church has often already declared the
woman a saint.
51
Up
to now the most powerful people have still bowed reverently before the saint, as
the riddle of self-conquest and of intentional final sacrifice. Why did they
bow? They sensed in him—and, so to speak, behind the question mark of his
frail and pathetic appearance—the superior power which wished to test itself
in such a victory, the strength of the will, in which they knew how to recognize
and honour their own strength and pleasure in mastery once more. They were
honouring something in themselves when they revered the saint. It got to the
point that the sight of a saint aroused a suspicion in them: such a monster of
denial, something so contrary to nature, would not have been desired for no
reason—that’s what they said and questioned themselves about. Perhaps there
is a reason for that, a really great danger, about which the ascetic, thanks to
his secret comforters and visitors might provide more precise information? In
short, the powerful people of the earth learned from the saint a new fear; they
sensed a new power, a strange, as yet unconquered enemy:—it was the “will to
power” which compelled them to halt in front of the saint. They had to ask
him—
52
In
the Jewish “Old Testament,” the book of divine justice, there are men,
things, and speeches of such impressive style that the world of Greek and Indian
literature has nothing to place beside them. We stand with fear and reverence
before these tremendous remnants of what human beings once were and will in the
process suffer melancholy thoughts about old Asia and its protruding peninsula
of Europe, which, in marked contrast to Asia, would like to represent the
“progress of man.” Naturally, whoever is, in himself, only a weak, tame
domestic animal and who knows only the needs of domestic animals (like our
educated people nowadays, including the Christians of “educated”
Christianity), among these ruins such a man finds nothing astonishing or even
anything to be sad about—a taste for the Old Testament is a touchstone with
respect to “great” and “small”:—perhaps he finds the New Testament,
that book of grace, still preferable to his heart (in it there is a good deal of
the really tender, stifling smell of over-pious and small-souled people). To
have glued together this New Testament, a sort of rococo of taste in all
respects, with the Old Testament into a single book, as the “Bible,” and
“the essential book,” that is perhaps the greatest act of daring and “sin
against the spirit” which literary Europe has on its conscience.
53
Why
atheism today?—“The father” in God has been fundamentally disproved, as
well as “the judge,” “the rewarder.” Together with his “free will.”
He is not listening—and if he were to hear, he wouldn’t know how to help
anyway. The worst thing is this: he appears incapable of communicating clearly.
Is he indistinct?—From a number of different conversations, asking and
listening, this is what I have unearthed as the cause of the decline of European
theism. It seems to me that the religious instinct is, in fact, growing
powerfully—but that it is rejecting, with profound distrust, theistic
satisfaction.
54
When
you get down to it, what is all recent philosophy doing? Since Descartes—and,
in fact, more in defiance of him than on the basis of what he had done
before—all philosophers are trying to assassinate the old idea of the soul,
under the appearance of a critique of the idea of the subject and
predicate—that means an attempt to kill the basic assumption of Christian
teaching.*
More recent philosophy, as an epistemological scepticism, is,
in a concealed or open manner, anti-Christian, although (and this is said
for more refined ears) in no way anti-religious. Formerly, that is, people
believed in “the soul,” as they believed in grammar and the grammatical
subject. They said “I” is the condition, “think” is the predicate and
conditioned—thinking is an activity for which a subject must be thought
of as cause. Now, people tried, with an admirable tenacity and trickery, to see
whether they could get out of this net, whether perhaps the opposite might not
be true: “think” as the condition, “I” the conditioned—thus “I” is
only a synthesis which is itself created by thinking. Basically Kant
wanted to show that if we started with the subject we could not prove the
subject—or the object. The possibility of an apparent existence of the
subject, hence “the soul,” might not have always been alien to him—that
thought which, as Vedanta philosophy, was once before present with enormous
power on earth.*
55
There
is a large ladder of religious atrocities, with many rungs. But three of them
are the most important. First people sacrificed human beings to their gods,
perhaps the very ones whom they loved best. Here belong the sacrifices of the
first born in all prehistoric religions, also the sacrifice of Emperor Tiberius
in the grotto to Mithras on the island of Capri, that most terrible of all Roman
anachronisms.*
Then, in the moral ages of humanity, people sacrificed to their
gods the strongest instincts which man possessed, his “nature.” This celebratory
joy sparkles in the cruel glance of the ascetic, of the enthusiastic
“anti-natural man.” Finally, what was still left to sacrifice? Didn’t
people finally have to sacrifice everything comforting, holy, healing, all hope,
all belief in a hidden harmony, in future blessedness and justice? Didn’t
people have to sacrifice God himself and, out of cruelty against themselves,
worship stone, stupidity, gravity, fate, and nothingness? To sacrifice God for
nothingness—this paradoxical mystery of the last act of cruelty is saved for
the generation which is coming along right now. We all already know something
about this.
56
Anyone
who, like me, has, with some enigmatic desire or other, made an effort for a
long time to think profoundly about pessimism and to rescue it from the
half-Christian, half-German restrictions and simple-mindedness with which it has
most recently appeared in this century, that is, in the form of Schopenhauer’s
philosophy; anyone who really has, with an Asian and super-Asiatic eye, looked
into and down on the most world-denying of all possible ways of
thinking—beyond good and evil and no longer as Buddha and Schopenhauer do,
under the spell and delusion of morality—such a man has perhaps in the
process, without really wanting to do so, opened his eyes for the reverse
morality: for the ideal of the most high-spirited, most lively, and most
world-affirming human being, who has not only learned to come to terms with and
accept what was and is but wants to have what was and is come back for
all eternity, calling out insatiably da capo [from the beginning], not
only to himself but to the entire play and spectacle, and not only to a
spectacle but basically to the man who needs this particular spectacle and who
makes the spectacle necessary, because over and over again he needs
himself—and makes himself necessary. How’s that? Wouldn’t this be circulus
vitiosus deus [god as a vicious circle]?
57
With
the power of his spiritual glance and insight the distance and, as it were, the
space around man expand: his world becomes deeper; new stars and new riddles and
pictures always come into his view. Perhaps everything on which the eye of his
spirit practised its astuteness and profundity was just an excuse for exercise,
a matter of play, something for children and childish heads. Perhaps one day the
most solemn ideas, the ones over which we have fought and suffered the most, the
ideas of “God” and “sin,” will seem to us no more important than a
children’s toy or childish pain appears to an old man—and perhaps then
“the old man” will need again another children’s toy and another
pain—still sufficiently a child, an eternal child!
58
Have
people well observed just how much a genuinely religious life (both its
favourite task of microscopic self-examination and that tender calmness which is
called “prayer” and is a constant preparedness for the “coming of God”)
requires an outward leisure or half-leisure—I mean leisure with a good
conscience, from time immemorial, from blood, to which the aristocratic feeling
that work is dishonourable is not entirely foreign—that is, the feeling
that work makes the soul and body coarse and thus that, as a result, the modern
blaring, time-consuming industriousness, so proud of itself, stupidly proud,
trains and prepares people precisely for “unbelief” more than for anything
else? Among those now living, for example, in Germany, who keep religion at a
distance, I find people who hold to “freethinking” of various kinds and
origins, but above all a majority of those whose industriousness, from
generation to generation, has dissolved the religious instincts, so that they
have no idea any more what purpose religions serve and take note of their
presence in the world with, as it were, only a kind of indifferent wonder. They
already feel that generous demands are made of them, these good people, whether
from their businesses or from their pleasures, to say nothing of the
“Fatherland” and the newspapers and the “obligations to the family”: it
seems that they have no time at all left over for religion; it is especially
unclear to them whether religion involves a new business or a new pleasure—for
it’s not possible, they tell themselves, that people go to church merely to
spoil their own good moods. They are no enemies of religious customs. If in
certain circumstances people demand of them participation in such traditions
(something required by the state, for example), they do what people require,
just the way people do so many things—with a patient and modest seriousness
and without much curiosity and concern. They just live too much apart and on the
outside to find it necessary in such cases to conduct an argument with
themselves for or against the matter. Among these indifferent people nowadays
belongs the majority of German Protestants in the middle classes, particularly
in the great industrious centres of trade and traffic, including most of the
hard-working scholars and all the accessories of the university (with the
exception of the theologians, whose existence and possibility there constantly
provide the psychologist with more and ever more sophisticated riddles to sort
out). From the viewpoint of the devout or merely church-going people, we rarely
imagine how much good will—one could say how much arbitrary will—is
involved nowadays when a German scholar takes the problem of religion seriously.
On the basis of his whole trade (and, as mentioned, on the basis of the
industriousness of the tradesman, which his modern conscience requires of him)
he inclines to a supercilious, almost kindly amusement towards religion, mixed
now and then with a slight contempt for the “uncleanliness” of the spirit
which he assumes is present wherever people still profess their faith in the
church. The scholar succeeds only with the help of history (hence not
from his own personal experience) in bringing to religion a reverent seriousness
and a certain timid consideration. But even if his feelings about religion have
managed to rise all the way to gratitude towards it, in his own person he
hasn’t yet come a step closer to what still constitutes church and piety:
perhaps the reverse is the case. The practical indifference about religious
matters in which he was born and raised tends to sublimate itself in him to
caution and cleanliness, things which avoid contact with religious men and
things. And it could well be the very depth of his tolerance and humanity which
tells him to stay out of the way of complex emergencies which tolerance brings
with it. Every period has its own divine form of naivete whose invention other
ages may envy:—and how much naivete, respectful, childish, and boundlessly
foolish naivete lies in this belief of the scholar in his own superiority, in
the good conscience of his toleration, in the unsuspecting, unsophisticated
certainty with which his instinct treats religious people as a less worthy and
lower type, above whom he himself has grown up, out, and away from—the
scholar, the small, presumptuous dwarf and member of the rabble, the diligent
and nimble head-and-hand-worker of “ideas,” “modern ideas”!
59
Whoever
has looked deep into the world will readily guess what wisdom exists in the fact
that men are superficial. It is their preserving instinct, which teaches them to
be changeable, light, and false. Here and there we find a passionate and
exaggerated adoration of “pure forms,” among philosophers as well as among
artists. No one should doubt that whoever requires the cult of surfaces
that much has at some time or another grasped beneath those surfaces,
with unhappy results. Perhaps with respect to these scorched children, the born
artists, who still find the good things of life only in the intention to falsify
its image (as it were, in a prolonged revenge against life), there is even a
rank ordering: we could derive the degree to which life has been spoiled for
them by the extent to which they wish to see its image falsified, diluted,
transcended, deified. Among the artists we could count the homines religiosi
[men of religion] as their highest rank. It is the deep suspicious
fear of an incurable pessimism which compels entire millennia to sink their
teeth into a religious interpretation of existence, the fear of that instinct
which has a premonition that people could grasp the truth too early,
before man has become strong enough, hard enough, artistic enough. . . . From
this point of view, piety, the “life in God,” could appear as the most
refined and final spawn of the fear of truth, as an artist’s worship
and intoxication in the face of the most logical of all falsifications, as the
will to the reversal of the truth, to untruth at any price. Perhaps up to this
point there has been no stronger means to make human beings themselves look more
beautiful than this very piety: through it the human being can become so much
art, surface, play of colours, and goodness, that one no longer suffers at the
sight of him.—
60
To
love human beings for God’s sake—so far that has been the most noble
and most remote feeling that has been attained among men. The fact that without
some consecrating intention behind it the love of human beings is one more
stupidity and brutishness, that the inclination to this love of humanity must
first derive its extent, delicacy, its grains of salt and specks of ambergris
from some higher inclination— whatever human being it happened to be who first
felt and “experienced” this, no matter how much his tongue may have stumbled
as it tried to express such a delicacy, let him remain for all time sanctified
among us and worthy of reverence as the man who so far has flown the highest and
has lost his way most beautifully!
61
The
philosopher, the way we understand him, we free spirits, as the man of
the most all-encompassing responsibility, who has the conscience for the
collective development of human beings—this philosopher will help himself to
religion for use in his work of cultivation and education, just as he will use
contemporary political and economic conditions. The selective and cultivating
influence (which means always both the destructive as well as the creative and
shaping influence) which can be practised with the help of religions is
something multifaceted and different, according to the type of human beings who
are put under its spell and protection. For strong, independent people, those
prepared and predestined to command, those in whom the reason and culture of a
ruling race become something living, religion is a means of overcoming
resistance, so that they will be able to rule; it’s like a bond which ties
ruler and subjects together in common and betrays and hands over to the former
the consciences of the latter, something hidden in their innermost selves which
would like to evade obedience. And in the event a few individual natures of such
noble descent, because of their high mindedness, feel drawn towards a more
secluded and more peaceful life and reserve for themselves only the most refined
form of ruling (over chosen disciples or brethren in an order), then religion
itself can be used as a means to create some peace for oneself from the noise
and hardship of the cruder forms of ruling and cleanliness from the dirt
which necessarily comes with all political action. That’s something the
Brahmin, for example, understood: with the help of a religious organization they
arrogated to themselves the power to appoint a king for the people, while they
held themselves apart and outside, sensing that they were human beings with
higher purposes, something beyond kingship.*
Meanwhile religion also provides instruction for some of the ruled and an
opportunity to prepare themselves for ruling and ordering in the future, those
slowly ascending classes and groups, that is, those in which, because of
fortunate marriage traditions, the force and desire of the will, the will to
rule oneself, is always rising:—to these people religion offers sufficient
stimuli and temptations to travel the route to a higher spirituality, to test
the feelings of great self-conquest, of silence and solitude:—asceticism and
Puritanism are almost indispensable means for educating and ennobling people
when a race wishes to become master of its origins from the rabble and works its
way up towards future ruling power. Finally, for ordinary people, the vast
majority, who are there to serve for common needs and are permitted to
exist only to that extent, religion gives an invaluable modest satisfaction with
their situation and type, all sorts of peace at heart, an ennoblement of
obedience, one more source of joy and suffering with people like them, and
something of a transfiguration and beautification of and a justification for the
whole routine, the whole baseness, the whole half-animal poverty of their souls.
Religion and the religious significance of life bring the brilliance of the sun
onto such constantly troubled men and make it bearable for them to look at
themselves. Religion works just as an Epicurean philosophy usually works on
suffering people of a higher rank—refreshing and refining and, as it were, exploiting
the suffering, finally even blessing and justifying it. In Christianity and
Buddhism there is perhaps nothing so venerable as their art of teaching even the
most abject people to place themselves, through their piety, into an illusory
higher order of things and thus to hang onto their satisfaction with the real
order, in the middle of which their life is hard enough—and this hardness is
precisely what’s necessary!
62
Finally,
of course, to evaluate the opposing bad effects of such religions, as well, and
to bring to light their terrible danger, there’s always an increasingly
expensive and fearful price to pay when religions prevail, not as a means
of cultivation and education in the hand of philosophers, but as some inherently
sovereign power, when religions want themselves to be the final purpose
and not a means alongside other means. Among human beings, as among all other
animal species, there is an excess of failures, invalids, degenerates, infirm
individuals, those who necessarily suffer. Successful examples are always the
exception, among human beings as well, and, given that the human being is the as-yet-undetermined
animal, the rare exception. But even worse: the higher the type of human
being which a particular person represents, the more improbable it becomes that
he will turn out well. The contingent, the law of absurdity in the
collective household of humanity, reveals itself in the most frightening manner
in its destructive effects on the higher people, whose conditions of life are
refined, multifaceted, and hard to estimate. Now, how do the two greatest
religions mentioned above stand in relation to this excess of
unsuccessful cases? They seek to preserve, to maintain alive, anything which
merely allows itself to be preserved. In fact, they basically side with these
unsuccessful cases as religions for those who are suffering; they agree
with all those who suffer from life as from some illness, and they would like to
see to it that every other feeling of life was judged false and became
impossible. Even if we still wish to fix a high value on this protecting and
preserving care, inasmuch as it is concerned and has been concerned with, among
all the other people, the highest type of human being as well, the one who up to
this point has almost always suffered the most, nonetheless in the total
reckoning, the religions so far, that is, the sovereign religions, belong
among the major causes which have kept the type “man” on a lower rung—they
have preserved too much of what should have perished. We have to thank
them for something invaluable. And who is rich enough in gratitude not to become
poor in the face of everything which, for example, the “spiritual men” of
Christianity have done for Europe up to this point? And yet, if they gave
consolation to sufferers, courage to the oppressed and despairing, a staff and
support to those who could not stand on their own, and enticed away from society
and into monasteries and spiritual prisons those suffering from inner
destruction and those who had become wild, what must they have done in addition,
in order to work in this way in good conscience basically for the preservation
of everything sick and suffering, which amounts, in fact and truth, for the deterioration
of the European race? Turn all evaluations of worth on their heads—that’s
what they had to do! Break up the strong men, infect great hopes, bring joy in
beauty under suspicion, bend all self-mastery, everything manly, lofty,
domineering, all instincts characteristic of the loftiest and most successful
type of “man” into uncertainty, a distressed conscience, self-destruction,
in fact, to turn all love for earthly things and for dominion over the earth
into hate for the earth and the earthly—that’s the task the church
gave itself and had to give itself, until finally in its estimation “unworldliness,”
“lack of sensuality,” and “higher man” melted together into a single
feeling. Suppose we could survey with the mocking and disinterested eye of an
Epicurean god the strangely painful comedy of European Christianity, as crude as
it is refined, I believe we would find no end to our amazement and laughter.
Does it not seem that for eighteen centuries there has been ruling over Europe a
will to turn the human being into a sublime monstrosity?*
However, anyone who, with the opposite needs, no longer Epicurean, but with some
divine hammer in his hand, were to approach this almost voluntary degeneration
and decay of a human being like the Christian European (Pascal, for example),
would he not have to cry out with fury, pity, and horror, “You fools! You
arrogant, pitying fools, what have you done here! Was that a work for your
hands? What a mess you’ve made, ruining my most beautiful stone! What have you
presumed!” What I wanted to say was this: Christianity has been the most
disastrous sort of arrogance so far. Men, not lofty and hard enough to be
permitted to shape men as artists; men not strong and far-sighted enough
to allow, with a sublime conquest of the self, the foreground law of
thousandfold failure and destruction to prevail; men not noble enough to see the
abysmally different rank ordering, gaps separating ranks between man and man:—such
men have, with their “equal before God,” so far ruled over the fate of
Europe to the point where finally a diminished, almost ridiculous type has been
bred, a herd animal, something obliging, sickly, and mediocre—the contemporary
European. . . .
Notes
.
. . Pascal: Blaise Pascal
(1623-1662), a brilliant French mathematician known for the extreme strictness
and mortification of his religious beliefs. [Back
to Text]
.
. . Luther: Martin Luther
(1483-1546), German monk and theologian whose work launched the Reformation and
Protestantism. Cromwell: Oliver Cromwell (1599-1658), English Protestant
leader against King Charles I and founder of the Commonwealth (the short-lived
English experiment with republican government). [Back
to Text]
.
. . Richard Wagner
(1813-1883), German composer and essayist, famous for his operas. Kundry is a
character in Wagner’s opera Parsifal (1882), the high messenger of the
Holy Grail. [Back
to Text]
.
. . Comte: August Comte
(1798-1857), a French philosopher who founded positivism and is considered the
father of modern sociology. Port Royal: an important French religious
community in the seventeenth century which encouraged self-renunciation. Sainte-Beuve:
Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve (1804-1869), a prominent French poet and literary
critic. Ernest Renan (1823-1892), a well-known French writer on
Christianity. Nietzsche quotes the
French: “disons donc hardiment que la religion est un produit de l’homme
normal, que l’homme est le plus dans le vrai quand il est le plus religieux et
le plus assuré d’une destinée infinie. . . . C’est quand il est bon
qu’il veut que la vertu corresponde á un ordre éternel, c’est quand il
contemple les choses d’une manière désintéressée qu’il trouve la mort révoltante
et absurde. Comment ne pas supposer que c’est dans ces moments-lá, que
l’homme voit le mieux? . . .” [Back
to Text]
.
. . Augustine: Saint
Augustine (345-430), Bishop of Hippo, a key figure in the development of early
Christianity. [Back
to Text]
.
. . Madame de Guyon: a
sixteenth-century French mystic. [Back
to Text]
.
. . Descartes: Rene Descartes
(1596-1650), extremely influential French philosopher and mathematician. [Back
to Text]
.
. . Vedanta: a philosophical
tradition within Hinduism. [Back
to Text]
.
. . Emperor Tiberius: the
Roman emperor after Augustus (from 14 AD to 37 AD). The worship of Mithras
involved pagan sun worship. [Back
to Text]
.
. . Brahmin: the elite
priesthood in Hinduism. [Back
to Text]
.
. . Epicurean: a follower of
Epicurus (341 BC-270 BC), who taught that the highest good was pleasure,
especially mental pleasure. [Back
to Text]
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