Beyond Good and Evil Friedrich Nietzsche (the little red hen read aloud .txt) 📖

through the discipline of great suffering? In man creature and creator are united: in man there is not only matter, shred, excess, clay, mire, folly, chaos; but there is also the creator, the sculptor, the hardness of the hammer, the divinity of the spectator, and the seventh day⁠—do ye understand this contrast? And that your sympathy for the “creature in man” applies to that which has to be fashioned, bruised, forged, stretched, roasted, annealed, refined⁠—to that which must necessarily suffer, and is meant to suffer? And our sympathy⁠—do ye not understand what our reverse sympathy applies to, when it resists your sympathy as the worst of all pampering and enervation?⁠—So it is sympathy against sympathy!⁠—But to repeat it once more, there are higher problems than the problems of pleasure and pain and sympathy; and all systems of philosophy which deal only with these are naivetes. 226

We Immoralists.⁠—This world with which we are concerned, in which we have to fear and love, this almost invisible, inaudible world of delicate command and delicate obedience, a world of “almost” in every respect, captious, insidious, sharp, and tender⁠—yes, it is well protected from clumsy spectators and familiar curiosity! We are woven into a strong net and garment of duties, and cannot disengage ourselves⁠—precisely here, we are “men of duty,” even we! Occasionally, it is true, we dance in our “chains” and betwixt our “swords”; it is none the less true that more often we gnash our teeth under the circumstances, and are impatient at the secret hardship of our lot. But do what we will, fools and appearances say of us: “These are men without duty,”⁠—we have always fools and appearances against us!

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Honesty, granting that it is the virtue of which we cannot rid ourselves, we free spirits⁠—well, we will labour at it with all our perversity and love, and not tire of “perfecting” ourselves in our virtue, which alone remains: may its glance some day overspread like a gilded, blue, mocking twilight this aging civilization with its dull gloomy seriousness! And if, nevertheless, our honesty should one day grow weary, and sigh, and stretch its limbs, and find us too hard, and would fain have it pleasanter, easier, and gentler, like an agreeable vice, let us remain hard, we latest Stoics, and let us send to its help whatever devilry we have in us:⁠—our disgust at the clumsy and undefined, our “nitimur in vetitum,” our love of adventure, our sharpened and fastidious curiosity, our most subtle, disguised, intellectual Will to Power and universal conquest, which rambles and roves avidiously around all the realms of the future⁠—let us go with all our “devils” to the help of our “God”! It is probable that people will misunderstand and mistake us on that account: what does it matter! They will say: “Their ‘honesty’⁠—that is their devilry, and nothing else!” What does it matter! And even if they were right⁠—have not all Gods hitherto been such sanctified, re-baptized devils? And after all, what do we know of ourselves? And what the spirit that leads us wants to be called? (It is a question of names.) And how many spirits we harbour? Our honesty, we free spirits⁠—let us be careful lest it become our vanity, our ornament and ostentation, our limitation, our stupidity! Every virtue inclines to stupidity, every stupidity to virtue; “stupid to the point of sanctity,” they say in Russia⁠—let us be careful lest out of pure honesty we eventually become saints and bores! Is not life a hundred times too short for us⁠—to bore ourselves? One would have to believe in eternal life in order to⁠ ⁠…

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I hope to be forgiven for discovering that all moral philosophy hitherto has been tedious and has belonged to the soporific appliances⁠—and that “virtue,” in my opinion, has been more injured by the tediousness of its advocates than by anything else; at the same time, however, I would not wish to overlook their general usefulness. It is desirable that as few people as possible should reflect upon morals, and consequently it is very desirable that morals should not some day become interesting! But let us not be afraid! Things still remain today as they have always been: I see no one in Europe who has (or discloses) an idea of the fact that philosophizing concerning morals might be conducted in a dangerous, captious, and ensnaring manner⁠—that calamity might be involved therein. Observe, for example, the indefatigable, inevitable English utilitarians: how ponderously and respectably they stalk on, stalk along (a Homeric metaphor expresses it better) in the footsteps of Bentham, just as he had already stalked in the footsteps of the respectable Helvetius! (no, he was not a dangerous man, Helvetius, ce sénateur Pococurante, to use an expression of Galiani). No new thought, nothing of the nature of a finer turning or better expression of an old thought, not even a proper history of what has been previously thought on the subject: an impossible literature, taking it all in all, unless one knows how to leaven it with some mischief. In effect, the old English vice called cant, which is moral tartuffism, has insinuated itself also into these moralists (whom one must certainly read with an eye to their motives if one must read them), concealed this time under the new form of the scientific spirit; moreover, there is not absent from them a secret struggle with the pangs of conscience, from which a race of former Puritans must naturally suffer, in all their scientific tinkering with morals. (Is not a moralist the opposite of a Puritan? That is to say, as a thinker who regards morality as questionable, as worthy of interrogation, in short, as a problem? Is moralizing not-immoral?) In the end, they all want English morality to be recognized as authoritative, inasmuch as mankind, or the “general utility,” or “the happiness of the greatest number,”⁠—no! the happiness of England, will be best served thereby. They would