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

and to listen to so much art and intention in language? After all, one just “has no ear for it”; and so the most marked contrasts of style are not heard, and the most delicate artistry is as it were squandered on the deaf.⁠—These were my thoughts when I noticed how clumsily and unintuitively two masters in the art of prose-writing have been confounded: one, whose words drop down hesitatingly and coldly, as from the roof of a damp cave⁠—he counts on their dull sound and echo; and another who manipulates his language like a flexible sword, and from his arm down into his toes feels the dangerous bliss of the quivering, oversharp blade, which wishes to bite, hiss, and cut. 247

How little the German style has to do with harmony and with the ear, is shown by the fact that precisely our good musicians themselves write badly. The German does not read aloud, he does not read for the ear, but only with his eyes; he has put his ears away in the drawer for the time. In antiquity when a man read⁠—which was seldom enough⁠—he read something to himself, and in a loud voice; they were surprised when anyone read silently, and sought secretly the reason of it. In a loud voice: that is to say, with all the swellings, inflections, and variations of key and changes of tempo, in which the ancient public world took delight. The laws of the written style were then the same as those of the spoken style; and these laws depended partly on the surprising development and refined requirements of the ear and larynx; partly on the strength, endurance, and power of the ancient lungs. In the ancient sense, a period is above all a physiological whole, inasmuch as it is comprised in one breath. Such periods as occur in Demosthenes and Cicero, swelling twice and sinking twice, and all in one breath, were pleasures to the men of antiquity, who knew by their own schooling how to appreciate the virtue therein, the rareness and the difficulty in the deliverance of such a period;⁠—we have really no right to the big period, we modern men, who are short of breath in every sense! Those ancients, indeed, were all of them dilettanti in speaking, consequently connoisseurs, consequently critics⁠—they thus brought their orators to the highest pitch; in the same manner as in the last century, when all Italian ladies and gentlemen knew how to sing, the virtuosoship of song (and with it also the art of melody) reached its elevation. In Germany, however (until quite recently when a kind of platform eloquence began shyly and awkwardly enough to flutter its young wings), there was properly speaking only one kind of public and approximately artistical discourse⁠—that delivered from the pulpit. The preacher was the only one in Germany who knew the weight of a syllable or a word, in what manner a sentence strikes, springs, rushes, flows, and comes to a close; he alone had a conscience in his ears, often enough a bad conscience: for reasons are not lacking why proficiency in oratory should be especially seldom attained by a German, or almost always too late. The masterpiece of German prose is therefore with good reason the masterpiece of its greatest preacher: the Bible has hitherto been the best German book. Compared with Luther’s Bible, almost everything else is merely “literature”⁠—something which has not grown in Germany, and therefore has not taken and does not take root in German hearts, as the Bible has done.

248

There are two kinds of geniuses: one which above all engenders and seeks to engender, and another which willingly lets itself be fructified and brings forth. And similarly, among the gifted nations, there are those on whom the woman’s problem of pregnancy has devolved, and the secret task of forming, maturing, and perfecting⁠—the Greeks, for instance, were a nation of this kind, and so are the French; and others which have to fructify and become the cause of new modes of life⁠—like the Jews, the Romans, and, in all modesty be it asked: like the Germans?⁠—nations tortured and enraptured by unknown fevers and irresistibly forced out of themselves, amorous and longing for foreign races (for such as “let themselves be fructified”), and withal imperious, like everything conscious of being full of generative force, and consequently empowered “by the grace of God.” These two kinds of geniuses seek each other like man and woman; but they also misunderstand each other⁠—like man and woman.

249

Every nation has its own “Tartuffery,” and calls that its virtue.⁠—One does not know⁠—cannot know, the best that is in one.

250

What Europe owes to the Jews?⁠—Many things, good and bad, and above all one thing of the nature both of the best and the worst: the grand style in morality, the fearfulness and majesty of infinite demands, of infinite significations, the whole Romanticism and sublimity of moral questionableness⁠—and consequently just the most attractive, ensnaring, and exquisite element in those iridescences and allurements to life, in the aftersheen of which the sky of our European culture, its evening sky, now glows⁠—perhaps glows out. For this, we artists among the spectators and philosophers, are⁠—grateful to the Jews.

251

It must be taken into the bargain, if various clouds and disturbances⁠—in short, slight attacks of stupidity⁠—pass over the spirit of a people that suffers and wants to suffer from national nervous fever and political ambition: for instance, among present-day Germans there is alternately the anti-French folly, the antiSemitic folly, the anti-Polish folly, the Christian-romantic folly, the Wagnerian folly, the Teutonic folly, the Prussian folly (just look at those poor historians, the Sybels and Treitschkes, and their closely bandaged heads), and whatever else these little obscurations of the German spirit and conscience may be called. May it be forgiven me that I, too, when on a short daring sojourn on very infected ground, did not remain wholly exempt from the