The Joyful Wisdom · Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche
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Finally, (that the most essential may not remain unsaid), one comes back out of such abysses, out of such severe sickness, and out of the sickness of strong suspicion—_new-born_, with the skin cast; more sensitive, more wicked, with a finer taste for joy, with a more delicate tongue for all good things, with a merrier disposition, with a second and more dangerous innocence in joy; more childish at the same time, and a hundred times more refined than ever before. Oh, how repugnant to us now is pleasure, coarse, dull, drab pleasure, as the pleasure-seekers, our "cultured" classes, our rich and ruling classes, usually understand it! How malignantly we now listen to the great holiday-hubbub with which "cultured people" and city-men at present allow themselves to be forced to "spiritual enjoyment" by art, books, and music, with the help of spirituous liquors! How the theatrical cry of passion now pains our ear, how strange to our taste has all the romantic riot and sensuous bustle which the cultured populace love become (together with their aspirations after the exalted, the elevated, and the intricate)! No, if we convalescents need an art at all, it is _another_ art—a mocking, light, volatile, divinely serene, divinely ingenious art, which blazes up like a clear flame, into a cloudless heaven!
Above all, an art for artists, only for artists! We at last know better what is first of all necessary _for it_—namely, cheerfulness, _every_ kind of cheerfulness, my friends! also as artists:—I should like to prove it. We now know something too well, we men of knowledge: oh, how well we are now learning to forget and _not_ know, as artists! And as to our future, we are not likely to be found again in the tracks of those Egyptian youths who at night make the temples unsafe, embrace statues, and would fain unveil, uncover, and put in clear light, everything which for good reasons is kept concealed.[2] No, we have got disgusted with this bad taste, this will to truth, to "truth at all costs," this youthful madness in the love of truth: we are now too experienced, too serious, too joyful, too singed, too profound for that.... We no longer believe that truth remains truth when the veil is withdrawn from it: we have lived long enough to believe this. At present we regard it as a matter of propriety not to be anxious either to see everything naked, or to be present at everything, or to understand and "know" everything.
"Is it true that the good God is everywhere present?" asked a little girl of her mother: "I think that is indecent":—a hint to philosophers! One should have more reverence for the _shamefacedness_ with which nature has concealed herself behind enigmas and motley uncertainties. Perhaps truth is a woman who has reasons for not showing her reasons? Perhaps her name is Baubo, to speak in Greek?... Oh, those Greeks! They knew how _to live_: for that purpose it is necessary to keep bravely to the surface, the fold and the skin; to worship appearance, to believe in forms, tones, and words, in the whole Olympus of appearance! Those Greeks were superficial—_from profundity_! And are we not coming back precisely to this point, we dare-devils of the spirit, who have scaled the highest and most dangerous peak of contemporary thought, and have looked around us from it, have _looked down_ from it? Are we not precisely in this respect—Greeks? Worshippers of forms, of tones, and of words? And precisely on that account—artists? RUTA, near GENOA _Autumn, 1886._ ----- Footnote 1: This means literally to put the numeral X instead of the numeral V (formerly U); hence it means to double a number unfairly, to exaggerate, humbug, cheat.—TR. Footnote 2: An allusion to Schiller's poem: "The Veiled Image of Sais."—TR. _Invitation._ Venture, comrades, I implore you, On the fare I set before you, You will like it more to-morrow, Better still the following day: If yet more you're then requiring, Old success I'll find inspiring, And fresh courage thence will borrow Novel dainties to display.
_My Good Luck._ Weary of Seeking had I grown, So taught myself the way to Find: Back by the storm I once was blown, But follow now, where drives the wind. _Undismayed._ Where you're standing, dig, dig out: Down below's the Well: Let them that walk in darkness shout: "Down below—there's Hell!" _Dialogue._ _A._ Was I ill? and is it ended? Pray, by what physician tended? I recall no pain endured! _B._ Now I know your trouble's ended: He that can forget, is cured. _To the Virtuous._ Let our virtues be easy and nimble-footed in motion, Like unto Homer's verse ought they to come _and to go_. _Worldly Wisdom._ Stay not on level plain, Climb not the mount too high, But half-way up remain— The world you'll best descry! _Vademecum—Vadetecum._ Attracted by my style and talk You'd follow, in my footsteps walk? Follow yourself unswervingly, So—careful!—shall you follow me. _The Third Sloughing._ My skin bursts, breaks for fresh rebirth, And new desires come thronging: Much I've devoured, yet for more earth The serpent in me's longing. 'Twixt stone and grass I crawl once more, Hungry, by crooked ways, To eat the food I ate before, Earth-fare all serpents praise! _My Roses._ My luck's good—I'd make yours fairer, (Good luck ever needs a sharer), Will you stop and pluck my roses?
Oft mid rocks and thorns you'll linger, Hide and stoop, suck bleeding finger— Will you stop and pluck my roses? For my good luck's a trifle vicious, Fond of teasing, tricks malicious— Will you stop and pluck my roses? _The Scorner._ Many drops I waste and spill, So my scornful mood you curse: Who to brim his cup doth fill, Many drops _must_ waste and spill— Yet he thinks the wine no worse. _The Proverb Speaks._ Harsh and gentle, fine and mean, Quite rare and common, dirty and clean, The fools' and the sages' go-between: All this I will be, this have been, Dove and serpent and swine, I ween! _To a Lover of Light._ That eye and sense be not fordone E'en in the shade pursue the sun! _For Dancers._ Smoothest ice, A paradise To him who is a dancer nice. _The Brave Man._ A feud that knows not flaw nor break, Rather then patched-up friendship, take. _Rust._ Rust's needed: keenness will not satisfy! "He is too young!" the rabble loves to cry. _Excelsior._ "How shall I reach the top?" No time For thus reflecting! Start to climb! _The Man of Power Speaks._ Ask never! Cease that whining, pray! Take without asking, take alway! _Narrow Souls._ Narrow souls hate I like the devil, Souls wherein grows nor good nor evil.
_Accidentally a Seducer._[3] He shot an empty word Into the empty blue; But on the way it met A woman whom it slew. _For Consideration._ A twofold pain is easier far to bear Than one: so now to suffer wilt thou dare? _Against Pride._ Brother, to puff thyself up ne'er be quick: For burst thou shalt be by a tiny prick! _Man and Woman._ "The woman seize, who to thy heart appeals!" Man's motto: woman seizes not, but steals. _Interpretation._ If I explain my wisdom, surely 'Tis but entangled more securely, I can't expound myself aright: But he that's boldly up and doing, His own unaided course pursuing, Upon my image casts more light! _A Cure for Pessimism._ Those old capricious fancies, friend! You say your palate naught can please, I hear you bluster, spit and wheeze, My love, my patience soon will end! Pluck up your courage, follow me— Here's a fat toad! Now then, don't blink, Swallow it whole, nor pause to think! From your dyspepsia you'll be free! _A Request._ Many men's minds I know full well, Yet what mine own is, cannot tell. I cannot see—my eye's too near— And falsely to myself appear. 'Twould be to me a benefit Far from myself if I could sit, Less distant than my enemy, And yet my nearest friend's too nigh— 'Twixt him and me, just in the middle! What do I ask for? Guess my riddle!
_My Cruelty._ I must ascend an hundred stairs, I must ascend: the herd declares I'm cruel: "Are we made of stone?" I must ascend an hundred stairs: All men the part of stair disown. _The Wanderer._ "No longer path! Abyss and silence chilling!" Thy fault! To leave the path thou wast too willing! Now comes the test! Keep cool—eyes bright and clear! Thou'rt lost for sure, if thou permittest—fear. _Encouragement for Beginners._ See the infant, helpless creeping— Swine around it grunt swine-talk— Weeping always, naught but weeping, Will it ever learn to walk? Never fear! Just wait, I swear it Soon to dance will be inclined, And this babe, when two legs bear it, Standing on its head you'll find. _Planet Egoism._ Did I not turn, a rolling cask, Ever about myself, I ask, How could I without burning run Close on the track of the hot sun? _The Neighbour._ Too nigh, my friend my joy doth mar, I'd have him high above and far, Or how can he become my star? _The Disguised Saint._ Lest we for thy bliss should slay thee, In devil's wiles thou dost array thee, Devil's wit and devil's dress. But in vain! Thy looks betray thee And proclaim thy holiness. _The Slave._ _A._ He stands and listens: whence his pain? What smote his ears? Some far refrain? Why is his heart with anguish torn? _B._ Like all that fetters once have worn, He always hears the clinking—chain!
_The Lone One._ I hate to follow and I hate to lead. Obedience? no! and ruling? no, indeed! Wouldst fearful be in others' sight? Then e'en _thyself_ thou must affright: The people but the Terror's guidance heed. I hate to guide myself, I hate the fray. Like the wild beasts I'll wander far afield. In Error's pleasing toils I'll roam Awhile, then lure myself back home, Back home, and—to my self-seduction yield. _Seneca et hoc Genus omne._ They write and write (quite maddening me) Their "sapient" twaddle airy, As if 'twere _primum scribere, Deinde philosophari_. _Ice._ Yes! I manufacture ice: Ice may help you to digest: If you _had_ much to digest, How you would enjoy my ice! _Youthful Writings._ My wisdom's A and final O Was then the sound that smote mine ear. Yet now it rings no longer so, My youth's eternal Ah! and Oh! Is now the only sound I hear.[4] _Foresight._ In yonder region travelling, take good care! An hast thou wit, then be thou doubly ware! They'll smile and lure thee; then thy limbs they'll tear: Fanatics' country this where wits are rare! _The Pious One Speaks._ God loves us, _for_ he made us, sent us here!— "Man hath made God!" ye subtle ones reply. His handiwork he must hold dear, And _what he made_ shall he deny? There sounds the devil's halting hoof, I fear.
_In Summer._ In sweat of face, so runs the screed, We e'er must eat our bread, Yet wise physicians if we heed "Eat naught in sweat," 'tis said. The dog-star's blinking: what's his need? What tells his blazing sign? In sweat of face (so runs _his_ screed) We're meant to drink our wine! _Without Envy._ His look bewrays no envy: and ye laud him? He cares not, asks not if your throng applaud him! He has the eagle's eye for distance far, He sees you not, he sees but star on star! _Heraclitism._ Brethren, war's the origin Of happiness on earth: Powder-smoke and battle-din Witness friendship's birth! Friendship means three things, you know,— Kinship in luckless plight, Equality before the foe Freedom—in death's sight! _Maxim of the Over-refined._ "Rather on your toes stand high Than crawl upon all fours, Rather through the keyhole spy Than through open doors!" _Exhortation._ Renown you're quite resolved to earn? My thought about it Is this: you need not fame, must learn To do without it! _Thorough._ I an Inquirer? No, that's not my calling Only _I weigh a lot_—I'm such a lump!— And through the waters I keep falling, falling, Till on the ocean's deepest bed I bump. _The Immortals._ "To-day is meet for me, I come to-day," Such is the speech of men foredoomed to stay. "Thou art too soon," they cry, "thou art too late," What care the Immortals what the rabble say?
_Verdicts of the Weary._ The weary shun the glaring sun, afraid, And only care for trees to gain the shade. _Descent._ "He sinks, he falls," your scornful looks portend: The truth is, to your level he'll descend. His Too Much Joy is turned to weariness, His Too Much Light will in your darkness end. _Nature Silenced._[5] Around my neck, on chain of hair, The timepiece hangs—a sign of care. For me the starry course is o'er, No sun and shadow as before, No cockcrow summons at the door, For nature tells the time no more! Too many clocks her voice have drowned, And droning law has dulled her sound. _The Sage Speaks._ Strange to the crowd, yet useful to the crowd, I still pursue my path, now sun, now cloud, But always pass above the crowd! _He lost his Head...._ She now has wit—how did it come her way? A man through her his reason lost, they say. His head, though wise ere to this pastime lent, Straight to the devil—no, to woman went! _A Pious Wish._ "Oh, might all keys be lost! 'Twere better so And in all keyholes might the pick-lock go!" Who thus reflects ye may as—picklock know. _Foot Writing._ I write not with the hand alone, My foot would write, my foot that capers, Firm, free and bold, it's marching on Now through the fields, now through the papers.
"_Human, All-too-Human._"... Shy, gloomy, when your looks are backward thrust, Trusting the future where yourself you trust, Are you an eagle, mid the nobler fowl, Or are you like Minerva's darling owl? _To my Reader._ Good teeth and a digestion good I wish you—these you need, be sure! And, certes, if my book you've stood, Me with good humour you'll endure. _The Realistic Painter._ "To nature true, complete!" so he begins. Who complete Nature to his canvas _wins_? Her tiniest fragment's endless, no constraint Can know: he paints just what his _fancy_ pins: What does his fancy pin? What he _can_ paint! _Poets' Vanity._ Glue, only glue to me dispense, The wood I'll find myself, don't fear! To give four senseless verses sense— That's an achievement I revere! _Taste in Choosing._ If to choose my niche precise Freedom I could win from fate, I'd be in midst of Paradise— Or, sooner still—before the gate! _The Crooked Nose._ Wide blow your nostrils, and across The land your nose holds haughty sway: So you, unhorned rhinoceros, Proud mannikin, fall forward aye! The one trait with the other goes: A straight pride and a crooked nose. _The Pen is Scratching...._ The pen is scratching: hang the pen! To scratching I'm condemned to sink! I grasp the inkstand fiercely then And write in floods of flowing ink. How broad, how full the stream's career! What luck my labours doth requite! 'Tis true, the writing's none too clear— What then? Who reads the stuff I write?
_Loftier Spirits._ This man's climbing up—let us praise him— But that other we love From aloft doth eternally move, So above even praise let us raise him, He _comes_ from above! _The Sceptic Speaks._ Your life is half-way o'er; The clock-hand moves; your soul is thrilled with fear, It roamed to distant shore And sought and found not, yet you—linger here! Your life is half-way o'er; That hour by hour was pain and error sheer: _Why stay?_ What seek you more? "That's what I'm seeking—reasons why I'm here!" _Ecce Homo._ Yes, I know where I'm related, Like the flame, unquenched, unsated, I consume myself and glow: All's turned to light I lay my hand on, All to coal that I abandon, Yes, I am a flame, I know! _Star Morality._[6] Foredoomed to spaces vast and far, What matters darkness to the star? Roll calmly on, let time go by, Let sorrows pass thee—nations die! Compassion would but dim the light That distant worlds will gladly sight. To thee one law—be pure and bright! ----- Footnote 3: Translated by Miss M. D. Petre. Footnote 4: A and O, suggestive of Ah! and Oh! refer of course to Alpha and Omega, the first and last letters of the Greek alphabet.—TR. Footnote 5: Translated by Miss M. D. Petre. Footnote 6: Translated by Miss M. D. Petre.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.