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.
one can live alone as on a desert island. The hero must not return to
people and to social ideals. He must go forward to loneliness, to
absolute loneliness. Even now nobody, looking at Gogol's Plyushkin,
will feel any more the slightest response to the pathetic appeal for
men to preserve the ideals of youth on into old age. Modern youths
go to see Plyushkin, not for the sake of laughing at him or of
benefiting from the warning which his terrible miserly figure offers
them, but in order to see if there may not be some few little pearls
there where they could be least expected, in the midst of his heap of
dirt.
... Lycurgus succeeded in fixing the Spartans like cement for some
centuries—but after that came the thaw, and all their hardness
melted. The last remains of the petrified Doric art are now removed
to museums.... Is something happening——?

98
If I sow not in the spring, in autumn I shall eat no bread. Every day
brings troubles and worries enough for poor, weak man. He had to
forget his work for a moment, and now he is lost: he will die of
hunger or cold. In order merely to preserve our existence we have
to strain mind and body to the utmost: nay more, we have to think
of the surrounding world exclusively with a view to gaining a
livelihood from it. There is no time to think about truth! This is why
positivism was invented, with its theory of natural development.
Really, everything we see is mysterious and incomprehensible. A tiny
midge and a huge elephant, a caressing breeze and a blizzard, a
young tree and a rocky mountain—what are all these? What are
they, why are they? we incessantly ask ourselves, but we may not
speak out. For philosophy is ever pushed aside to make room for the
daily needs. Only those think who are unable to trouble about self-
preservation, or who will not trouble, or who are too careless: that
is, sick, desperate, or lazy people. These return to the riddle which
workaday men, confirmed in the certainty that they are right, have
construed into "naturalness."
 99
Kant, and after him Schopenhauer, was exceedingly fond of the
epithet "disinterested," and used it on every occasion when the
supply of laudatory terms he had at his disposal was exhausted.
"Disinterested thinking," which does not pursue any practical aim, is,
according to Schopenhauer, the highest ideal towards which man
can strive. This truth he considered universal, an a priori. But had he
chanced to be brought amongst Russian peasants he would have
had to change his opinion. With them thoughts about destiny and
the why and wherefore of the universe and infinity and so on, would
by no means be considered disinterested, particularly if the man who
devoted himself to such thoughts were at the same time to
announce, as becomes a philosopher, that he claimed complete
freedom from physical labour. There the philosopher, were he even
Plato, would be stigmatised with the disgraceful nickname, "Idle-
jack." There the highest activity is interested activity, directed
towards strictly practical purposes; and if the peasants could speak
learnedly, they would certainly call the principle upon which their
judgment is founded an a priori. Tolstoy, who draws his wisdom from
the folk-sources, attacks the learned for the very fact that they do
not want to work, but are disinterestedly occupied in the search for
truth.

100
It is clear to any impartial observer that practically every man
changes his opinion ten times a day. Much has been said on this
subject, it has served for innumerable satires and humorous
sketches. Nobody has ever doubted that it was a vice to be unstable
is one's opinions. Three-fourths of our education goes to teaching us
most carefully to conceal within ourselves the changeableness of our
moods and judgments. A man who cannot keep his word is the last
of men: never to be trusted. Likewise, a man with no firm
convictions: it is impossible to work together with him. Morality, here
as always making towards utilitarian ends, issues the "eternal"
principle: thou shalt remain true to thy convictions. In cultured
circles this commandment is considered so unimpeachable that men
are terrified even to appear inconstant in their own eyes. They
become petrified in their beliefs, and no greater shame can happen
to them than that they should be forced to admit that they have
altered in their convictions. When a straightforward man like
Montaigne plainly speaks of the inconstancy of his mind and his
views, he is regarded as a libeller of himself. One need neither see,
nor hear, nor understand what is taking place around one: once your
mind is made up, you have lost your right to grow, you must remain
a stock, a statue, the qualities and defects of which are known to
everybody.

101
Every philosophic world-conception starts from some or other
solution of the general problem of human existence, and proceeds
from this to direct the course of human life in some particular
direction or other. We have neither the power nor the data for the
solution of general problems, and consequently all our moral
deductions are arbitrary, they only witness to our prejudices if we
are naturally timid, or to our propensities and tastes if we are self-
confident. But to keep up prejudices is a miserable, unworthy
business: nobody will dispute that. Therefore let us cease to grieve
about our differences in opinion, let us wish that in the future there
should be many more differences, and much less unanimity. There is
no arbitrary truth: it remains to suppose that truth lies in changeable
human tastes and desires. In so far as our common social existence
demands it—let us try to come to an understanding, to agree: but
not one jot more. Any agreement which does not arise out of
common necessity will be a crime against the Holy Spirit.

102
Tchekhov was very good at expounding a system of philosophy—
even several systems. We have examples in more than one of his
stories, particularly in The Duel, where Fon-Koren speaks ex
cathedra. But Tchekhov had no use for such systems, save for purely
literary purposes. When you write a story, and your hero must speak
clearly and consistently, a system has its value. But when you are
left to yourself, can you seriously trouble your soul about
philosophy? Even a German cannot, it seems, go so far in his
"idealism." Vladimir Semionovitch, the young author in Tchekhov's
Nice People, sincerely and deeply believes in his own ideas, but even
of him, notwithstanding his blatantly comical limitations, we cannot
say more than that his ideas were constant little views or pictures to
him, which had gradually become a second natural setting to
everything he saw. Certainly he did not live by ideas. Tchekhov is
right when he says that the singing of Gaudeamus igitur and the
writing of a humanitarian appeal were equally important to Vladimir
Semionovitch. As soon as Vladimir's sister begins to think for herself,
her brother's highest ideas, which she has formerly revered, become
banal and objectionable to her. Her brother cannot understand her,
neither her hostility to progress and humanitarianism, nor to the
university spree and Gaudeamus igitur. But Tchekhov does
understand. Only, let us admit, the word "understand" does not
carry its ordinary meaning here. So long as the child was fed on its
mother's milk, everything seemed to it smooth and easy. But when it
had to give up milk and take to vodka,—and this is the inevitable law
of human development—the childish suckling dreams receded into
the realm of the irretrievable past.

103
The summit of human existence, say the philosophers, is spiritual
serenity, aequanimitas: But in that case the animals should be our
ideal, for in the matter of imperturbability they leave nothing to be
desired. Look at a grazing sheep, or a cow. They do not look before
and after, and sigh for what is not. Given a good pasture, the
present suffices them perfectly.

104
A hungry man was given a piece of bread, and a kind word. The
kindness seemed more to him than the bread. But had he been
given only the kind word and no bread, he would perhaps have
hated nice phrases. Therefore, caution is always to be recommended
in the drawing of conclusions: and in none more than in the
conclusion that truth is more urgently required than a consoling lie.
The connections of isolated phenomena can very rarely be
discerned. As a rule, several causes at once produce one effect.
Owing to our propensity for idealising, we always make prominent
that cause which seems to us loftiest.

105
A strange anomaly! we see thousands of human beings perish
around us, yet we walk warily lest we crush a worm. The sense of
compassion is strong in us, but it is adapted to the conditions of our
existence. It can relieve an odd case here and there—and it raises a
terrific outcry over a trifling injustice. Yet Schopenhauer wanted to
make compassion the metaphysical basis of morality.

106
To discard logic as an instrument, a means or aid for acquiring
knowledge, would be extravagant. Why should we? For the sake of
consequentialism? i.e. for logic's very self? But logic, as an aim in
itself, or even as the only means to knowledge, is a different matter.
Against this one must fight even if he has against him all the
authorities of thought—beginning with Aristotle.

107
"When the yellowing corn-fields sway and are moved, and the fresh
forest utters sound to the breeze ... then I see happiness on earth,
and God in heaven." It may be so, to the poet; but it may be quite
different. Sometimes the corn-field waves, the woods make noise in
the wind, the stream whispers its best tales: and still man cannot
perceive happiness, nor forget the lesson taught in childhood, that
the blue heavens are only an optical illusion. But if the sky and the
boundless fields do not convince, is it possible that the arguments of
Kant and the commentations of his dozens of talentless followers
can do anything?

108
The greatest temptation.—In Dostoevsky's Grand Inquisitor lurks a
dreadful idea. Who can be sure, he says—metaphorically, of course
—that when the crucified Christ uttered His cry: "Lord, why hast
thou forsaken me?" He did not call to mind the temptation of Satan,
who for one word had offered Him dominion over the world? And, if
Jesus recollected this offer, how can we be sure that He did not
repent not having taken it?... One had better not be told about such
temptations.

109
From the "Future Opinions concerning contemporary
Europe."—"Europe of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries
presented a strange picture. After Luther, Christianity degenerated
into morality, and all the threads connecting man with God were cut.
Together with the rationalisation of religion, all life took on a fiat,
rational character. Knights were replaced by a standing army,
recruited on the principle of compulsory military service for all, and
existing chiefly for the purpose of parades and official needs.
Alchemy, which had been trying to find the philosopher's stone, was
replaced by chemistry, which tried to discover the best means for
cheap preparation of cheap commodities. Astrology, which had
sought in the stars the destinies of men, was replaced by astronomy,
which foretold the eclipses of the sun and the appearing of comets.
Even the dress of the people became strangely colourless; not only
men, but women also wore uniform, monochromatic clothes. Most
remarkable of all, that epoch did not notice its own insignificance,
but was even proud of itself. It seemed to the man of that day that
never before had the common treasury of spiritual riches been so
well replenished. We, of course, may smile at their naïveté, but if
one of their own number had allowed himself to express an opinion
disdainful of the bases of the contemporary culture he would have
been declared immoral, or put away in a mad-house: a terrible
punishment, very common in that coarse period, though now it is
very difficult even to imagine what such a proceeding implied. But in
those days, to be known as immoral, or to find oneself in a mad-
house, was worse than to die. One of the famous poets of the
nineteenth century, Alexander Poushkin, said: 'God forbid that I
should go mad. Rather let me be a starving beggar.' In those times
people, on the whole, were compelled to tell lies and play the
hypocrite, so that not infrequently the brightest minds, who saw
through the shams of their epoch, yet pretended to believe in
science and morality, only in order to escape the persecution of
public opinion."

110
Writers of tragedies on Shakespeare's model.—To obtain a spark,
one must strike with all one's might with an iron upon a stone.
Whereupon there is a loud noise, which many are inclined to believe
more important than the little spark. Similarly, writers having
shouted very loudly, are deeply assured that they have fulfilled their
sacred mission, and are amazed that all do not share their raptures,
that some even stop their ears and run away.

111
Metamorphoses.—Sense and folly are not at all native qualities in a
man. In a crisis, a stupid man becomes clever. We need not go far
for an example. What a gaping simpleton Dostoevsky looks in his
Injured and Insulted, not to mention Poor Folk. But in Letters from
the Underworld and the rest of his books he is the shrewdest and
cleverest of writers. The same may be said of Nietzsche, Tolstoy, or
Shakespeare. In his Birth of Tragedy Nietzsche seems just like the
ordinary honest, rather simple, blue-eyed provincial German student,
and in Zarathustra he reminds one of Machiavelli. Poor Shakespeare
got himself into a row for his Brutus—but no man could deny the
great mind in Hamlet. The best instance of all, however, is Tolstoy.
Right up to to-day, whenever he likes he can be cleverer than the
cleverest. Yet at times he is a schoolboy. This is the most interesting
and enviable trait in him.

112
In Troilus and Cressida Thersites says: "Shall the elephant Ajax carry
it thus? He beats me, and I rail at him: O worthy satisfaction! would
it were otherwise; that I could beat him, whilst he railed at me."
Dostoevsky might have said the same of his opponents. He pursued
them with stings, sarcasm, abuse, and they drove him to a white
heat by their quiet assurance and composure.... The present-day
admirers of Dostoevsky quietly believe in the teachings of their
master. Does it not mean that de facto they have betrayed him and
gone over to the side of his enemies.

113
The opinion has gained ground that Turgenev's ideal women—
Natalie, Elena, Marianna—are created in the image and likeness of
Poushkin's Tatyana. The critics have been misled by external
appearances. To Poushkin his Tatyana appears as a vestal guarding
the sacred flame of high morality—because such a job is not fitting
for a male. The Pretender in Boris Godunov says to the old monk
Pimen, who preaches meekness and submission: "But you fought
under the walls of Kazan, etc." That is a man's work. But in the
hours of peace and leisure the fighter needs his own hearth-side, he
must feel assured that at home his rights are safely guarded. This is
the point of Tatyana's last words: "I belong to another, and shall
remain forever true to him." But in Turgenev woman appears as the
judge and the reward, sometimes even the inspirer of victorious
man. There is a great difference.

114
From a German Introduction to Philosophy.—"We shall maintain the
opinion that metaphysics, as the crown of the particular sciences, is
possible and desirable, and that to it falls the task intermediate
between theory and practice, experiment and anticipation, mind and
feeling, the task of weighing probabilities, balancing arguments, and
reconciling difficulties." Thus metaphysics is a weighing of
probabilities. Ergo—further than probable conclusions it cannot go.
Thus why do metaphysicians pretend to universal and obligatory,
established and eternal judgments? They go beyond themselves. In
the domain of metaphysics there cannot and must not be any
established beliefs. The word established loses all its sense in the
connection. It is reasonable to speak of eternal hesitation and
temporality of thought.

115
From another Introduction to Philosophy, also German. "Compared
with the delusion of the materialists ... the wretchedest worshipper
of idols seems to us a being capable of apprehending to a certain
degree the great meaning and essence of things," Perhaps this
thought strayed in accidentally among the huge herd of the other
thoughts of the professor, so little does it resemble the rest. But
even so, it loses none of its interest. If the materialists here spoken
of, those of the nineteenth century, Buchner, Vogt, Moleschot, all of
them men who stood on the pinnacle of natural science, were
capable of proving in the realm of philosophy more uninformed than
the nakedest savage, then it follows, not only that science has
nothing in common with philosophy, but that the two are even
hostile. Therefore we ought to go to the savages, not to civilise
them, but even to learn philosophy from them. A Papuan or a Tierra
del Fuegan delivering a lecture in philosophy to the professors of the
Berlin University—Friedrich Paulsen, for example—is a curious sight.
I say to Friedrich Paulsen, and not to Buchner or Moleschot, because
Paulsen is also an educated person, and therefore his philosophic
sensibility may have suffered from contact with science, even if not
so badly as that of the materialists. He needs the assistance of a
red-skinned master. Why have German professors so little daring or
enterprise? Why should not Paulsen, on his own initiative, go to
Patagonia to perfect himself in philosophy?—or at least send his
pupils there, and preach broadcast the new pilgrimage. And now lo
and behold he has hatched an original and fertile idea, so he will
stick in a corner with it, so that even if you wanted you could not get
a good look at it. The idea is important and weighty: our
philosophers would lose nothing by sitting at the feet of the savages.

116
From a History of Ethics.—"Doubts concerning the existence or the
possibility of discovering a moral norm have, of course (I underline
it), proved a stimulus to a new speculative establishing of ethics, just
as the denial of the possibility of knowledge led to the discovery of
the condition of knowledge." With this proposition the author does
not play hide-and-seek, as Paulsen with his. He places it in a
conspicuous position, in a conspicuous section of his book, and
accompanies it with the trumpeting herald "of course." But only one
thing is clear: namely, that the majority share the opinion of
Professor Yodl, to whom the quoted words belong. So that the first
assumption of ethics has as its foundation the consensus
sapientium. It is enough.
 117
"The normative theory," which has taken such hold in Germany and
Russia, bears the stamp of that free and easy self-assurance which
characterises the state of contentment, and which does not desire,
even for the sake of theoretical perfection, to take into consideration
the divided state of soul which usually accompanies discontent.
Windelband (Praeludien, p. 313) is evidence of this. He exposes
himself with the naive frankness almost of an irrational creature, and
is not only unashamed, but even proud of his part. "Philosophic
research," he says, "is possible only to those who are convinced that
the norm of the universal imperative is supreme above individual
activities, and that such a norm is discoverable." Not every witness
will give evidence so honestly. It amounts to this: that philosophic
research is not a search after truth, but a conspiracy amongst people
who dethrone truth and exalt instead the all-binding norm. The task
is truly ethical: morality always was and always will be utilitarian and
bullying. Its active principle is: He who is not with us, is against us.

118
"If, besides the reality which is evident to us, we were susceptible to
another form of reality, chaotic, lawless, then this latter could not be
the subject of thought." (Riehl—Philosophie der Gegenwart.) This is
one of the a priori of critical philosophy—one of the unproved first
assumptions, evidently. It is only an expression in other words of
Windelband's assertion quoted above, concerning the ethical basis of
the law of causation. Thus, the a priori of contemporary thought
convince us more and more that Nietzsche's instinct was not at fault.
The root of all our philosophies lies, not in our objective
observations, but in the demands of our own heart, in the
subjective, moral will, and therefore science cannot be uprooted
except we first destroy morality.

119
One of the lofty truisms—"The philosopher conquers passion by
perceiving it, the artist by bodying it forth." In German it sounds still
more lofty: but does not for that reason approach any nearer to the
truth. "Der Philosoph überwindet die Leidenschaft, indem er sie
begreift—der Künstler, indem er sie darstellt." (Windelband,
Praeludien, p. 198.)

120
The Germans always try to get at Allgemeingültigkeit. Well, if the
problem of knowledge is to fathom all the depths of actual life, then
experience, in so far as it repeats itself, is uninteresting, or at least
has a limit of interest. It is necessary, however, to know what
nobody yet knows, and therefore we must walk, not on the common
road of Allgemeingültigkeit, but on new tracks, which have never yet
seen human feet. Thus morality, which lays down definite rules and
thereby guards life for a time from any surprise, exists only by
convention, and in the end collapses before the non-moral surging-
up of individual human aspirations. Laws—all of them—have only a
regulating value, and are necessary only to those who want rest and
security. But the first and essential condition of life is lawlessness.
Laws are a refreshing sleep—lawlessness is creative activity.

121
A = A.—They say that logic does not need this postulate, and could
easily develop it by deduction. I think not. On the contrary, in my
opinion, logic could not exist without this premiss. Meanwhile it has
a purely empirical origin. In the realm of fact, A is always more or
less equal to A. But it might be otherwise. The universe might be so
constituted as to admit of the most fantastic metamorphoses. That
which now equals A would successively equal B and then C, and so
on. At present a stone remains long enough a stone, a plant a plant,
an animal an animal. But it might be that a stone changed into a
plant before our eyes, and the plant into an animal. That there is
nothing unthinkable in such a supposition is proved by the theory of
evolution. This theory only puts centuries in place of seconds. So
that, in spite of the risk to which I expose myself from the admirers
of the famous Epicurean system, I am compelled to repeat once
more that anything you please may come from anything you please,
that A may not equal A, and that consequently logic is dependent,
for its soundness, on the empirically-derived law of the
unchangeableness of the external world. Admit the possibility of
supernatural interference—and logic will lose that certitude and
inevitability of its conclusions which at present is so attractive to us.

122
The effort to understand people, life, the universe prevents us from
getting to know them at all. Since "to know" and "to understand" are
two concepts which are not only non-identical, but just the opposite
of one another in meaning; in spite of their being in constant use as
synonyms. We think we have understood a phenomenon if we have
included it in a list of others, previously known to us. And, since all
our mental aspiration reduces itself to understanding the universe,
we refuse to know a great deal which will not adapt itself to the
plane surface of the contemporary world-conceptions. For instance
the Leibnitz question, put by Kant into the basis of the critique of
reason: "How can we know a thing outside us, if it does not enter
into us?" It is non-understandable; that is, it does not agree with our
notion of understanding. Hence it follows that it must be squeezed
out of the field of view—which is exactly what Kant attempted to do.
To us it seems, on the contrary, that in the interests of knowing we
should sacrifice, and gladly, understanding, since understanding in
any case is a secondary affair.-Zu fragmentarisch ist Welt und
Leben!...

PART II
 Nur für Schwindelfreie.
(From Alpine Recollections.)

1
Light reveals to us beauty—but also ugliness. Throw vitriol in the
face of a beautiful woman, and the beauty is gone, no power on
earth will enable us to look upon her with the same rapture as
before. Could even the sincerest, deepest love endure the change?
True, the idealists will hasten to say that love overcomes all things.
But idealism needs be prompt, for if she leaves us one single
moment in which to see, we shall see such things as are not easily
explained away. That is why idealists stick so tight so logic. In the
twinkling of an eye logic will convey us to the remotest conclusions
and forecasts. Reality could never overtake her. Love is eternal, and
consequently a disfigured face will seem as lovely to us as a fresh
one. This is, of course, a lie, but it helps to preserve old tastes and
obscures danger. Real danger, however, was never dispelled by
words. In spite of Schiller and eternal love, in the long run vitriol
triumphs, and the agreeable young man is forced to abandon his
beloved and acknowledge himself a fraud. Light, the source of his
life and hope, has now destroyed hope and life for him. He will not
return to idealism, and he will hate logic: light, that seemed to him
so beautiful, will have become hideous. He will turn to darkness,
where logic and its binding conclusions have no power, but where
the fancy is free for all her vagaries. Without light we should never
have known that vitriol ruins beauty. No science, nor any art can
give us what darkness gives. It is true, in our young days when all
was new, light brought us great happiness and joy. Let us, therefore,
remember it with gratitude, as a benefactor we no longer need. Do
after all let us dispense with gratitude, for it belongs to the
calculating, bourgeois virtues. Do ut des. Let us forget light, and
gratitude, and the qualms of self-important idealism, let us go
bravely to meet the coming night. She promises us great power over
reality. Is it worth while to give up our old tastes and lofty
convictions? Love and light have not availed against vitriol. What a
horror would have seized us at the thought, once upon a time! That
short phrase can annul all Schiller. We have shut our eyes and
stopped our ears, we have built huge philosophic systems to shield
us from this tiny thought. And now—now it seems we have no more
feeling for Schiller and the great systems, we have no pity on our
past beliefs. We now are seeking for words with which to sing the
praises of our former enemy. Night, the dark, deaf, impenetrable
night, peopled with horrors—does she not now loom before us,
infinitely beautiful? Does she not draw us with her still, mysterious,
fathomless beauty, far more powerfully than noisy, narrow day? It
seems as if, in a short while, man will feel that the same
incomprehensible, cherishing power which threw us out into the
universe and set us, like plants, to reach to the light, is now
gradually transferring us to a new direction, where a new life awaits
us with all its stores. Fata volentem ducunt, nolentem trahunt. And
perhaps the time is near when the impassioned poet, casting a last
look to his past, will boldly and gladly cry:
Hide thyself, sun! O darkness, be welcome!

2
Psychology at last leads us to conclude that the most generous
human impulses spring from a root of egoism. Tolstoy's "love to
one's neighbour," for example, proves to be a branch of the old self-
love. The same may be said of Kant's idealism, and even of Plato's.
Though they glorify the service of the idea, in practice they succeed
in getting out of the vicious circle of egoism no better than the
ordinary mortal, who is neither a genius nor a flower of culture. In
my eyes this is "almost" an absolute truth. (It is never wrong to add
the retractive "almost"; truth is too much inclined to exaggerate its
own importance, and one must guard oneself against its despotic
authority.) Thus—all men are egoists. Hence follows a great deal. I
even think this proposition might provide better grounds for
metaphysical conclusions than the doubtful capacity for compassion
and love for one's neighbour which has been so tempting to dogma.
For some reason men have imagined that love for oneself is more
natural and comprehensible than love for another. Why? Love for
others is only a little-rarer, less widely diffused than love to oneself.
But then hippopotami and rhinoceros, even in their own tropical
regions, are less frequent than horses and mules. Does it follow that
they are less natural and transcendental? Positivism is not incumbent
upon blood-thirsty savages. Nay, as we know, many of them are less
positive-minded than our learned men. For instance, a future life is
to them such an infallible reality that they even enter into contracts,
part of which is to be fulfilled in the next world. A German
metaphysician won't go as far as that. Hence it follows that the way
to know the other world is not by any means through love,
sympathy, and self-denial, as Schopenhauer taught. On the contrary,
it appears as if love for others were only an impediment to
metaphysical flights. Love and sympathy chain the eye to the misery
of this earth, where such a wide field for active charity opens out.
The materialists were mostly very good men—a fact which bothered
the historians of philosophy. They preached Matter, believed in
nothing, and were ready to perform all kinds of sacrifices for their
neighbours. How is this? It is a case of clearest logical consequence:
man loves his neighbour, he sees that heaven is indifferent to
misery, therefore he takes upon himself the rôle of Providence. Were
he indifferent to the sufferings of others, he would easily become an
idealist and leave his neighbours to their fate. Love and compassion
kill belief, and make a man a positivist and a materialist in his
philosophical outlook. If he feels the misery of others, he leaves off
meditating and wants to act. Man only thinks properly when he
realises he has nothing to do, his hands are tied. That is why any
profound thought must arise from despair. Optimism, on the other
hand, the readiness to jump hastily from one conclusion to another,
may be regarded as an inevitable sign of narrow self-sufficiency,
which dreads doubt and is consequently always superficial. If a man
offers you a solution of eternal questions, it shows he has not even
begun to think about them. He has only "acted." Perhaps it is not
necessary to think—who can say how we ought or ought not to live?
And how could we be brought to live "as we ought," when our own
nature is and always will be an incalculable mystery. There is no
mistake about it, nobody wants to think, I do not speak here of
logical thinking. That, like any other natural function, gives man
great pleasure. For this reason philosophical systems, however
complicated, arouse real and permanent interest in the public
provided they only require from man the logical exercise of the
mind, and nothing else. But to think—-really to think—surely this
means a relinquishing of logic. It means living a new life. It means a
permanent sacrifice of the dearest habits, tastes, attachments,
without even the assurance that the sacrifice will bring any
compensation. Artists and philosophers like to imagine the thinker
with a stern face, a profound look which penetrates into the unseen,
and a noble bearing—an eagle preparing for flight. Not at all. A
thinking man is one who has lost his balance, in the vulgar, not in
the tragic sense. Hands raking the air, feet flying, face scared and
bewildered, he is a caricature of helplessness and pitiable perplexity.
Look at the aged Turgenev, his Poems in Prose and his letter to
Tolstoy. Maupassant thus tells of his meeting with Turgenev: " There
entered a giant with a silvery head." Quite so! The majestic patriarch
and master, of course! The myth of giants with silver locks is firmly
established in the heart of man. Then suddenly enters Turgenev in
his Prose Poems—pale, pitiful, fluttering like a bird that has been
"winged." Turgenev, who has taught us everything—how can he be
so fluttered and bewildered? How could he write his letter to
Tolstoy? Did he not know that Tolstoy was finished, the source of his
creative activity dried up, that he must seek other activities. Of
course he knew—and still he wrote that letter. But it was not for
Tolstoy, nor even for Russian literature, which, of course, is not kept
going by the death-bed letters and covenants of its giants. In the
dreadful moments of the end, Turgenev, in spite of his noble size
and silver locks, did not know what to say or where to look for
support and consolation. So he turned to literature, to which he had
given his life.... He yearned that she, whom he had served so long
and loyally, should just once help him, save him from the horrible
and thrice senseless nightmare. He stretched out his withered,
numbing hands to the printed sheets which still preserve the traces
of the Soul of a living, suffering man. He addressed his late enemy
Tolstoy with the most flattering name: "Great writer of the Russian
land"; recollected that he was his contemporary, that he himself was
a great writer of the Russian land. But this he did not express aloud.
He only said, "I can no longer——" He praised a strict school of
literary and general education. To the last he tried to preserve his
bearing of a giant with silvery locks. And we were gratified. The
same persons who are indignant at Gogol's correspondence, quote
Turgenev's letter with reverence. The attitude is everything.
Turgenev knew how to pose passably well, and this is ascribed to
him as his greatest merit. Mundus vult decipi, ergo decipiatur. But
Gogol and Turgenev felt substantially the same. Had Turgenev burnt
his own manuscripts and talked of himself instead of Tolstoy, before
death, he would have been accounted mad. Moralists would have
reproached him for his display of extreme egoism.... And
Philosophy? Philosophy seems to be getting rid of certain prejudices.
At the moment when men are least likely to play the hypocrite and
lie to themselves Turgenev and Gogol placed their personal fate
higher than the destinies of Russian literature. Does not this betray a
"secret" to us? Ought we not to see in absolute egoism an
inalienable and great, yes, very great quality of human nature?
Psychology, ignoring the threats of morality, has led us to a new
knowledge. Yet still, in spite of the instances we have given, the
mass of people will, as usual, see nothing but malice in every
attempt to reveal the human impulses that underlie "lofty" motives.
To be merely men seems humiliating to men. So now malice will also
be detected in my interpretation of Turgenev's letter, no matter what
assurance I offer to the contrary.

3
On Method.—A certain naturalist made the following experiment: A
glass jar was divided into two halves by a perfectly transparent glass
partition. On the one side of the partition he placed a pike, on the
other a number of small fishes such as form the prey of the pike.
The pike did not notice the partition, and hurled itself on its prey,
with, of course, the result only of a bruised nose. The same
happened many times, and always the same result. At last, seeing
all its efforts ended so painfully, the pike abandoned the hunt, so
that in a few days, when the partition had been removed it
continued to swim about among the small fry without daring to
attack them.... Does not the same happen with us? Perhaps the
limits between "this world" and "the other world" are also essentially
of an experimental origin, neither rooted in the nature of things, as
was thought before Kant, or in the nature of our reason, as was
thought after Kant. Perhaps indeed a partition does exist, and make
vain all attempts to cross over.. But perhaps there comes a moment
when the partition is removed. In our minds, however, the conviction
is firmly rooted that it is impossible to pass certain limits, and painful
to try: a conviction founded on experience. But in this case we
should recall the old scepticism of Hume, which idealist philosophy
has regarded as mere subtle mind-play, valueless after Kant's
critique. The most lasting and varied experience cannot lead to any
binding and universal conclusion. Nay, all our a priori, which are so
useful for a certain time, become sooner or later extremely harmful.
A philosopher should not be afraid of scepticism, but should go on
bruising his jaw. Perhaps the failure of metaphysics lies in the
caution and timidity of metaphysicians, who seem ostensibly so
brave. They have sought for rest—which they describe as the
highest boon. Whereas they should have valued more than anything
restlessness, aimlessness, even purposelessness. How can you tell
when the partition will be removed? Perhaps at the very moment
when man ceased his painful pursuit, settled all his questions and
rested on his laurels, inert, he could with one strong push have
swept through the pernicious fence which separated him from the
unknowable. There is no need for man to move according to a
carefully-considered plan. This is a purely aesthetic demand which
need not bind us. Let man senselessly and deliriously knock his head
against the wall—if the wall go down at last, will he value his
triumph any the less? Unfortunately for us the illusion has been
established in us that plan and purpose are the best guarantee of
success. What a delusion it is! The opposite is true. The best of all
that genius has revealed to us has been revealed as the result of
fantastic, erratic, apparently ridiculous and useless, but relentlessly
stubborn seeking. Columbus, tired of sitting on the same spot, sailed
west to look for India. And genius, in spite of vulgar conception, is a
condition of chaos and unutterable restlessness. Not for nothing has
genius been counted kin to madness. Genius flings itself hither and
thither because it has not the Sitzfleisch necessary for industrious
success in mediocrity. We may be sure that earth has seen much
more genius than history has recorded; since genius is
acknowledged only when it has been serviceable. When the tossing-
about has led to no useful issue—which is the case in the majority of
instances—it arouses only a feeling of disgust and abomination in all
witnesses. "He can't rest and he can't let others rest." If Lermontov
and Dostoevsky had lived in times when there was no demand for
books, nobody would have noticed them. Lermontov's early death
would have passed unregretted. Perhaps some settled and virtuous
citizen would have remarked, weary of the young man's eternal and
dangerous freaks: "For a dog a dog's death." The same of Gogol,
Tolstoy, Poushkin. Now they are praised because they left interesting
books.... And so we need pay no attention to the cry about the
futility and worthlessness of scepticism, even scepticism pure and
unadulterated, scepticism which has no ulterior motive of clearing
the way for a new creed. To knock one's head against the wall out of
hatred for the wall: to beat against established and obstructive
ideas, because one detests them: is it not an attractive proposition?
And then, to see ahead uncertainly and limitless possibilities, instead
of up-to-date "ideals," is not this too fascinating? The highest good
is rest! I shall not argue: de gustibus aut nihil aut bene.... By the
way, isn't it a superb principle? And this superb principle has been
arrived at perfectly by chance, unfortunately not by me, but by one
of the comical characters in Tchekhov's Seagull. He mixed up two
Latin proverbs, and the result was a splendid maxim which, in order
to become an a priori, awaits only universal acceptance.
 4
Metaphysicians praise the transcendental, and carefully avoid it.
Nietzsche hated metaphysics, he praised the earth—bleib nur der
Erde treu, O meine Bruder—and always lived in the realm of the
transcendental. Of course the metaphysicians behave better: this is
indisputable. He who would be a teacher must proclaim the
metaphysical point of view, and he may become a hero without ever
smelling powder. In these anxious days, when positivism seems to
fall short, one cannot do better than turn to metaphysics. Then the
young man need not any more envy Alexander the Macedonian.
With the assistance of a few books not only earthly states are
conquered, but the whole mysterious universe. Metaphysics is the
great art of swerving round dangerous experience. So
metaphysicians should be called the positivists par excellence. They
do not despise all experience, as they assert, but only the dangerous
experiences. They adapt the safest of all methods of selfdefence,
what the English call protective mimicry. Let us repeat to all students
—professors know it already: he who would be a sincere
metaphysician must avoid risky experience. Schiller once asked: How
can tragedy give delight? The answer—to put it in our own words—
was: If we are to obtain delight from tragedy, it must be seen only
upon the stage.—In order to love the transcendental it also should
be known only from the stage, or from books of the philosophers.
This is called idealism, the nicest word ever invented by
philosophising men.

5
Poetae nascuntur.—Wonderful is man. Knowing nothing about it, he
asserts the existence of an objective impossibility. Even a little while
ago, before the invention of the telephone and telegraph, men
would have declared it impossible for Europe to converse with
America. Now it is possible. We cannot produce poets, therefore we
say they are born. Certainly we cannot make a child a poet by
forcing him to study literary models, from the most ancient to the
most modern. Neither will anybody hear us in America no matter
how loud we shout here. To make a poet of a man, he must not be
developed along ordinary lines. Perhaps books should be kept from
him. Perhaps it is necessary to perform some apparently dangerous
operation on him: fracture his skull or throw him out of a fourth-
storey window. I will refrain from recommending these methods as a
substitute for paedagogy. But that is not the point. Look at the great
men, and the poets. Except John Stuart Mill and a couple of other
positivist thinkers, who had learned fathers and virtuous mothers,
none of the great men can boast of, or better, complain of, a proper
upbringing. In their lives nearly always the decisive part was played
by accident, accident which reason would dub meaninglessness, if
reason ever dared raise its voice against obvious success. Something
like a broken skull or a fall from the fourth floor—not metaphorically,
but often absolutely literally—has proved the commencement,
usually concealed but occasionally avowed, of the activity of genius.
But we repeat automatically: poetae nascuntur, and are deeply
convinced that this extraordinary truth is so lofty it needs no
verification.

6
"Until Apollo calls him to the sacrifice, ignobly the poet is plunged in
the cares of this shoddy world; silent is his lyre, cold sleeps his soul,
of all the petty children of earth most petty it seems is he." Pisaryev,
the critic, was exasperated by these verses. Presumably, if they had
not belonged to Poushkin, all the critics along with Pisaryev would
have condemned them and their author to oblivion. Suspicious
verse! Before Apollo calls to him—the poet is the most insignificant
of mortals! In his free hours, the ordinary man finds some more or
less distinguished distraction fox himself: he hunts, attends
exhibitions of pictures, or the theatre, and finally rests in the bosom
of his family. But the poet is incapable of normal existence.
Immediately he has finished with Apollo, forgetting all about altars
and sacrifices, he proceeds to occupy himself with unworthy objects.
Or he abandons himself to the dolce far niente, the customary
pastime of all favourites of the Muses. Let us here remark that not
only all poets, but all writers and artists in general are inclined to
lead bad lives. Think what Tolstoy tells us, in Confession and
elsewhere, of the best representatives of literature in the fifties. On
the whole it is just as Poushkin says in his verses. Whilst he is
engaged in composition, an author is a creature of some
consequence: apart from this, he is nothing. Why are Apollo and the
Muses so remiss? Why do they draw to themselves wayward or
vicious votaries, instead of rewarding virtue? We dare not suspect
the gods, even the dethroned, of bad intentions. Apollo loved
virtuous persons—and yet virtuous persons are evidently mediocre
and unfit for the sacred offices. If any man is overcome with a great
desire to serve the god of song, let him get rid of his virtues at once.
Curious that this truth is so completely unknown to men. They think
that through virtue they can truly deserve the favour and choice of
Apollo. And since industry is the first virtue, they peg away, morning,
noon, and night. Of course, the more they work the less they do.
Which really puzzles and annoys them. They even fling aside the
sacred arts, and all the labours of a devotee; they give themselves
up to idleness and other bad habits. And sometimes it so happens,
that just as a man decides that it is all no good, the Muses suddenly
visit him. So it was with Dostoevsky and others; Schiller alone
managed to get round Apollo. But perhaps it was only his
biographers he got round. Germans are so trustful, so easy to
deceive. The biographers saw nothing unusual in Schiller's habit of
keeping his feet in cold water whilst he worked. No doubt they felt
that if the divine poet had lived in the Sahara, where water is
precious as gold, and the inspired cannot take a footbath every day,
then the speeches of the Marquis of Pola would have lacked half
their nobleness, at least. And apparently Schiller was not so
wonderfully chaste, if he needed such artificial resources in the
composition of his fine speeches. In a word, we must believe
Poushkin. A poet is, on the one hand, among the elect; on the other
hand, he is one of the most insignificant of mortals. Hence we can
draw a very consoling conclusion: the most insignificant of men are
not altogether so worthless as we imagine. They may not be fit to
occupy government positions or professorial chairs, but they are
often extremely at home on Parnassus and such high places. Apollo
rewards vice, and virtue, as everybody knows, is so satisfied with
herself she needs no reward. Then why do the pessimists lament?
Leibnitz was quite right: we live in the best possible of worlds. I
would even suggest that we leave out the modification "possible."

7
It is Das Ewig Weibliche, with Russian writers. Poushkin and
Lermontov loved women and were not afraid of them; Poushkin,
who trusted his own nature, was often in love, and always sang his
love of the moment. When infatuated with a bacchante, he glorified
bacchantes. When he married, he warbled of a modest, nun-like
beauty, his wife. A synthesising mind would probably not know what
to do with all Poushkin's sorts of love. Nor is Lermontov any better.
He abused women, but, as Byelinsky observed after meeting him, he
loved women more than anything in the world. And again, not
women of one mould only: any and all attractive females: the wild
Bella, the lovely Mary, Thamar; one and all, no matter of what race
or condition. Every time Lermontov is in love, he assures us his love
is so deep and ardent and even moral, that we cannot judge him
without conpunction. Vladimir Soloviov alone was not afraid to
condemn him. He brought Poushkin as well as Lermontov to account
for their moral irregularities, and he even went so far as to say that
it was not he himself who judged them, but Fate, in whose service
he acted as public denouncer. Lermontov and Poushkin, both dying
young, had deserved death for their frivolities. But there was nobody
else besides Vladimir Soloviov to darken the memories of the two
poets. It is true Tolstoy cannot forgive Poushkin's dissolute life, but
he does not apply to Fate for a verdict. According to Tolstoy morality
can cope even with a Titan like Poushkin. In Tolstoy's view morality
grows stronger the harder the job it has to tackle. It pardons the
weak offenders without waste of words, but it never forgives pride
and self-confidence. If Tolstoy's edicts had been executed, all
memorials to Poushkin would have disappeared; chiefly because of
the poet's addiction to the eternal female. In such a case Tolstoy is
implacable. He admits the the kind of love whose object is the
establishing of a family, but no more. Don Juan is a hateful
transgressor. Think of Levin, and his attitude to prostitutes. He is
exasperated, indignant, even forgets the need for compassion, and
calls them "beasts." In the eternal female Tolstoy sees temptation,
seduction, sin, great danger. Therefore it is necessary to keep quite
away from the danger. But surely danger is the dragon which guards
every treasure on earth. And again, no matter what his precautions,
a man will meet his fate sooner or later, and come into conflict with
the dragon. Surely this is an axiom. Poushkin and Lermontov loved
danger, and therefore sought women. They paid a heavy price, but
while they lived they lived freely and lightly. If they had cared to
peep in the book of destinies, they might have averted or avoided
their sad end. But they preferred to trust their star—lucky or
unlucky. Tolstoy was the first among us—we cannot speak of Gogol
—who began to fear life. He was the first to start open moralising. In
so far as public opinion and personal dignity demand it, he did go to
meet his dangers: but not a step further. So he avoided women, art,
and philosophy. Love per se, that is, love which does not lead to a
family, like wisdom per se, which is wisdom that has no utilitarian
motive, and like art for art's sake, seemed to him the worst of
temptations, leading to the destruction of the soul. When he plunged
too deep in thinking, he was seized with panic. "It seemed to me I
was going mad, so I went away to the Bashkirs for koumiss." Such
confessions are common in his works. And surely there is no other
way with temptations, than to cut short, at once, before it is too
late. Tolstoy preserved himself on account of his inborn instinct for
departing betimes from a dangerous situation. Save for this cautious
prompting he would probably have ended like Lermontov or
Poushkin. True, he might have gone deeper into nature, and
revealed us rare secrets, instead of preaching at us abstinence,
humility, simplicity and so on. But such luck fell to the fate of
Dostoevsky. Dostoevsky had very muddled relations with morality.
He was too racked by disease and circumstance to get much profit
out of the rules of morality. The hygiene of the soul, like that of the
body, is beneficial only to healthy men. To the sick it is simply
harmful. The more Dostoevsky engaged himself with high morality,
the more inextricably entangled he became. He wanted to respect
the personality in a woman, and only the personality, and so he
came to the point where he could not look on any woman, however
ugly, with indifference. The elder Karamazov and his affair with
Elizabeth Smerdyascha (Stinking Lizzie)—in what other imagination
could such a union have been contemplated? Dostoevsky, of course,
reprimands Karamazov, and thanks to the standards of modern
criticism, such a reprimand is accounted sufficient to exonerate our
author. But there are other standards. If a writer sets out to tell you
that no drab could be so loathsome that her ugliness would make
you forget she was woman; and if for illustration of this novel idea
we are told the history of Fiodov Karamazov with the deformed,
repulsive idiot, Stinking Lizzie; then, in face of such "imaginative art"
it is surely out of place to preserve the usual confidence in that
writer. We do not speak of the interest and appreciation of
Dostoevsky's tastes and ideas. Not for one moment will I assert that
those who with Poushkin and Lermontov can see the Eternal Female
only in young and charming women, have any advantage over
Dostoevsky. Of course, we are not forbidden to live according to our
tastes, and we may, like Tolstoy, call certain women "beasts." But
who has given us the right to assert that we are higher or better
than Dostoevsky? Judging "objectively," all the points go to show
that Dostoevsky is better—at any rate he saw further, deeper. He
could find an original interest, he could discover das ewig Weibliche
where we should see nothing of attraction at all, where Goethe
would avert his face. Stinking Lizzie is not a beast, as Levin would
say, but a woman who is able, if even for a moment, to arouse a
feeling of love in a man. And we thought she was worse than
nothing, since she roused in us only disgust. Dostoevsky made a
discovery, we with our refined feelings missed it. His distorted,
abnormal sense showed a greater sensitiveness, in which our high
morality was deficient.... And the road to the great truth this time,
as ever, is through deformity. Idealists will not agree. They are quite
justly afraid that one may not reach the truth, but may get stuck in
the mud. Idealists are careful men, and not nearly so stupid as their
ideals would lead us to suppose.

8
New ideas, even our own, do not quickly conquer our sympathies.
We must first get accustomed to them.

9
A point of view.—Every writer, thinker—even every educated person
thinks it necessary to have a permanent point of view. He climbs up
some elevation and never climbs down again all his days. Whatever
he sees from this point of view, he believes to be reality, truth,
justice, good—and what he does not see he excludes from
existence. Man is not much to blame for this. Surely there is no very
great joy in moving from point of view to point of view, shifting one's
camp from peak to peak. We have no wings, and "a winged
thought" is only a nice metaphor—unless, of course, it refers to
logical thinking. There to be sure great volatility is usual, a lightness
which comes from perfect naïveté, if not ignorance. He who really
wishes to know something, and not merely to have a philosophy,
does not rely on logic and is not allured by reason. He must clamber
from summit to summit, and, if necessary, hibernate in the dales.
For a wide horizon leads to illusions, and in order to familiarise
oneself with any object, it is essential to go close up to it, touch it,
feel it, examine it from top to bottom and on every side. One must
be ready, should this be impossible otherwise, to sacrifice the
customary position of the body: to wriggle, to lie flat, to stand on
one's head, in a word, to assume the most unnatural of attitudes.
Can there be any question of a permanent point of view? The more
mobility and elasticity a man has, the less he values the ordinary
equilibrium of his body; the oftener he changes his outlook, the