333.
Dying for “Truth.”—We should not let ourselves be burnt for our opinions—we are not so certain of them as all that. But we might let ourselves be burnt for the right of possessing and changing our opinions.
334.
Market Value.—If we wish to pass exactly for what we are, we must be something that has its market value. As, however, only objects in common use have a market value, this desire is the consequence either of shrewd modesty or of stupid immodesty.
335.
Moral for Builders.—We must remove the scaffolding when the house has been built.
336.
Sophocleanism.—Who poured more water into wine than the Greeks? Sobriety and grace combined—that was the aristocratic privilege of the Athenian in the time of Sophocles and after. Imitate that whoever can! In life and in work!
337.
Heroism.—The heroic consists in doing something great (or in nobly not doing something) without feeling oneself to be in competition with or before others. The hero carries with him, wherever he goes, the wilderness and the holy land with inviolable precincts.
338.
Finding our “Double” in Nature.—In some country places we rediscover ourselves, with a delightful shudder: it is the pleasantest way of finding our “double.”—How happy must he be who has [pg 360] that feeling just here, in this perpetually sunny October air, in this happy elfin play of the wind from morn till eve, in this clearest of atmospheres and mildest of temperatures, in all the serious yet cheerful landscape of hill, lake, and forest on this plateau, which has encamped fearlessly next to the terrors of eternal snow: here, where Italy and Finland have joined hands, and where the home of all the silver colour-tones of Nature seems to be established. How happy must he be who can say, “True, there are many grander and finer pieces of scenery, but this is so familiar and intimate to me, related by blood, nay even more to me!”
339.
Affability of the Sage.—The sage will unconsciously be affable in his intercourse with other men, as a prince would be, and will readily treat them as equals, in spite of all differences of talent, rank, and character. For this characteristic, however, so soon as people notice it, he is most heavily censured.
340.
Gold.—All that is gold does not glitter. A soft sheen characterises the most precious metal.
341.
Wheel and Drag.—The wheel and the drag have different duties, but also one in common—that of hurting each other.
342.
Disturbances of the Thinker.—All that interrupts the thinker in his thoughts (disturbs him, as people say) must be regarded by him calmly, as a new model who comes in by the door to offer himself to the artist. Interruptions are the ravens which bring food to the recluse.
343.
Being very Clever.—Being very clever keeps men young, but they must put up with being considered, for that very reason, older than they are. For men read the handwriting of the intellect as signs of experience—that is, of having lived much and evilly, of suffering, error, and repentance. Hence, if we are very clever and show it, we appear to them older and wickeder than we are.
344.
How we must Conquer.—We ought not to desire victory if we only have the prospect of overcoming our opponent by a hair's breadth. A good victory makes the vanquished rejoice, and must have about it something divine which spares humiliation.
345.
An Illusion of Superior Minds.—Superior minds find it difficult to free themselves from an illusion; for they imagine that they excite envy among the mediocre and are looked upon as exceptions. [pg 362] As a matter of fact, however, they are looked upon as superfluous, as something that would not be missed if it did not exist.
346.
Demanded by Cleanliness.—Changing opinions is in some natures as much demanded by cleanliness as changing clothes. In the case of other natures it is only demanded by vanity.
347.
Also Worthy of a Hero.—Here is a hero who did nothing but shake the tree as soon as the fruits were ripe. Do you think that too small a thing? Well, just look at the tree that he shook.
348.
A Gauge for Wisdom.—The growth of wisdom may be gauged exactly by the diminution of ill-temper.
349.
Expressing an Error Disagreeably.—It is not to every one's taste to hear truth pleasantly expressed. But let no one at least believe that error will become truth if it is disagreeably expressed.
350.
The Golden Maxim.—Man has been bound with many chains, in order that he may forget to [pg 363] comport himself like an animal. And indeed he has become more gentle, more intellectual, more joyous, more meditative than any animal. But now he still suffers from having carried his chains so long, from having been so long without pure air and free movement—these chains, however, are, as I repeat again and again, the ponderous and significant errors of moral, religious, and metaphysical ideas. Only when the disease of chains is overcome is the first great goal reached—the separation of man from the brute. At present we stand in the midst of our work of removing the chains, and in doing so we need the strictest precautions. Only the ennobled man may be granted freedom of spirit; to him alone comes the alleviation of life and heals his wounds; he is the first who can say that he lives for the sake of joy, with no other aim; in any other mouth, his motto of “Peace around me and goodwill towards all the most familiar things,” would be dangerous.—In this motto for single individuals he is thinking of an ancient saying, magnificent and pathetic, which applied to all, and has remained standing above all mankind, as a motto and a beacon whereby shall perish all who adorn their banner too early—the rock on which Christianity foundered. It is not even yet time, it seems, for all men to have the lot of those shepherds who saw the heavens lit up above them and heard the words: “Peace on earth and goodwill to one another among men.”—It is still the age of the individual.
The Shadow: Of all that you have enunciated, nothing pleased me more than one promise: “Ye want again to be good neighbours to the most familiar things.” This will be to the advantage of us poor shadows too. For do but confess that you have hitherto been only too fond of reviling us.
The Wanderer: Reviling? But why did you never defend yourselves? After all, you were very close to our ears.
The Shadow: It seemed to us that we were too near you to have a right to talk of ourselves.
The Wanderer: What delicacy! Ah, you shadows are “better men”30 than we, I can see that.
The Shadow: And yet you called us “importunate”—us, who know one thing at least extremely well: how to be silent and to wait—no Englishman knows it better. It is true we are very, very often in the retinue of men, but never as their bondsmen. When man shuns light, we shun man—so far, at least, we are free.
The Wanderer: Ah, light shuns man far oftener, and then also you abandon him.
The Shadow: It has often pained me to leave you. I am eager for knowledge, and much in man has remained obscure to me, because I cannot always be in his company. At the price of complete knowledge of man I would gladly be your slave.
The Wanderer: Do you know, do I know, whether you would not then unwittingly become master instead [pg 365] of slave? Or would remain a slave indeed, but would lead a life of humiliation and disgust because you despised your master? Let us both be content with freedom such as you have enjoyed up to now—you and I! For the sight of a being not free would embitter my greatest joys; all that is best would be repugnant to me if any one had to share it with me—I will not hear of any slaves about me. That is why I do not care for the dog, that lazy, tail-wagging parasite, who first became “doggish” as the slave of man, and of whom they still say that he is loyal to his master and follows him like——
The Shadow: Like his shadow, they say. Perhaps I have already followed you too long to-day? It has been the longest day, but we are nearing the end; be patient a little more! The grass is damp; I am feeling chilly.
The Wanderer: Oh, is it already time to part? And I had to hurt you in the end—I saw you became darker.
The Shadow: I blushed the only colour I have at command. I remembered that I had often lain at your feet like a dog, and that you then——
The Wanderer: Can I not with all speed do something to please you? Have you no wish?
The Shadow: None, except perhaps the wish that the philosophic “dog”31 expressed to Alexander the Great—just move a little out of my light; I feel cold.
The Wanderer: What am I to do?
[pg 366]The Shadow: Walk under those fir-trees and look around you towards the mountains; the sun is sinking.
The Wanderer: Where are you? Where are you?