215. As in the stellar firmament13 there are sometimes two suns which determine the path of one planet, and in certain cases suns of different colours shine around a single planet, now with red light, now with green, and then simultaneously14 illumine and flood it with motley colours: so we modern men, owing to the complicated mechanism15 of our "firmament," are determined16 by DIFFERENT moralities; our actions shine alternately in different colours, and are seldom unequivocal—and there are often cases, also, in which our actions are MOTLEY-COLOURED.
216. To love one's enemies? I think that has been well learnt: it takes place thousands of times at present on a large and small scale; indeed, at times the higher and sublimer17 thing takes place:—we learn to DESPISE when we love, and precisely19 when we love best; all of it, however, unconsciously, without noise, without ostentation20, with the shame and secrecy21 of goodness, which forbids the utterance22 of the pompous23 word and the formula of virtue1. Morality as attitude—is opposed to our taste nowadays. This is ALSO an advance, as it was an advance in our fathers that religion as an attitude finally became opposed to their taste, including the enmity and Voltairean bitterness against religion (and all that formerly belonged to freethinker-pantomime). It is the music in our conscience, the dance in our spirit, to which Puritan litanies, moral sermons, and goody-goodness won't chime.
217. Let us be careful in dealing24 with those who attach great importance to being credited with moral tact25 and subtlety26 in moral discernment! They never forgive us if they have once made a mistake BEFORE us (or even with REGARD to us)—they inevitably27 become our instinctive28 calumniators and detractors, even when they still remain our "friends."—Blessed are the forgetful: for they "get the better" even of their blunders.
218. The psychologists of France—and where else are there still psychologists nowadays?—have never yet exhausted29 their bitter and manifold enjoyment30 of the betise bourgeoise, just as though... in short, they betray something thereby31. Flaubert, for instance, the honest citizen of Rouen, neither saw, heard, nor tasted anything else in the end; it was his mode of self-torment and refined cruelty. As this is growing wearisome, I would now recommend for a change something else for a pleasure—namely, the unconscious astuteness32 with which good, fat, honest mediocrity always behaves towards loftier spirits and the tasks they have to perform, the subtle, barbed, Jesuitical astuteness, which is a thousand times subtler than the taste and understanding of the middle-class in its best moments—subtler even than the understanding of its victims:—a repeated proof that "instinct" is the most intelligent of all kinds of intelligence which have hitherto been discovered. In short, you psychologists, study the philosophy of the "rule" in its struggle with the "exception": there you have a spectacle fit for Gods and godlike malignity33! Or, in plainer words, practise vivisection on "good people," on the "homo bonae voluntatis," ON YOURSELVES!
219. The practice of judging and condemning34 morally, is the favourite revenge of the intellectually shallow on those who are less so, it is also a kind of indemnity35 for their being badly endowed by nature, and finally, it is an opportunity for acquiring spirit and BECOMING subtle—malice spiritualises. They are glad in their inmost heart that there is a standard according to which those who are over-endowed with intellectual goods and privileges, are equal to them, they contend for the "equality of all before God," and almost NEED the belief in God for this purpose. It is among them that the most powerful antagonists36 of atheism37 are found. If any one were to say to them "A lofty spirituality is beyond all comparison with the honesty and respectability of a merely moral man"—it would make them furious, I shall take care not to say so. I would rather flatter them with my theory that lofty spirituality itself exists only as the ultimate product of moral qualities, that it is a synthesis of all qualities attributed to the "merely moral" man, after they have been acquired singly through long training and practice, perhaps during a whole series of generations, that lofty spirituality is precisely the spiritualising of justice, and the beneficent severity which knows that it is authorized38 to maintain GRADATIONS OF RANK in the world, even among things—and not only among men.
220. Now that the praise of the "disinterested39 person" is so popular one must—probably not without some danger—get an idea of WHAT people actually take an interest in, and what are the things generally which fundamentally and profoundly concern ordinary men—including the cultured, even the learned, and perhaps philosophers also, if appearances do not deceive. The fact thereby becomes obvious that the greater part of what interests and charms higher natures, and more refined and fastidious tastes, seems absolutely "uninteresting" to the average man—if, notwithstanding, he perceive devotion to these interests, he calls it desinteresse, and wonders how it is possible to act "disinterestedly40." There have been philosophers who could give this popular astonishment41 a seductive and mystical, other-worldly expression (perhaps because they did not know the higher nature by experience?), instead of stating the naked and candidly42 reasonable truth that "disinterested" action is very interesting and "interested" action, provided that... "And love?"—What! Even an action for love's sake shall be "unegoistic"? But you fools—! "And the praise of the self-sacrificer?"—But whoever has really offered sacrifice knows that he wanted and obtained something for it—perhaps something from himself for something from himself; that he relinquished43 here in order to have more there, perhaps in general to be more, or even feel himself "more." But this is a realm of questions and answers in which a more fastidious spirit does not like to stay: for here truth has to stifle44 her yawns so much when she is obliged to answer. And after all, truth is a woman; one must not use force with her.
221. "It sometimes happens," said a moralistic pedant45 and trifle-retailer, "that I honour and respect an unselfish man: not, however, because he is unselfish, but because I think he has a right to be useful to another man at his own expense. In short, the question is always who HE is, and who THE OTHER is. For instance, in a person created and destined46 for command, self-denial and modest retirement47, instead of being virtues, would be the waste of virtues: so it seems to me. Every system of unegoistic morality which takes itself unconditionally48 and appeals to every one, not only sins against good taste, but is also an incentive49 to sins of omission50, an ADDITIONAL seduction under the mask of philanthropy—and precisely a seduction and injury to the higher, rarer, and more privileged types of men. Moral systems must be compelled first of all to bow before the GRADATIONS OF RANK; their presumption51 must be driven home to their conscience—until they thoroughly52 understand at last that it is IMMORAL53 to say that 'what is right for one is proper for another.'"—So said my moralistic pedant and bonhomme. Did he perhaps deserve to be laughed at when he thus exhorted54 systems of morals to practise morality? But one should not be too much in the right if one wishes to have the laughers on ONE'S OWN side; a grain of wrong pertains55 even to good taste.
222. Wherever sympathy (fellow-suffering) is preached nowadays—and, if I gather rightly, no other religion is any longer preached—let the psychologist have his ears open through all the vanity, through all the noise which is natural to these preachers (as to all preachers), he will hear a hoarse56, groaning57, genuine note of SELF-CONTEMPT. It belongs to the overshadowing and uglifying of Europe, which has been on the increase for a century (the first symptoms of which are already specified58 documentarily in a thoughtful letter of Galiani to Madame d'Epinay)—IF IT IS NOT REALLY THE CAUSE THEREOF! The man of "modern ideas," the conceited60 ape, is excessively dissatisfied with himself—this is perfectly61 certain. He suffers, and his vanity wants him only "to suffer with his fellows."
223. The hybrid62 European—a tolerably ugly plebeian63, taken all in all—absolutely requires a costume: he needs history as a storeroom of costumes. To be sure, he notices that none of the costumes fit him properly—he changes and changes. Let us look at the nineteenth century with respect to these hasty preferences and changes in its masquerades of style, and also with respect to its moments of desperation on account of "nothing suiting" us. It is in vain to get ourselves up as romantic, or classical, or Christian64, or Florentine, or barocco, or "national," in moribus et artibus: it does not "clothe us"! But the "spirit," especially the "historical spirit," profits even by this desperation: once and again a new sample of the past or of the foreign is tested, put on, taken off, packed up, and above all studied—we are the first studious age in puncto of "costumes," I mean as concerns morals, articles of belief, artistic65 tastes, and religions; we are prepared as no other age has ever been for a carnival66 in the grand style, for the most spiritual festival—laughter and arrogance67, for the transcendental height of supreme68 folly69 and Aristophanic ridicule70 of the world. Perhaps we are still discovering the domain71 of our invention just here, the domain where even we can still be original, probably as parodists of the world's history and as God's Merry-Andrews,—perhaps, though nothing else of the present have a future, our laughter itself may have a future!
224. The historical sense (or the capacity for divining quickly the order of rank of the valuations according to which a people, a community, or an individual has lived, the "divining instinct" for the relationships of these valuations, for the relation of the authority of the valuations to the authority of the operating forces),—this historical sense, which we Europeans claim as our specialty72, has come to us in the train of the enchanting73 and mad semi-barbarity into which Europe has been plunged74 by the democratic mingling75 of classes and races—it is only the nineteenth century that has recognized this faculty77 as its sixth sense. Owing to this mingling, the past of every form and mode of life, and of cultures which were formerly closely contiguous and superimposed on one another, flows forth78 into us "modern souls"; our instincts now run back in all directions, we ourselves are a kind of chaos79: in the end, as we have said, the spirit perceives its advantage therein. By means of our semi-barbarity in body and in desire, we have secret access everywhere, such as a noble age never had; we have access above all to the labyrinth9 of imperfect civilizations, and to every form of semi-barbarity that has at any time existed on earth; and in so far as the most considerable part of human civilization hitherto has just been semi-barbarity, the "historical sense" implies almost the sense and instinct for everything, the taste and tongue for everything: whereby it immediately proves itself to be an IGNOBLE80 sense. For instance, we enjoy Homer once more: it is perhaps our happiest acquisition that we know how to appreciate Homer, whom men of distinguished81 culture (as the French of the seventeenth century, like Saint-Evremond, who reproached him for his ESPRIT VASTE, and even Voltaire, the last echo of the century) cannot and could not so easily appropriate—whom they scarcely permitted themselves to enjoy. The very decided82 Yea and Nay59 of their palate, their promptly83 ready disgust, their hesitating reluctance84 with regard to everything strange, their horror of the bad taste even of lively curiosity, and in general the averseness of every distinguished and self-sufficing culture to avow85 a new desire, a dissatisfaction with its own condition, or an admiration86 of what is strange: all this determines and disposes them unfavourably even towards the best things of the world which are not their property or could not become their prey—and no faculty is more unintelligible87 to such men than just this historical sense, with its truckling, plebeian curiosity. The case is not different with Shakespeare, that marvelous Spanish-Moorish-Saxon synthesis of taste, over whom an ancient Athenian of the circle of AEschylus would have half-killed himself with laughter or irritation89: but we—accept precisely this wild motleyness, this medley90 of the most delicate, the most coarse, and the most artificial, with a secret confidence and cordiality; we enjoy it as a refinement91 of art reserved expressly for us, and allow ourselves to be as little disturbed by the repulsive92 fumes93 and the proximity94 of the English populace in which Shakespeare's art and taste lives, as perhaps on the Chiaja of Naples, where, with all our senses awake, we go our way, enchanted95 and voluntarily, in spite of the drain-odour of the lower quarters of the town. That as men of the "historical sense" we have our virtues, is not to be disputed:—we are unpretentious, unselfish, modest, brave, habituated to self-control and self-renunciation, very grateful, very patient, very complaisant—but with all this we are perhaps not very "tasteful." Let us finally confess it, that what is most difficult for us men of the "historical sense" to grasp, feel, taste, and love, what finds us fundamentally prejudiced and almost hostile, is precisely the perfection and ultimate maturity96 in every culture and art, the essentially97 noble in works and men, their moment of smooth sea and halcyon98 self-sufficiency, the goldenness and coldness which all things show that have perfected themselves. Perhaps our great virtue of the historical sense is in necessary contrast to GOOD taste, at least to the very bad taste; and we can only evoke99 in ourselves imperfectly, hesitatingly, and with compulsion the small, short, and happy godsends and glorifications of human life as they shine here and there: those moments and marvelous experiences when a great power has voluntarily come to a halt before the boundless100 and infinite,—when a super-abundance of refined delight has been enjoyed by a sudden checking and petrifying101, by standing11 firmly and planting oneself fixedly103 on still trembling ground. PROPORTIONATENESS is strange to us, let us confess it to ourselves; our itching104 is really the itching for the infinite, the immeasurable. Like the rider on his forward panting horse, we let the reins105 fall before the infinite, we modern men, we semi-barbarians—and are only in OUR highest bliss106 when we—ARE IN MOST DANGER.
225. Whether it be hedonism, pessimism107, utilitarianism, or eudaemonism, all those modes of thinking which measure the worth of things according to PLEASURE and PAIN, that is, according to accompanying circumstances and secondary considerations, are plausible109 modes of thought and naivetes, which every one conscious of CREATIVE powers and an artist's conscience will look down upon with scorn, though not without sympathy. Sympathy for you!—to be sure, that is not sympathy as you understand it: it is not sympathy for social "distress," for "society" with its sick and misfortuned, for the hereditarily110 vicious and defective111 who lie on the ground around us; still less is it sympathy for the grumbling112, vexed113, revolutionary slave-classes who strive after power—they call it "freedom." OUR sympathy is a loftier and further-sighted sympathy:—we see how MAN dwarfs114 himself, how YOU dwarf115 him! and there are moments when we view YOUR sympathy with an indescribable anguish116, when we resist it,—when we regard your seriousness as more dangerous than any kind of levity117. You want, if possible—and there is not a more foolish "if possible"—TO DO AWAY WITH SUFFERING; and we?—it really seems that WE would rather have it increased and made worse than it has ever been! Well-being118, as you understand it—is certainly not a goal; it seems to us an END; a condition which at once renders man ludicrous and contemptible—and makes his destruction DESIRABLE! The discipline of suffering, of GREAT suffering—know ye not that it is only THIS discipline that has produced all the elevations120 of humanity hitherto? The tension of soul in misfortune which communicates to it its energy, its shuddering121 in view of rack and ruin, its inventiveness and bravery in undergoing, enduring, interpreting, and exploiting misfortune, and whatever depth, mystery, disguise, spirit, artifice122, or greatness has been bestowed123 upon the soul—has it not been bestowed through suffering, through the discipline of great suffering? In man CREATURE and CREATOR are united: in man there is not only matter, shred124, excess, clay, mire125, folly, chaos; but there is also the creator, the sculptor126, 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, bruised127, 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 pampering128 and enervation129?—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 obedience130, a world of "almost" in every respect, captious131, insidious132, 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!
227. 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 perversity133 and love, and not tire of "perfecting" ourselves in OUR virtue, which alone remains134: may its glance some day overspread like a gilded135, blue, mocking twilight136 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 vice137, let us remain HARD, we latest Stoics138, 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 rambles139 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 ornament140 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...
228. 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 CALAMITY141 might be involved therein. Observe, for example, the indefatigable142, inevitable143 English utilitarians144: how ponderously146 and respectably they stalk on, stalk along (a Homeric metaphor147 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 SENATEUR 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 previously148 thought on the subject: an IMPOSSIBLE literature, taking it all in all, unless one knows how to leaven149 it with some mischief150. In effect, the old English vice called CANT151, which is MORAL TARTUFFISM, has insinuated152 itself also into these moralists (whom one must certainly read with an eye to their motives153 if one MUST read them), concealed154 this time under the new form of the scientific spirit; moreover, there is not absent from them a secret struggle with the pangs155 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 questionable156, 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 authoritative157, 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 like, by all means, to convince themselves that the striving after English happiness, I mean after COMFORT and FASHION (and in the highest instance, a seat in Parliament), is at the same time the true path of virtue; in fact, that in so far as there has been virtue in the world hitherto, it has just consisted in such striving. Not one of those ponderous145, conscience-stricken herding-animals (who undertake to advocate the cause of egoism as conducive158 to the general welfare) wants to have any knowledge or inkling of the facts that the "general welfare" is no ideal, no goal, no notion that can be at all grasped, but is only a nostrum,—that what is fair to one MAY NOT at all be fair to another, that the requirement of one morality for all is really a detriment159 to higher men, in short, that there is a DISTINCTION OF RANK between man and man, and consequently between morality and morality. They are an unassuming and fundamentally mediocre160 species of men, these utilitarian108 Englishmen, and, as already remarked, in so far as they are tedious, one cannot think highly enough of their utility. One ought even to ENCOURAGE them, as has been partially161 attempted in the following rhymes:—
Hail, ye worthies162, barrow-wheeling,
"Longer—better," aye revealing,
Stiffer aye in head and knee;
Unenraptured, never jesting,
Mediocre everlasting163,
SANS GENIE164 ET SANS ESPRIT!
229. In these later ages, which may be proud of their humanity, there still remains so much fear, so much SUPERSTITION165 of the fear, of the "cruel wild beast," the mastering of which constitutes the very pride of these humaner ages—that even obvious truths, as if by the agreement of centuries, have long remained unuttered, because they have the appearance of helping166 the finally slain167 wild beast back to life again. I perhaps risk something when I allow such a truth to escape; let others capture it again and give it so much "milk of pious168 sentiment" [FOOTNOTE: An expression from Schiller's William Tell, Act IV, Scene 3.] to drink, that it will lie down quiet and forgotten, in its old corner.—One ought to learn anew about cruelty, and open one's eyes; one ought at last to learn impatience169, in order that such immodest gross errors—as, for instance, have been fostered by ancient and modern philosophers with regard to tragedy—may no longer wander about virtuously171 and boldly. Almost everything that we call "higher culture" is based upon the spiritualising and intensifying172 of CRUELTY—this is my thesis; the "wild beast" has not been slain at all, it lives, it flourishes, it has only been—transfigured. That which constitutes the painful delight of tragedy is cruelty; that which operates agreeably in so-called tragic173 sympathy, and at the basis even of everything sublime18, up to the highest and most delicate thrills of metaphysics, obtains its sweetness solely174 from the intermingled ingredient of cruelty. What the Roman enjoys in the arena175, the Christian in the ecstasies176 of the cross, the Spaniard at the sight of the faggot and stake, or of the bull-fight, the present-day Japanese who presses his way to the tragedy, the workman of the Parisian suburbs who has a homesickness for bloody177 revolutions, the Wagnerienne who, with unhinged will, "undergoes" the performance of "Tristan and Isolde"—what all these enjoy, and strive with mysterious ardour to drink in, is the philtre of the great Circe "cruelty." Here, to be sure, we must put aside entirely178 the blundering psychology179 of former times, which could only teach with regard to cruelty that it originated at the sight of the suffering of OTHERS: there is an abundant, super-abundant enjoyment even in one's own suffering, in causing one's own suffering—and wherever man has allowed himself to be persuaded to self-denial in the RELIGIOUS sense, or to self-mutilation, as among the Phoenicians and ascetics180, or in general, to desensualisation, decarnalisation, and contrition181, to Puritanical182 repentance-spasms, to vivisection of conscience and to Pascal-like SACRIFIZIA DELL' INTELLETO, he is secretly allured183 and impelled184 forwards by his cruelty, by the dangerous thrill of cruelty TOWARDS HIMSELF.—Finally, let us consider that even the seeker of knowledge operates as an artist and glorifier185 of cruelty, in that he compels his spirit to perceive AGAINST its own inclination5, and often enough against the wishes of his heart:—he forces it to say Nay, where he would like to affirm, love, and adore; indeed, every instance of taking a thing profoundly and fundamentally, is a violation186, an intentional187 injuring of the fundamental will of the spirit, which instinctively188 aims at appearance and superficiality,—even in every desire for knowledge there is a drop of cruelty.
230. Perhaps what I have said here about a "fundamental will of the spirit" may not be understood without further details; I may be allowed a word of explanation.—That imperious something which is popularly called "the spirit," wishes to be master internally and externally, and to feel itself master; it has the will of a multiplicity for a simplicity189, a binding190, taming, imperious, and essentially ruling will. Its requirements and capacities here, are the same as those assigned by physiologists192 to everything that lives, grows, and multiplies. The power of the spirit to appropriate foreign elements reveals itself in a strong tendency to assimilate the new to the old, to simplify the manifold, to overlook or repudiate193 the absolutely contradictory194; just as it arbitrarily re-underlines, makes prominent, and falsifies for itself certain traits and lines in the foreign elements, in every portion of the "outside world." Its object thereby is the incorporation195 of new "experiences," the assortment196 of new things in the old arrangements—in short, growth; or more properly, the FEELING of growth, the feeling of increased power—is its object. This same will has at its service an apparently197 opposed impulse of the spirit, a suddenly adopted preference of ignorance, of arbitrary shutting out, a closing of windows, an inner denial of this or that, a prohibition198 to approach, a sort of defensive199 attitude against much that is knowable, a contentment with obscurity, with the shutting-in horizon, an acceptance and approval of ignorance: as that which is all necessary according to the degree of its appropriating power, its "digestive power," to speak figuratively (and in fact "the spirit" resembles a stomach more than anything else). Here also belong an occasional propensity200 of the spirit to let itself be deceived (perhaps with a waggish201 suspicion that it is NOT so and so, but is only allowed to pass as such), a delight in uncertainty202 and ambiguity203, an exulting204 enjoyment of arbitrary, out-of-the-way narrowness and mystery, of the too-near, of the foreground, of the magnified, the diminished, the misshapen, the beautified—an enjoyment of the arbitrariness of all these manifestations205 of power. Finally, in this connection, there is the not unscrupulous readiness of the spirit to deceive other spirits and dissemble before them—the constant pressing and straining of a creating, shaping, changeable power: the spirit enjoys therein its craftiness206 and its variety of disguises, it enjoys also its feeling of security therein—it is precisely by its Protean207 arts that it is best protected and concealed!—COUNTER TO this propensity for appearance, for simplification, for a disguise, for a cloak, in short, for an outside—for every outside is a cloak—there operates the sublime tendency of the man of knowledge, which takes, and INSISTS on taking things profoundly, variously, and thoroughly; as a kind of cruelty of the intellectual conscience and taste, which every courageous208 thinker will acknowledge in himself, provided, as it ought to be, that he has sharpened and hardened his eye sufficiently209 long for introspection, and is accustomed to severe discipline and even severe words. He will say: "There is something cruel in the tendency of my spirit": let the virtuous170 and amiable210 try to convince him that it is not so! In fact, it would sound nicer, if, instead of our cruelty, perhaps our "extravagant211 honesty" were talked about, whispered about, and glorified—we free, VERY free spirits—and some day perhaps SUCH will actually be our—posthumous glory! Meanwhile—for there is plenty of time until then—we should be least inclined to deck ourselves out in such florid and fringed moral verbiage212; our whole former work has just made us sick of this taste and its sprightly213 exuberance214. They are beautiful, glistening215, jingling216, festive217 words: honesty, love of truth, love of wisdom, sacrifice for knowledge, heroism218 of the truthful—there is something in them that makes one's heart swell219 with pride. But we anchorites and marmots have long ago persuaded ourselves in all the secrecy of an anchorite's conscience, that this worthy parade of verbiage also belongs to the old false adornment220, frippery, and gold-dust of unconscious human vanity, and that even under such flattering colour and repainting, the terrible original text HOMO NATURA must again be recognized. In effect, to translate man back again into nature; to master the many vain and visionary interpretations221 and subordinate meanings which have hitherto been scratched and daubed over the eternal original text, HOMO NATURA; to bring it about that man shall henceforth stand before man as he now, hardened by the discipline of science, stands before the OTHER forms of nature, with fearless Oedipus-eyes, and stopped Ulysses-ears, deaf to the enticements of old metaphysical bird-catchers, who have piped to him far too long: "Thou art more! thou art higher! thou hast a different origin!"—this may be a strange and foolish task, but that it is a TASK, who can deny! Why did we choose it, this foolish task? Or, to put the question differently: "Why knowledge at all?" Every one will ask us about this. And thus pressed, we, who have asked ourselves the question a hundred times, have not found and cannot find any better answer....
231. Learning alters us, it does what all nourishment222 does that does not merely "conserve"—as the physiologist191 knows. But at the bottom of our souls, quite "down below," there is certainly something unteachable, a granite223 of spiritual fate, of predetermined decision and answer to predetermined, chosen questions. In each cardinal224 problem there speaks an unchangeable "I am this"; a thinker cannot learn anew about man and woman, for instance, but can only learn fully225—he can only follow to the end what is "fixed102" about them in himself. Occasionally we find certain solutions of problems which make strong beliefs for us; perhaps they are henceforth called "convictions." Later on—one sees in them only footsteps to self-knowledge, guide-posts to the problem which we ourselves ARE—or more correctly to the great stupidity which we embody226, our spiritual fate, the UNTEACHABLE in us, quite "down below."—In view of this liberal compliment which I have just paid myself, permission will perhaps be more readily allowed me to utter some truths about "woman as she is," provided that it is known at the outset how literally227 they are merely—MY truths.
232. Woman wishes to be independent, and therefore she begins to enlighten men about "woman as she is"—THIS is one of the worst developments of the general UGLIFYING of Europe. For what must these clumsy attempts of feminine scientificality and self-exposure bring to light! Woman has so much cause for shame; in woman there is so much pedantry228, superficiality, schoolmasterliness, petty presumption, unbridledness, and indiscretion concealed—study only woman's behaviour towards children!—which has really been best restrained and dominated hitherto by the FEAR of man. Alas229, if ever the "eternally tedious in woman"—she has plenty of it!—is allowed to venture forth! if she begins radically230 and on principle to unlearn her wisdom and art-of charming, of playing, of frightening away sorrow, of alleviating231 and taking easily; if she forgets her delicate aptitude232 for agreeable desires! Female voices are already raised, which, by Saint Aristophanes! make one afraid:—with medical explicitness233 it is stated in a threatening manner what woman first and last REQUIRES from man. Is it not in the very worst taste that woman thus sets herself up to be scientific? Enlightenment hitherto has fortunately been men's affair, men's gift—we remained therewith "among ourselves"; and in the end, in view of all that women write about "woman," we may well have considerable doubt as to whether woman really DESIRES enlightenment about herself—and CAN desire it. If woman does not thereby seek a new ORNAMENT for herself—I believe ornamentation belongs to the eternally feminine?—why, then, she wishes to make herself feared: perhaps she thereby wishes to get the mastery. But she does not want truth—what does woman care for truth? From the very first, nothing is more foreign, more repugnant, or more hostile to woman than truth—her great art is falsehood, her chief concern is appearance and beauty. Let us confess it, we men: we honour and love this very art and this very instinct in woman: we who have the hard task, and for our recreation gladly seek the company of beings under whose hands, glances, and delicate follies234, our seriousness, our gravity, and profundity235 appear almost like follies to us. Finally, I ask the question: Did a woman herself ever acknowledge profundity in a woman's mind, or justice in a woman's heart? And is it not true that on the whole "woman" has hitherto been most despised by woman herself, and not at all by us?—We men desire that woman should not continue to compromise herself by enlightening us; just as it was man's care and the consideration for woman, when the church decreed: mulier taceat in ecclesia. It was to the benefit of woman when Napoleon gave the too eloquent236 Madame de Stael to understand: mulier taceat in politicis!—and in my opinion, he is a true friend of woman who calls out to women today: mulier taceat de mulierel.
233. It betrays corruption237 of the instincts—apart from the fact that it betrays bad taste—when a woman refers to Madame Roland, or Madame de Stael, or Monsieur George Sand, as though something were proved thereby in favour of "woman as she is." Among men, these are the three comical women as they are—nothing more!—and just the best involuntary counter-arguments against feminine emancipation238 and autonomy.
234. Stupidity in the kitchen; woman as cook; the terrible thoughtlessness with which the feeding of the family and the master of the house is managed! Woman does not understand what food means, and she insists on being cook! If woman had been a thinking creature, she should certainly, as cook for thousands of years, have discovered the most important physiological239 facts, and should likewise have got possession of the healing art! Through bad female cooks—through the entire lack of reason in the kitchen—the development of mankind has been longest retarded240 and most interfered241 with: even today matters are very little better. A word to High School girls.
235. There are turns and casts of fancy, there are sentences, little handfuls of words, in which a whole culture, a whole society suddenly crystallises itself. Among these is the incidental remark of Madame de Lambert to her son: "MON AMI, NE VOUS PERMETTEZ JAMAIS QUE DES FOLIES, QUI VOUS FERONT GRAND PLAISIR"—the motherliest and wisest remark, by the way, that was ever addressed to a son.
236. I have no doubt that every noble woman will oppose what Dante and Goethe believed about woman—the former when he sang, "ELLA GUARDAVA SUSO, ED IO IN LEI," and the latter when he interpreted it, "the eternally feminine draws us ALOFT"; for THIS is just what she believes of the eternally masculine.
237. SEVEN APOPHTHEGMS FOR WOMEN
How the longest ennui242 flees, When a man comes to our knees!
Age, alas! and science staid, Furnish even weak virtue aid.
Sombre garb243 and silence meet: Dress for every dame—discreet.
Whom I thank when in my bliss? God!—and my good tailoress!
Young, a flower-decked cavern244 home; Old, a dragon thence doth roam.
Noble title, leg that's fine, Man as well: Oh, were HE mine!
Speech in brief and sense in mass—Slippery for the jenny-ass!
237A. Woman has hitherto been treated by men like birds, which, losing their way, have come down among them from an elevation119: as something delicate, fragile, wild, strange, sweet, and animating—but as something also which must be cooped up to prevent it flying away.
238. To be mistaken in the fundamental problem of "man and woman," to deny here the profoundest antagonism245 and the necessity for an eternally hostile tension, to dream here perhaps of equal rights, equal training, equal claims and obligations: that is a TYPICAL sign of shallow-mindedness; and a thinker who has proved himself shallow at this dangerous spot—shallow in instinct!—may generally be regarded as suspicious, nay more, as betrayed, as discovered; he will probably prove too "short" for all fundamental questions of life, future as well as present, and will be unable to descend246 into ANY of the depths. On the other hand, a man who has depth of spirit as well as of desires, and has also the depth of benevolence247 which is capable of severity and harshness, and easily confounded with them, can only think of woman as ORIENTALS do: he must conceive of her as a possession, as confinable property, as a being predestined for service and accomplishing her mission therein—he must take his stand in this matter upon the immense rationality of Asia, upon the superiority of the instinct of Asia, as the Greeks did formerly; those best heirs and scholars of Asia—who, as is well known, with their INCREASING culture and amplitude248 of power, from Homer to the time of Pericles, became gradually STRICTER towards woman, in short, more Oriental. HOW necessary, HOW logical, even HOW humanely249 desirable this was, let us consider for ourselves!
239. The weaker sex has in no previous age been treated with so much respect by men as at present—this belongs to the tendency and fundamental taste of democracy, in the same way as disrespectfulness to old age—what wonder is it that abuse should be immediately made of this respect? They want more, they learn to make claims, the tribute of respect is at last felt to be well-nigh galling250; rivalry251 for rights, indeed actual strife252 itself, would be preferred: in a word, woman is losing modesty253. And let us immediately add that she is also losing taste. She is unlearning to FEAR man: but the woman who "unlearns to fear" sacrifices her most womanly instincts. That woman should venture forward when the fear-inspiring quality in man—or more definitely, the MAN in man—is no longer either desired or fully developed, is reasonable enough and also intelligible88 enough; what is more difficult to understand is that precisely thereby—woman deteriorates254. This is what is happening nowadays: let us not deceive ourselves about it! Wherever the industrial spirit has triumphed over the military and aristocratic spirit, woman strives for the economic and legal independence of a clerk: "woman as clerkess" is inscribed255 on the portal of the modern society which is in course of formation. While she thus appropriates new rights, aspires256 to be "master," and inscribes257 "progress" of woman on her flags and banners, the very opposite realises itself with terrible obviousness: WOMAN RETROGRADES. Since the French Revolution the influence of woman in Europe has DECLINED in proportion as she has increased her rights and claims; and the "emancipation of woman," insofar as it is desired and demanded by women themselves (and not only by masculine shallow-pates), thus proves to be a remarkable258 symptom of the increased weakening and deadening of the most womanly instincts. There is STUPIDITY in this movement, an almost masculine stupidity, of which a well-reared woman—who is always a sensible woman—might be heartily259 ashamed. To lose the intuition as to the ground upon which she can most surely achieve victory; to neglect exercise in the use of her proper weapons; to let-herself-go before man, perhaps even "to the book," where formerly she kept herself in control and in refined, artful humility260; to neutralize261 with her virtuous audacity262 man's faith in a VEILED, fundamentally different ideal in woman, something eternally, necessarily feminine; to emphatically and loquaciously264 dissuade265 man from the idea that woman must be preserved, cared for, protected, and indulged, like some delicate, strangely wild, and often pleasant domestic animal; the clumsy and indignant collection of everything of the nature of servitude and bondage266 which the position of woman in the hitherto existing order of society has entailed267 and still entails268 (as though slavery were a counter-argument, and not rather a condition of every higher culture, of every elevation of culture):—what does all this betoken269, if not a disintegration270 of womanly instincts, a defeminising? Certainly, there are enough of idiotic271 friends and corrupters of woman among the learned asses76 of the masculine sex, who advise woman to defeminize herself in this manner, and to imitate all the stupidities from which "man" in Europe, European "manliness," suffers,—who would like to lower woman to "general culture," indeed even to newspaper reading and meddling272 with politics. Here and there they wish even to make women into free spirits and literary workers: as though a woman without piety273 would not be something perfectly obnoxious274 or ludicrous to a profound and godless man;—almost everywhere her nerves are being ruined by the most morbid275 and dangerous kind of music (our latest German music), and she is daily being made more hysterical276 and more incapable277 of fulfilling her first and last function, that of bearing robust278 children. They wish to "cultivate" her in general still more, and intend, as they say, to make the "weaker sex" STRONG by culture: as if history did not teach in the most emphatic263 manner that the "cultivating" of mankind and his weakening—that is to say, the weakening, dissipating, and languishing279 of his FORCE OF WILL—have always kept pace with one another, and that the most powerful and influential280 women in the world (and lastly, the mother of Napoleon) had just to thank their force of will—and not their schoolmasters—for their power and ascendancy281 over men. That which inspires respect in woman, and often enough fear also, is her NATURE, which is more "natural" than that of man, her genuine, carnivora-like, cunning flexibility282, her tiger-claws beneath the glove, her NAIVETE in egoism, her untrainableness and innate283 wildness, the incomprehensibleness, extent, and deviation284 of her desires and virtues. That which, in spite of fear, excites one's sympathy for the dangerous and beautiful cat, "woman," is that she seems more afflicted285, more vulnerable, more necessitous of love, and more condemned286 to disillusionment than any other creature. Fear and sympathy it is with these feelings that man has hitherto stood in the presence of woman, always with one foot already in tragedy, which rends287 while it delights—What? And all that is now to be at an end? And the DISENCHANTMENT of woman is in progress? The tediousness of woman is slowly evolving? Oh Europe! Europe! We know the horned animal which was always most attractive to thee, from which danger is ever again threatening thee! Thy old fable288 might once more become "history"—an immense stupidity might once again overmaster thee and carry thee away! And no God concealed beneath it—no! only an "idea," a "modern idea"!
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1
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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labyrinths
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| 迷宫( labyrinth的名词复数 )； （文字，建筑）错综复杂的 | |
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9
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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sublimer
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| 使高尚者，纯化器 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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astuteness
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| n.敏锐；精明；机敏 | |
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malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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indemnity
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| n.赔偿，赔款，补偿金 | |
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antagonists
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| 对立[对抗] 者，对手，敌手( antagonist的名词复数 )； 对抗肌； 对抗药 | |
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atheism
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| n.无神论，不信神 | |
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authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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disinterestedly
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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43
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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44
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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pedant
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| n.迂儒；卖弄学问的人 | |
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46
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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47
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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unconditionally
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| adv.无条件地 | |
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49
incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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50
omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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52
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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53
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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54
exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
pertains
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| 关于( pertain的第三人称单数 )； 有关； 存在； 适用 | |
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56
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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57
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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58
specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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59
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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60
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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61
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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64
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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71
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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72
specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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73
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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74
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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75
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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76
asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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77
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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80
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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81
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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82
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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83
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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84
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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85
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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86
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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87
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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88
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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89
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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90
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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91
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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92
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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93
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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94
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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95
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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96
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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97
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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98
halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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99
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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100
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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101
petrifying
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| v.吓呆，使麻木( petrify的现在分词 )；使吓呆，使惊呆；僵化 | |
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102
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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103
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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104
itching
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| adj.贪得的，痒的，渴望的v.发痒( itch的现在分词 ) | |
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105
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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106
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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107
pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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108
utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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109
plausible
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|
| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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110
hereditarily
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| 世袭地，遗传地 | |
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111
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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112
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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113
vexed
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|
| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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114
dwarfs
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|
| n.侏儒，矮子（dwarf的复数形式）vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的第三人称单数形式） | |
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115
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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116
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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117
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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118
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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119
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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120
elevations
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| （水平或数量）提高( elevation的名词复数 )； 高地； 海拔； 提升 | |
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121
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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122
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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123
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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125
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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126
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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127
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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128
pampering
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| v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的现在分词 ) | |
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129
enervation
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| n.无活力，衰弱 | |
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130
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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131
captious
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|
| adj.难讨好的，吹毛求疵的 | |
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132
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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133
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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134
remains
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|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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135
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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136
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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137
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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138
stoics
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| 禁欲主义者，恬淡寡欲的人，不以苦乐为意的人( stoic的名词复数 ) | |
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139
rambles
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|
| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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140
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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141
calamity
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|
| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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142
indefatigable
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|
| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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143
inevitable
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|
| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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144
utilitarians
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|
| 功利主义者，实用主义者( utilitarian的名词复数 ) | |
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145
ponderous
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|
| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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146
ponderously
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147
metaphor
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|
| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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148
previously
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|
| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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149
leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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150
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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151
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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152
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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153
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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154
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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155
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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156
questionable
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|
| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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157
authoritative
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|
| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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158
conducive
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|
| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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159
detriment
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|
| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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160
mediocre
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|
| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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161
partially
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|
| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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162
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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163
everlasting
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|
| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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164
genie
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| n.妖怪，神怪 | |
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165
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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166
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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167
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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168
pious
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|
| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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169
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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170
virtuous
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|
| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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171
virtuously
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| 合乎道德地，善良地 | |
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172
intensifying
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的现在分词 )；增辉 | |
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173
tragic
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|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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174
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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175
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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176
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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177
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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178
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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179
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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180
ascetics
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| n.苦行者，禁欲者，禁欲主义者( ascetic的名词复数 ) | |
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181
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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182
puritanical
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|
| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
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183
allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
impelled
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|
| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185
glorifier
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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186
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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187
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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188
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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189
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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190
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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191
physiologist
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| n.生理学家 | |
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192
physiologists
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|
| n.生理学者( physiologist的名词复数 )；生理学( physiology的名词复数 )；生理机能 | |
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193
repudiate
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| v.拒绝，拒付，拒绝履行 | |
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194
contradictory
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|
| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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195
incorporation
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| n.设立，合并，法人组织 | |
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196
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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197
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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198
prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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199
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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200
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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201
waggish
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| adj.诙谐的，滑稽的 | |
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202
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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203
ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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204
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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205
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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206
craftiness
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| 狡猾，狡诈 | |
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207
protean
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| adj.反复无常的；变化自如的 | |
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208
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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209
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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210
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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211
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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212
verbiage
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| n.冗词；冗长 | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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219
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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229
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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alleviating
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的现在分词 ) | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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explicitness
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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physiological
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| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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245
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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246
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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amplitude
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| n.广大；充足；振幅 | |
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humanely
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| adv.仁慈地；人道地；富人情地；慈悲地 | |
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galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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deteriorates
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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aspires
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的第三人称单数 ) | |
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inscribes
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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261
neutralize
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| v.使失效、抵消，使中和 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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loquaciously
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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267
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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entails
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| 使…成为必要( entail的第三人称单数 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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betoken
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| v.预示 | |
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disintegration
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| n.分散，解体 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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272
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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276
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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280
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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281
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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282
flexibility
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| n.柔韧性，弹性，（光的）折射性，灵活性 | |
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283
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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284
deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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285
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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286
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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287
rends
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| v.撕碎( rend的第三人称单数 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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288
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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