258. Corruption14—as the indication that anarchy15 threatens to break out among the instincts, and that the foundation of the emotions, called "life," is convulsed—is something radically16 different according to the organization in which it manifests itself. When, for instance, an aristocracy like that of France at the beginning of the Revolution, flung away its privileges with sublime18 disgust and sacrificed itself to an excess of its moral sentiments, it was corruption:—it was really only the closing act of the corruption which had existed for centuries, by virtue19 of which that aristocracy had abdicated20 step by step its lordly prerogatives21 and lowered itself to a FUNCTION of royalty22 (in the end even to its decoration and parade-dress). The essential thing, however, in a good and healthy aristocracy is that it should not regard itself as a function either of the kingship or the commonwealth24, but as the SIGNIFICANCE and highest justification25 thereof—that it should therefore accept with a good conscience the sacrifice of a legion of individuals, who, FOR ITS SAKE, must be suppressed and reduced to imperfect men, to slaves and instruments. Its fundamental belief must be precisely26 that society is NOT allowed to exist for its own sake, but only as a foundation and scaffolding, by means of which a select class of beings may be able to elevate themselves to their higher duties, and in general to a higher EXISTENCE: like those sun-seeking climbing plants in Java—they are called Sipo Matador,—which encircle an oak so long and so often with their arms, until at last, high above it, but supported by it, they can unfold their tops in the open light, and exhibit their happiness.
259. To refrain mutually from injury, from violence, from exploitation, and put one's will on a par23 with that of others: this may result in a certain rough sense in good conduct among individuals when the necessary conditions are given (namely, the actual similarity of the individuals in amount of force and degree of worth, and their co-relation within one organization). As soon, however, as one wished to take this principle more generally, and if possible even as the FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLE OF SOCIETY, it would immediately disclose what it really is—namely, a Will to the DENIAL of life, a principle of dissolution and decay. Here one must think profoundly to the very basis and resist all sentimental28 weakness: life itself is ESSENTIALLY29 appropriation30, injury, conquest of the strange and weak, suppression, severity, obtrusion31 of peculiar32 forms, incorporation33, and at the least, putting it mildest, exploitation;—but why should one for ever use precisely these words on which for ages a disparaging34 purpose has been stamped? Even the organization within which, as was previously35 supposed, the individuals treat each other as equal—it takes place in every healthy aristocracy—must itself, if it be a living and not a dying organization, do all that towards other bodies, which the individuals within it refrain from doing to each other it will have to be the incarnated Will to Power, it will endeavour to grow, to gain ground, attract to itself and acquire ascendancy36—not owing to any morality or immorality37, but because it LIVES, and because life IS precisely Will to Power. On no point, however, is the ordinary consciousness of Europeans more unwilling38 to be corrected than on this matter, people now rave39 everywhere, even under the guise40 of science, about coming conditions of society in which "the exploiting character" is to be absent—that sounds to my ears as if they promised to invent a mode of life which should refrain from all organic functions. "Exploitation" does not belong to a depraved, or imperfect and primitive41 society it belongs to the nature of the living being as a primary organic function, it is a consequence of the intrinsic Will to Power, which is precisely the Will to Life—Granting that as a theory this is a novelty—as a reality it is the FUNDAMENTAL FACT of all history let us be so far honest towards ourselves!
260. In a tour through the many finer and coarser moralities which have hitherto prevailed or still prevail on the earth, I found certain traits recurring42 regularly together, and connected with one another, until finally two primary types revealed themselves to me, and a radical17 distinction was brought to light. There is MASTER-MORALITY and SLAVE-MORALITY,—I would at once add, however, that in all higher and mixed civilizations, there are also attempts at the reconciliation43 of the two moralities, but one finds still oftener the confusion and mutual27 misunderstanding of them, indeed sometimes their close juxtaposition—even in the same man, within one soul. The distinctions of moral values have either originated in a ruling caste, pleasantly conscious of being different from the ruled—or among the ruled class, the slaves and dependents of all sorts. In the first case, when it is the rulers who determine the conception "good," it is the exalted44, proud disposition45 which is regarded as the distinguishing feature, and that which determines the order of rank. The noble type of man separates from himself the beings in whom the opposite of this exalted, proud disposition displays itself he despises them. Let it at once be noted46 that in this first kind of morality the antithesis47 "good" and "bad" means practically the same as "noble" and "despicable",—the antithesis "good" and "EVIL" is of a different origin. The cowardly, the timid, the insignificant48, and those thinking merely of narrow utility are despised; moreover, also, the distrustful, with their constrained49 glances, the self-abasing, the dog-like kind of men who let themselves be abused, the mendicant50 flatterers, and above all the liars:—it is a fundamental belief of all aristocrats51 that the common people are untruthful. "We truthful52 ones"—the nobility in ancient Greece called themselves. It is obvious that everywhere the designations of moral value were at first applied53 to MEN; and were only derivatively54 and at a later period applied to ACTIONS; it is a gross mistake, therefore, when historians of morals start with questions like, "Why have sympathetic actions been praised?" The noble type of man regards HIMSELF as a determiner of values; he does not require to be approved of; he passes the judgment55: "What is injurious to me is injurious in itself;" he knows that it is he himself only who confers honour on things; he is a CREATOR OF VALUES. He honours whatever he recognizes in himself: such morality equals self-glorification. In the foreground there is the feeling of plenitude, of power, which seeks to overflow56, the happiness of high tension, the consciousness of a wealth which would fain give and bestow:—the noble man also helps the unfortunate, but not—or scarcely—out of pity, but rather from an impulse generated by the super-abundance of power. The noble man honours in himself the powerful one, him also who has power over himself, who knows how to speak and how to keep silence, who takes pleasure in subjecting himself to severity and hardness, and has reverence57 for all that is severe and hard. "Wotan placed a hard heart in my breast," says an old Scandinavian Saga58: it is thus rightly expressed from the soul of a proud Viking. Such a type of man is even proud of not being made for sympathy; the hero of the Saga therefore adds warningly: "He who has not a hard heart when young, will never have one." The noble and brave who think thus are the furthest removed from the morality which sees precisely in sympathy, or in acting59 for the good of others, or in DESINTERESSEMENT, the characteristic of the moral; faith in oneself, pride in oneself, a radical enmity and irony61 towards "selflessness," belong as definitely to noble morality, as do a careless scorn and precaution in presence of sympathy and the "warm heart."—It is the powerful who KNOW how to honour, it is their art, their domain62 for invention. The profound reverence for age and for tradition—all law rests on this double reverence,—the belief and prejudice in favour of ancestors and unfavourable to newcomers, is typical in the morality of the powerful; and if, reversely, men of "modern ideas" believe almost instinctively63 in "progress" and the "future," and are more and more lacking in respect for old age, the ignoble64 origin of these "ideas" has complacently65 betrayed itself thereby66. A morality of the ruling class, however, is more especially foreign and irritating to present-day taste in the sternness of its principle that one has duties only to one's equals; that one may act towards beings of a lower rank, towards all that is foreign, just as seems good to one, or "as the heart desires," and in any case "beyond good and evil": it is here that sympathy and similar sentiments can have a place. The ability and obligation to exercise prolonged gratitude67 and prolonged revenge—both only within the circle of equals,—artfulness in retaliation68, RAFFINEMENT of the idea in friendship, a certain necessity to have enemies (as outlets69 for the emotions of envy, quarrelsomeness, arrogance—in fact, in order to be a good FRIEND): all these are typical characteristics of the noble morality, which, as has been pointed70 out, is not the morality of "modern ideas," and is therefore at present difficult to realize, and also to unearth72 and disclose.—It is otherwise with the second type of morality, SLAVE-MORALITY. Supposing that the abused, the oppressed, the suffering, the unemancipated, the weary, and those uncertain of themselves should moralize, what will be the common element in their moral estimates? Probably a pessimistic suspicion with regard to the entire situation of man will find expression, perhaps a condemnation73 of man, together with his situation. The slave has an unfavourable eye for the virtues74 of the powerful; he has a skepticism and distrust, a REFINEMENT75 of distrust of everything "good" that is there honoured—he would fain persuade himself that the very happiness there is not genuine. On the other hand, THOSE qualities which serve to alleviate76 the existence of sufferers are brought into prominence77 and flooded with light; it is here that sympathy, the kind, helping78 hand, the warm heart, patience, diligence, humility79, and friendliness80 attain81 to honour; for here these are the most useful qualities, and almost the only means of supporting the burden of existence. Slave-morality is essentially the morality of utility. Here is the seat of the origin of the famous antithesis "good" and "evil":—power and dangerousness are assumed to reside in the evil, a certain dreadfulness, subtlety82, and strength, which do not admit of being despised. According to slave-morality, therefore, the "evil" man arouses fear; according to master-morality, it is precisely the "good" man who arouses fear and seeks to arouse it, while the bad man is regarded as the despicable being. The contrast attains83 its maximum when, in accordance with the logical consequences of slave-morality, a shade of depreciation—it may be slight and well-intentioned—at last attaches itself to the "good" man of this morality; because, according to the servile mode of thought, the good man must in any case be the SAFE man: he is good-natured, easily deceived, perhaps a little stupid, un bonhomme. Everywhere that slave-morality gains the ascendancy, language shows a tendency to approximate the significations of the words "good" and "stupid."—A last fundamental difference: the desire for FREEDOM, the instinct for happiness and the refinements84 of the feeling of liberty belong as necessarily to slave-morals and morality, as artifice85 and enthusiasm in reverence and devotion are the regular symptoms of an aristocratic mode of thinking and estimating.—Hence we can understand without further detail why love AS A PASSION—it is our European specialty—must absolutely be of noble origin; as is well known, its invention is due to the Provencal poet-cavaliers, those brilliant, ingenious men of the "gai saber," to whom Europe owes so much, and almost owes itself.
261. Vanity is one of the things which are perhaps most difficult for a noble man to understand: he will be tempted86 to deny it, where another kind of man thinks he sees it self-evidently. The problem for him is to represent to his mind beings who seek to arouse a good opinion of themselves which they themselves do not possess—and consequently also do not "deserve,"—and who yet BELIEVE in this good opinion afterwards. This seems to him on the one hand such bad taste and so self-disrespectful, and on the other hand so grotesquely87 unreasonable88, that he would like to consider vanity an exception, and is doubtful about it in most cases when it is spoken of. He will say, for instance: "I may be mistaken about my value, and on the other hand may nevertheless demand that my value should be acknowledged by others precisely as I rate it:—that, however, is not vanity (but self-conceit, or, in most cases, that which is called 'humility,' and also 'modesty89')." Or he will even say: "For many reasons I can delight in the good opinion of others, perhaps because I love and honour them, and rejoice in all their joys, perhaps also because their good opinion endorses90 and strengthens my belief in my own good opinion, perhaps because the good opinion of others, even in cases where I do not share it, is useful to me, or gives promise of usefulness:—all this, however, is not vanity." The man of noble character must first bring it home forcibly to his mind, especially with the aid of history, that, from time immemorial, in all social strata91 in any way dependent, the ordinary man WAS only that which he PASSED FOR:—not being at all accustomed to fix values, he did not assign even to himself any other value than that which his master assigned to him (it is the peculiar RIGHT OF MASTERS to create values). It may be looked upon as the result of an extraordinary atavism, that the ordinary man, even at present, is still always WAITING for an opinion about himself, and then instinctively submitting himself to it; yet by no means only to a "good" opinion, but also to a bad and unjust one (think, for instance, of the greater part of the self-appreciations and self-depreciations which believing women learn from their confessors, and which in general the believing Christian92 learns from his Church). In fact, conformably to the slow rise of the democratic social order (and its cause, the blending of the blood of masters and slaves), the originally noble and rare impulse of the masters to assign a value to themselves and to "think well" of themselves, will now be more and more encouraged and extended; but it has at all times an older, ampler, and more radically ingrained propensity93 opposed to it—and in the phenomenon of "vanity" this older propensity overmasters the younger. The vain person rejoices over EVERY good opinion which he hears about himself (quite apart from the point of view of its usefulness, and equally regardless of its truth or falsehood), just as he suffers from every bad opinion: for he subjects himself to both, he feels himself subjected to both, by that oldest instinct of subjection which breaks forth94 in him.—It is "the slave" in the vain man's blood, the remains95 of the slave's craftiness—and how much of the "slave" is still left in woman, for instance!—which seeks to SEDUCE96 to good opinions of itself; it is the slave, too, who immediately afterwards falls prostrate97 himself before these opinions, as though he had not called them forth.—And to repeat it again: vanity is an atavism.
262. A SPECIES originates, and a type becomes established and strong in the long struggle with essentially constant UNFAVOURABLE conditions. On the other hand, it is known by the experience of breeders that species which receive super-abundant nourishment98, and in general a surplus of protection and care, immediately tend in the most marked way to develop variations, and are fertile in prodigies99 and monstrosities (also in monstrous100 vices). Now look at an aristocratic commonwealth, say an ancient Greek polis, or Venice, as a voluntary or involuntary contrivance for the purpose of REARING human beings; there are there men beside one another, thrown upon their own resources, who want to make their species prevail, chiefly because they MUST prevail, or else run the terrible danger of being exterminated102. The favour, the super-abundance, the protection are there lacking under which variations are fostered; the species needs itself as species, as something which, precisely by virtue of its hardness, its uniformity, and simplicity103 of structure, can in general prevail and make itself permanent in constant struggle with its neighbours, or with rebellious104 or rebellion-threatening vassals105. The most varied106 experience teaches it what are the qualities to which it principally owes the fact that it still exists, in spite of all Gods and men, and has hitherto been victorious107: these qualities it calls virtues, and these virtues alone it develops to maturity108. It does so with severity, indeed it desires severity; every aristocratic morality is intolerant in the education of youth, in the control of women, in the marriage customs, in the relations of old and young, in the penal109 laws (which have an eye only for the degenerating): it counts intolerance itself among the virtues, under the name of "justice." A type with few, but very marked features, a species of severe, warlike, wisely silent, reserved, and reticent110 men (and as such, with the most delicate sensibility for the charm and nuances of society) is thus established, unaffected by the vicissitudes112 of generations; the constant struggle with uniform UNFAVOURABLE conditions is, as already remarked, the cause of a type becoming stable and hard. Finally, however, a happy state of things results, the enormous tension is relaxed; there are perhaps no more enemies among the neighbouring peoples, and the means of life, even of the enjoyment113 of life, are present in superabundance. With one stroke the bond and constraint114 of the old discipline severs115: it is no longer regarded as necessary, as a condition of existence—if it would continue, it can only do so as a form of LUXURY, as an archaizing TASTE. Variations, whether they be deviations116 (into the higher, finer, and rarer), or deteriorations and monstrosities, appear suddenly on the scene in the greatest exuberance118 and splendour; the individual dares to be individual and detach himself. At this turning-point of history there manifest themselves, side by side, and often mixed and entangled119 together, a magnificent, manifold, virgin-forest-like up-growth and up-striving, a kind of TROPICAL TEMPO120 in the rivalry121 of growth, and an extraordinary decay and self-destruction, owing to the savagely122 opposing and seemingly exploding egoisms, which strive with one another "for sun and light," and can no longer assign any limit, restraint, or forbearance for themselves by means of the hitherto existing morality. It was this morality itself which piled up the strength so enormously, which bent123 the bow in so threatening a manner:—it is now "out of date," it is getting "out of date." The dangerous and disquieting124 point has been reached when the greater, more manifold, more comprehensive life IS LIVED BEYOND the old morality; the "individual" stands out, and is obliged to have recourse to his own law-giving, his own arts and artifices125 for self-preservation, self-elevation, and self-deliverance. Nothing but new "Whys," nothing but new "Hows," no common formulas any longer, misunderstanding and disregard in league with each other, decay, deterioration117, and the loftiest desires frightfully entangled, the genius of the race overflowing126 from all the cornucopias127 of good and bad, a portentous128 simultaneousness of Spring and Autumn, full of new charms and mysteries peculiar to the fresh, still inexhausted, still unwearied corruption. Danger is again present, the mother of morality, great danger; this time shifted into the individual, into the neighbour and friend, into the street, into their own child, into their own heart, into all the most personal and secret recesses130 of their desires and volitions. What will the moral philosophers who appear at this time have to preach? They discover, these sharp onlookers131 and loafers, that the end is quickly approaching, that everything around them decays and produces decay, that nothing will endure until the day after tomorrow, except one species of man, the incurably132 MEDIOCRE133. The mediocre alone have a prospect134 of continuing and propagating themselves—they will be the men of the future, the sole survivors135; "be like them! become mediocre!" is now the only morality which has still a significance, which still obtains a hearing.—But it is difficult to preach this morality of mediocrity! it can never avow136 what it is and what it desires! it has to talk of moderation and dignity and duty and brotherly love—it will have difficulty IN CONCEALING138 ITS IRONY!
263. There is an INSTINCT FOR RANK, which more than anything else is already the sign of a HIGH rank; there is a DELIGHT in the NUANCES of reverence which leads one to infer noble origin and habits. The refinement, goodness, and loftiness of a soul are put to a perilous139 test when something passes by that is of the highest rank, but is not yet protected by the awe140 of authority from obtrusive141 touches and incivilities: something that goes its way like a living touchstone, undistinguished, undiscovered, and tentative, perhaps voluntarily veiled and disguised. He whose task and practice it is to investigate souls, will avail himself of many varieties of this very art to determine the ultimate value of a soul, the unalterable, innate142 order of rank to which it belongs: he will test it by its INSTINCT FOR REVERENCE. DIFFERENCE ENGENDRE HAINE: the vulgarity of many a nature spurts143 up suddenly like dirty water, when any holy vessel144, any jewel from closed shrines145, any book bearing the marks of great destiny, is brought before it; while on the other hand, there is an involuntary silence, a hesitation146 of the eye, a cessation of all gestures, by which it is indicated that a soul FEELS the nearness of what is worthiest147 of respect. The way in which, on the whole, the reverence for the BIBLE has hitherto been maintained in Europe, is perhaps the best example of discipline and refinement of manners which Europe owes to Christianity: books of such profoundness and supreme148 significance require for their protection an external tyranny of authority, in order to acquire the PERIOD of thousands of years which is necessary to exhaust and unriddle them. Much has been achieved when the sentiment has been at last instilled149 into the masses (the shallow-pates and the boobies of every kind) that they are not allowed to touch everything, that there are holy experiences before which they must take off their shoes and keep away the unclean hand—it is almost their highest advance towards humanity. On the contrary, in the so-called cultured classes, the believers in "modern ideas," nothing is perhaps so repulsive150 as their lack of shame, the easy insolence151 of eye and hand with which they touch, taste, and finger everything; and it is possible that even yet there is more RELATIVE nobility of taste, and more tact152 for reverence among the people, among the lower classes of the people, especially among peasants, than among the newspaper-reading DEMIMONDE of intellect, the cultured class.
264. It cannot be effaced153 from a man's soul what his ancestors have preferably and most constantly done: whether they were perhaps diligent154 economizers attached to a desk and a cash-box, modest and citizen-like in their desires, modest also in their virtues; or whether they were accustomed to commanding from morning till night, fond of rude pleasures and probably of still ruder duties and responsibilities; or whether, finally, at one time or another, they have sacrificed old privileges of birth and possession, in order to live wholly for their faith—for their "God,"—as men of an inexorable and sensitive conscience, which blushes at every compromise. It is quite impossible for a man NOT to have the qualities and predilections155 of his parents and ancestors in his constitution, whatever appearances may suggest to the contrary. This is the problem of race. Granted that one knows something of the parents, it is admissible to draw a conclusion about the child: any kind of offensive incontinence, any kind of sordid156 envy, or of clumsy self-vaunting—the three things which together have constituted the genuine plebeian157 type in all times—such must pass over to the child, as surely as bad blood; and with the help of the best education and culture one will only succeed in DECEIVING with regard to such heredity.—And what else does education and culture try to do nowadays! In our very democratic, or rather, very plebeian age, "education" and "culture" MUST be essentially the art of deceiving—deceiving with regard to origin, with regard to the inherited plebeianism in body and soul. An educator who nowadays preached truthfulness158 above everything else, and called out constantly to his pupils: "Be true! Be natural! Show yourselves as you are!"—even such a virtuous159 and sincere ass4 would learn in a short time to have recourse to the FURCA of Horace, NATURAM EXPELLERE: with what results? "Plebeianism" USQUE RECURRET. [FOOTNOTE: Horace's "Epistles," I. x. 24.]
265. At the risk of displeasing160 innocent ears, I submit that egoism belongs to the essence of a noble soul, I mean the unalterable belief that to a being such as "we," other beings must naturally be in subjection, and have to sacrifice themselves. The noble soul accepts the fact of his egoism without question, and also without consciousness of harshness, constraint, or arbitrariness therein, but rather as something that may have its basis in the primary law of things:—if he sought a designation for it he would say: "It is justice itself." He acknowledges under certain circumstances, which made him hesitate at first, that there are other equally privileged ones; as soon as he has settled this question of rank, he moves among those equals and equally privileged ones with the same assurance, as regards modesty and delicate respect, which he enjoys in intercourse161 with himself—in accordance with an innate heavenly mechanism162 which all the stars understand. It is an ADDITIONAL instance of his egoism, this artfulness and self-limitation in intercourse with his equals—every star is a similar egoist; he honours HIMSELF in them, and in the rights which he concedes to them, he has no doubt that the exchange of honours and rights, as the ESSENCE of all intercourse, belongs also to the natural condition of things. The noble soul gives as he takes, prompted by the passionate163 and sensitive instinct of requital164, which is at the root of his nature. The notion of "favour" has, INTER60 PARES, neither significance nor good repute; there may be a sublime way of letting gifts as it were light upon one from above, and of drinking them thirstily like dew-drops; but for those arts and displays the noble soul has no aptitude165. His egoism hinders him here: in general, he looks "aloft" unwillingly—he looks either FORWARD, horizontally and deliberately166, or downwards167—HE KNOWS THAT HE IS ON A HEIGHT.
266. "One can only truly esteem168 him who does not LOOK OUT FOR himself."—Goethe to Rath Schlosser.
267. The Chinese have a proverb which mothers even teach their children: "SIAO-SIN" ("MAKE THY HEART SMALL"). This is the essentially fundamental tendency in latter-day civilizations. I have no doubt that an ancient Greek, also, would first of all remark the self-dwarfing in us Europeans of today—in this respect alone we should immediately be "distasteful" to him.
268. What, after all, is ignobleness?—Words are vocal169 symbols for ideas; ideas, however, are more or less definite mental symbols for frequently returning and concurring170 sensations, for groups of sensations. It is not sufficient to use the same words in order to understand one another: we must also employ the same words for the same kind of internal experiences, we must in the end have experiences IN COMMON. On this account the people of one nation understand one another better than those belonging to different nations, even when they use the same language; or rather, when people have lived long together under similar conditions (of climate, soil, danger, requirement, toil) there ORIGINATES therefrom an entity171 that "understands itself"—namely, a nation. In all souls a like number of frequently recurring experiences have gained the upper hand over those occurring more rarely: about these matters people understand one another rapidly and always more rapidly—the history of language is the history of a process of abbreviation; on the basis of this quick comprehension people always unite closer and closer. The greater the danger, the greater is the need of agreeing quickly and readily about what is necessary; not to misunderstand one another in danger—that is what cannot at all be dispensed172 with in intercourse. Also in all loves and friendships one has the experience that nothing of the kind continues when the discovery has been made that in using the same words, one of the two parties has feelings, thoughts, intuitions, wishes, or fears different from those of the other. (The fear of the "eternal misunderstanding": that is the good genius which so often keeps persons of different sexes from too hasty attachments173, to which sense and heart prompt them—and NOT some Schopenhauerian "genius of the species"!) Whichever groups of sensations within a soul awaken174 most readily, begin to speak, and give the word of command—these decide as to the general order of rank of its values, and determine ultimately its list of desirable things. A man's estimates of value betray something of the STRUCTURE of his soul, and wherein it sees its conditions of life, its intrinsic needs. Supposing now that necessity has from all time drawn175 together only such men as could express similar requirements and similar experiences by similar symbols, it results on the whole that the easy COMMUNICABILITY of need, which implies ultimately the undergoing only of average and COMMON experiences, must have been the most potent176 of all the forces which have hitherto operated upon mankind. The more similar, the more ordinary people, have always had and are still having the advantage; the more select, more refined, more unique, and difficultly comprehensible, are liable to stand alone; they succumb177 to accidents in their isolation178, and seldom propagate themselves. One must appeal to immense opposing forces, in order to thwart179 this natural, all-too-natural PROGRESSUS IN SIMILE180, the evolution of man to the similar, the ordinary, the average, the gregarious—to the IGNOBLE—!
269. The more a psychologist—a born, an unavoidable psychologist and soul-diviner—turns his attention to the more select cases and individuals, the greater is his danger of being suffocated181 by sympathy: he NEEDS sternness and cheerfulness more than any other man. For the corruption, the ruination of higher men, of the more unusually constituted souls, is in fact, the rule: it is dreadful to have such a rule always before one's eyes. The manifold torment183 of the psychologist who has discovered this ruination, who discovers once, and then discovers ALMOST repeatedly throughout all history, this universal inner "desperateness" of higher men, this eternal "too late!" in every sense—may perhaps one day be the cause of his turning with bitterness against his own lot, and of his making an attempt at self-destruction—of his "going to ruin" himself. One may perceive in almost every psychologist a tell-tale inclination184 for delightful185 intercourse with commonplace and well-ordered men; the fact is thereby disclosed that he always requires healing, that he needs a sort of flight and forgetfulness, away from what his insight and incisiveness—from what his "business"—has laid upon his conscience. The fear of his memory is peculiar to him. He is easily silenced by the judgment of others; he hears with unmoved countenance186 how people honour, admire, love, and glorify187, where he has PERCEIVED—or he even conceals188 his silence by expressly assenting189 to some plausible190 opinion. Perhaps the paradox191 of his situation becomes so dreadful that, precisely where he has learnt GREAT SYMPATHY, together with great CONTEMPT, the multitude, the educated, and the visionaries, have on their part learnt great reverence—reverence for "great men" and marvelous animals, for the sake of whom one blesses and honours the fatherland, the earth, the dignity of mankind, and one's own self, to whom one points the young, and in view of whom one educates them. And who knows but in all great instances hitherto just the same happened: that the multitude worshipped a God, and that the "God" was only a poor sacrificial animal! SUCCESS has always been the greatest liar—and the "work" itself is a success; the great statesman, the conqueror192, the discoverer, are disguised in their creations until they are unrecognizable; the "work" of the artist, of the philosopher, only invents him who has created it, is REPUTED to have created it; the "great men," as they are reverenced193, are poor little fictions composed afterwards; in the world of historical values spurious coinage PREVAILS. Those great poets, for example, such as Byron, Musset, Poe, Leopardi, Kleist, Gogol (I do not venture to mention much greater names, but I have them in my mind), as they now appear, and were perhaps obliged to be: men of the moment, enthusiastic, sensuous194, and childish, light-minded and impulsive195 in their trust and distrust; with souls in which usually some flaw has to be concealed196; often taking revenge with their works for an internal defilement197, often seeking forgetfulness in their soaring from a too true memory, often lost in the mud and almost in love with it, until they become like the Will-o'-the-Wisps around the swamps, and PRETEND TO BE stars—the people then call them idealists,—often struggling with protracted198 disgust, with an ever-reappearing phantom199 of disbelief, which makes them cold, and obliges them to languish200 for GLORIA and devour201 "faith as it is" out of the hands of intoxicated202 adulators:—what a TORMENT these great artists are and the so-called higher men in general, to him who has once found them out! It is thus conceivable that it is just from woman—who is clairvoyant203 in the world of suffering, and also unfortunately eager to help and save to an extent far beyond her powers—that THEY have learnt so readily those outbreaks of boundless204 devoted205 SYMPATHY, which the multitude, above all the reverent206 multitude, do not understand, and overwhelm with prying207 and self-gratifying interpretations208. This sympathizing invariably deceives itself as to its power; woman would like to believe that love can do EVERYTHING—it is the SUPERSTITION209 peculiar to her. Alas210, he who knows the heart finds out how poor, helpless, pretentious211, and blundering even the best and deepest love is—he finds that it rather DESTROYS than saves!—It is possible that under the holy fable212 and travesty213 of the life of Jesus there is hidden one of the most painful cases of the martyrdom of KNOWLEDGE ABOUT LOVE: the martyrdom of the most innocent and most craving215 heart, that never had enough of any human love, that DEMANDED love, that demanded inexorably and frantically216 to be loved and nothing else, with terrible outbursts against those who refused him their love; the story of a poor soul insatiated and insatiable in love, that had to invent hell to send thither217 those who WOULD NOT love him—and that at last, enlightened about human love, had to invent a God who is entire love, entire CAPACITY for love—who takes pity on human love, because it is so paltry218, so ignorant! He who has such sentiments, he who has such KNOWLEDGE about love—SEEKS for death!—But why should one deal with such painful matters? Provided, of course, that one is not obliged to do so.
270. The intellectual haughtiness219 and loathing220 of every man who has suffered deeply—it almost determines the order of rank HOW deeply men can suffer—the chilling certainty, with which he is thoroughly221 imbued222 and coloured, that by virtue of his suffering he KNOWS MORE than the shrewdest and wisest can ever know, that he has been familiar with, and "at home" in, many distant, dreadful worlds of which "YOU know nothing"!—this silent intellectual haughtiness of the sufferer, this pride of the elect of knowledge, of the "initiated," of the almost sacrificed, finds all forms of disguise necessary to protect itself from contact with officious and sympathizing hands, and in general from all that is not its equal in suffering. Profound suffering makes noble: it separates.—One of the most refined forms of disguise is Epicurism224, along with a certain ostentatious boldness of taste, which takes suffering lightly, and puts itself on the defensive225 against all that is sorrowful and profound. They are "gay men" who make use of gaiety, because they are misunderstood on account of it—they WISH to be misunderstood. There are "scientific minds" who make use of science, because it gives a gay appearance, and because scientificness leads to the conclusion that a person is superficial—they WISH to mislead to a false conclusion. There are free insolent226 minds which would fain conceal137 and deny that they are broken, proud, incurable227 hearts (the cynicism of Hamlet—the case of Galiani); and occasionally folly228 itself is the mask of an unfortunate OVER-ASSURED knowledge.—From which it follows that it is the part of a more refined humanity to have reverence "for the mask," and not to make use of psychology229 and curiosity in the wrong place.
271. That which separates two men most profoundly is a different sense and grade of purity. What does it matter about all their honesty and reciprocal usefulness, what does it matter about all their mutual good-will: the fact still remains—they "cannot smell each other!" The highest instinct for purity places him who is affected111 with it in the most extraordinary and dangerous isolation, as a saint: for it is just holiness—the highest spiritualization of the instinct in question. Any kind of cognizance of an indescribable excess in the joy of the bath, any kind of ardour or thirst which perpetually impels230 the soul out of night into the morning, and out of gloom, out of "affliction" into clearness, brightness, depth, and refinement:—just as much as such a tendency DISTINGUISHES—it is a noble tendency—it also SEPARATES.—The pity of the saint is pity for the FILTH231 of the human, all-too-human. And there are grades and heights where pity itself is regarded by him as impurity232, as filth.
272. Signs of nobility: never to think of lowering our duties to the rank of duties for everybody; to be unwilling to renounce233 or to share our responsibilities; to count our prerogatives, and the exercise of them, among our DUTIES.
273. A man who strives after great things, looks upon every one whom he encounters on his way either as a means of advance, or a delay and hindrance—or as a temporary resting-place. His peculiar lofty BOUNTY234 to his fellow-men is only possible when he attains his elevation and dominates. Impatience235, and the consciousness of being always condemned236 to comedy up to that time—for even strife237 is a comedy, and conceals the end, as every means does—spoil all intercourse for him; this kind of man is acquainted with solitude238, and what is most poisonous in it.
274. THE PROBLEM OF THOSE WHO WAIT.—Happy chances are necessary, and many incalculable elements, in order that a higher man in whom the solution of a problem is dormant239, may yet take action, or "break forth," as one might say—at the right moment. On an average it DOES NOT happen; and in all corners of the earth there are waiting ones sitting who hardly know to what extent they are waiting, and still less that they wait in vain. Occasionally, too, the waking call comes too late—the chance which gives "permission" to take action—when their best youth, and strength for action have been used up in sitting still; and how many a one, just as he "sprang up," has found with horror that his limbs are benumbed and his spirits are now too heavy! "It is too late," he has said to himself—and has become self-distrustful and henceforth for ever useless.—In the domain of genius, may not the "Raphael without hands" (taking the expression in its widest sense) perhaps not be the exception, but the rule?—Perhaps genius is by no means so rare: but rather the five hundred HANDS which it requires in order to tyrannize over the [GREEK INSERTED HERE], "the right time"—in order to take chance by the forelock!
275. He who does not WISH to see the height of a man, looks all the more sharply at what is low in him, and in the foreground—and thereby betrays himself.
276. In all kinds of injury and loss the lower and coarser soul is better off than the nobler soul: the dangers of the latter must be greater, the probability that it will come to grief and perish is in fact immense, considering the multiplicity of the conditions of its existence.—In a lizard240 a finger grows again which has been lost; not so in man.—
277. It is too bad! Always the old story! When a man has finished building his house, he finds that he has learnt unawares something which he OUGHT absolutely to have known before he—began to build. The eternal, fatal "Too late!" The melancholia of everything COMPLETED—!
278.—Wanderer, who art thou? I see thee follow thy path without scorn, without love, with unfathomable eyes, wet and sad as a plummet241 which has returned to the light insatiated out of every depth—what did it seek down there?—with a bosom242 that never sighs, with lips that conceal their loathing, with a hand which only slowly grasps: who art thou? what hast thou done? Rest thee here: this place has hospitality for every one—refresh thyself! And whoever thou art, what is it that now pleases thee? What will serve to refresh thee? Only name it, whatever I have I offer thee! "To refresh me? To refresh me? Oh, thou prying one, what sayest thou! But give me, I pray thee—-" What? what? Speak out! "Another mask! A second mask!"
279. Men of profound sadness betray themselves when they are happy: they have a mode of seizing upon happiness as though they would choke and strangle it, out of jealousy—ah, they know only too well that it will flee from them!
280. "Bad! Bad! What? Does he not—go back?" Yes! But you misunderstand him when you complain about it. He goes back like every one who is about to make a great spring.
281.—"Will people believe it of me? But I insist that they believe it of me: I have always thought very unsatisfactorily of myself and about myself, only in very rare cases, only compulsorily243, always without delight in 'the subject,' ready to digress from 'myself,' and always without faith in the result, owing to an unconquerable distrust of the POSSIBILITY of self-knowledge, which has led me so far as to feel a CONTRADICTIO IN ADJECTO even in the idea of 'direct knowledge' which theorists allow themselves:—this matter of fact is almost the most certain thing I know about myself. There must be a sort of repugnance244 in me to BELIEVE anything definite about myself.—Is there perhaps some enigma245 therein? Probably; but fortunately nothing for my own teeth.—Perhaps it betrays the species to which I belong?—but not to myself, as is sufficiently246 agreeable to me."
282.—"But what has happened to you?"—"I do not know," he said, hesitatingly; "perhaps the Harpies have flown over my table."—It sometimes happens nowadays that a gentle, sober, retiring man becomes suddenly mad, breaks the plates, upsets the table, shrieks247, raves214, and shocks everybody—and finally withdraws, ashamed, and raging at himself—whither? for what purpose? To famish apart? To suffocate182 with his memories?—To him who has the desires of a lofty and dainty soul, and only seldom finds his table laid and his food prepared, the danger will always be great—nowadays, however, it is extraordinarily248 so. Thrown into the midst of a noisy and plebeian age, with which he does not like to eat out of the same dish, he may readily perish of hunger and thirst—or, should he nevertheless finally "fall to," of sudden nausea249.—We have probably all sat at tables to which we did not belong; and precisely the most spiritual of us, who are most difficult to nourish, know the dangerous DYSPEPSIA which originates from a sudden insight and disillusionment about our food and our messmates—the AFTER-DINNER NAUSEA.
283. If one wishes to praise at all, it is a delicate and at the same time a noble self-control, to praise only where one DOES NOT agree—otherwise in fact one would praise oneself, which is contrary to good taste:—a self-control, to be sure, which offers excellent opportunity and provocation250 to constant MISUNDERSTANDING. To be able to allow oneself this veritable luxury of taste and morality, one must not live among intellectual imbeciles, but rather among men whose misunderstandings and mistakes amuse by their refinement—or one will have to pay dearly for it!—"He praises me, THEREFORE he acknowledges me to be right"—this asinine251 method of inference spoils half of the life of us recluses252, for it brings the asses5 into our neighbourhood and friendship.
284. To live in a vast and proud tranquility; always beyond... To have, or not to have, one's emotions, one's For and Against, according to choice; to lower oneself to them for hours; to SEAT oneself on them as upon horses, and often as upon asses:—for one must know how to make use of their stupidity as well as of their fire. To conserve254 one's three hundred foregrounds; also one's black spectacles: for there are circumstances when nobody must look into our eyes, still less into our "motives256." And to choose for company that roguish and cheerful vice101, politeness. And to remain master of one's four virtues, courage, insight, sympathy, and solitude. For solitude is a virtue with us, as a sublime bent and bias257 to purity, which divines that in the contact of man and man—"in society"—it must be unavoidably impure258. All society makes one somehow, somewhere, or sometime—"commonplace."
285. The greatest events and thoughts—the greatest thoughts, however, are the greatest events—are longest in being comprehended: the generations which are contemporary with them do not EXPERIENCE such events—they live past them. Something happens there as in the realm of stars. The light of the furthest stars is longest in reaching man; and before it has arrived man DENIES—that there are stars there. "How many centuries does a mind require to be understood?"—that is also a standard, one also makes a gradation of rank and an etiquette259 therewith, such as is necessary for mind and for star.
286. "Here is the prospect free, the mind exalted." [FOOTNOTE: Goethe's "Faust," Part II, Act V. The words of Dr. Marianus.]—But there is a reverse kind of man, who is also upon a height, and has also a free prospect—but looks DOWNWARDS.
287. What is noble? What does the word "noble" still mean for us nowadays? How does the noble man betray himself, how is he recognized under this heavy overcast260 sky of the commencing plebeianism, by which everything is rendered opaque261 and leaden?—It is not his actions which establish his claim—actions are always ambiguous, always inscrutable; neither is it his "works." One finds nowadays among artists and scholars plenty of those who betray by their works that a profound longing for nobleness impels them; but this very NEED of nobleness is radically different from the needs of the noble soul itself, and is in fact the eloquent262 and dangerous sign of the lack thereof. It is not the works, but the BELIEF which is here decisive and determines the order of rank—to employ once more an old religious formula with a new and deeper meaning—it is some fundamental certainty which a noble soul has about itself, something which is not to be sought, is not to be found, and perhaps, also, is not to be lost.—THE NOBLE SOUL HAS REVERENCE FOR ITSELF.—
288. There are men who are unavoidably intellectual, let them turn and twist themselves as they will, and hold their hands before their treacherous263 eyes—as though the hand were not a betrayer; it always comes out at last that they have something which they hide—namely, intellect. One of the subtlest means of deceiving, at least as long as possible, and of successfully representing oneself to be stupider than one really is—which in everyday life is often as desirable as an umbrella,—is called ENTHUSIASM, including what belongs to it, for instance, virtue. For as Galiani said, who was obliged to know it: VERTU EST ENTHOUSIASME.
289. In the writings of a recluse253 one always hears something of the echo of the wilderness264, something of the murmuring tones and timid vigilance of solitude; in his strongest words, even in his cry itself, there sounds a new and more dangerous kind of silence, of concealment265. He who has sat day and night, from year's end to year's end, alone with his soul in familiar discord266 and discourse267, he who has become a cave-bear, or a treasure-seeker, or a treasure-guardian and dragon in his cave—it may be a labyrinth268, but can also be a gold-mine—his ideas themselves eventually acquire a twilight-colour of their own, and an odour, as much of the depth as of the mould, something uncommunicative and repulsive, which blows chilly269 upon every passer-by. The recluse does not believe that a philosopher—supposing that a philosopher has always in the first place been a recluse—ever expressed his actual and ultimate opinions in books: are not books written precisely to hide what is in us?—indeed, he will doubt whether a philosopher CAN have "ultimate and actual" opinions at all; whether behind every cave in him there is not, and must necessarily be, a still deeper cave: an ampler, stranger, richer world beyond the surface, an abyss behind every bottom, beneath every "foundation." Every philosophy is a foreground philosophy—this is a recluse's verdict: "There is something arbitrary in the fact that the PHILOSOPHER came to a stand here, took a retrospect270, and looked around; that he HERE laid his spade aside and did not dig any deeper—there is also something suspicious in it." Every philosophy also CONCEALS a philosophy; every opinion is also a LURKING-PLACE, every word is also a MASK.
290. Every deep thinker is more afraid of being understood than of being misunderstood. The latter perhaps wounds his vanity; but the former wounds his heart, his sympathy, which always says: "Ah, why would you also have as hard a time of it as I have?"
291. Man, a COMPLEX, mendacious271, artful, and inscrutable animal, uncanny to the other animals by his artifice and sagacity, rather than by his strength, has invented the good conscience in order finally to enjoy his soul as something SIMPLE; and the whole of morality is a long, audacious falsification, by virtue of which generally enjoyment at the sight of the soul becomes possible. From this point of view there is perhaps much more in the conception of "art" than is generally believed.
292. A philosopher: that is a man who constantly experiences, sees, hears, suspects, hopes, and dreams extraordinary things; who is struck by his own thoughts as if they came from the outside, from above and below, as a species of events and lightning-flashes PECULIAR TO HIM; who is perhaps himself a storm pregnant with new lightnings; a portentous man, around whom there is always rumbling272 and mumbling273 and gaping274 and something uncanny going on. A philosopher: alas, a being who often runs away from himself, is often afraid of himself—but whose curiosity always makes him "come to himself" again.
293. A man who says: "I like that, I take it for my own, and mean to guard and protect it from every one"; a man who can conduct a case, carry out a resolution, remain true to an opinion, keep hold of a woman, punish and overthrow275 insolence; a man who has his indignation and his sword, and to whom the weak, the suffering, the oppressed, and even the animals willingly submit and naturally belong; in short, a man who is a MASTER by nature—when such a man has sympathy, well! THAT sympathy has value! But of what account is the sympathy of those who suffer! Or of those even who preach sympathy! There is nowadays, throughout almost the whole of Europe, a sickly irritability276 and sensitiveness towards pain, and also a repulsive irrestrainableness in complaining, an effeminizing, which, with the aid of religion and philosophical277 nonsense, seeks to deck itself out as something superior—there is a regular cult71 of suffering. The UNMANLINESS of that which is called "sympathy" by such groups of visionaries, is always, I believe, the first thing that strikes the eye.—One must resolutely278 and radically taboo279 this latest form of bad taste; and finally I wish people to put the good amulet280, "GAI SABER" ("gay science," in ordinary language), on heart and neck, as a protection against it.
294. THE OLYMPIAN VICE.—Despite the philosopher who, as a genuine Englishman, tried to bring laughter into bad repute in all thinking minds—"Laughing is a bad infirmity of human nature, which every thinking mind will strive to overcome" (Hobbes),—I would even allow myself to rank philosophers according to the quality of their laughing—up to those who are capable of GOLDEN laughter. And supposing that Gods also philosophize, which I am strongly inclined to believe, owing to many reasons—I have no doubt that they also know how to laugh thereby in an overman-like and new fashion—and at the expense of all serious things! Gods are fond of ridicule281: it seems that they cannot refrain from laughter even in holy matters.
295. The genius of the heart, as that great mysterious one possesses it, the tempter-god and born rat-catcher of consciences, whose voice can descend282 into the nether-world of every soul, who neither speaks a word nor casts a glance in which there may not be some motive255 or touch of allurement283, to whose perfection it pertains284 that he knows how to appear,—not as he is, but in a guise which acts as an ADDITIONAL constraint on his followers285 to press ever closer to him, to follow him more cordially and thoroughly;—the genius of the heart, which imposes silence and attention on everything loud and self-conceited, which smoothes rough souls and makes them taste a new longing—to lie placid286 as a mirror, that the deep heavens may be reflected in them;—the genius of the heart, which teaches the clumsy and too hasty hand to hesitate, and to grasp more delicately; which scents287 the hidden and forgotten treasure, the drop of goodness and sweet spirituality under thick dark ice, and is a divining-rod for every grain of gold, long buried and imprisoned288 in mud and sand; the genius of the heart, from contact with which every one goes away richer; not favoured or surprised, not as though gratified and oppressed by the good things of others; but richer in himself, newer than before, broken up, blown upon, and sounded by a thawing289 wind; more uncertain, perhaps, more delicate, more fragile, more bruised290, but full of hopes which as yet lack names, full of a new will and current, full of a new ill-will and counter-current... but what am I doing, my friends? Of whom am I talking to you? Have I forgotten myself so far that I have not even told you his name? Unless it be that you have already divined of your own accord who this questionable291 God and spirit is, that wishes to be PRAISED in such a manner? For, as it happens to every one who from childhood onward292 has always been on his legs, and in foreign lands, I have also encountered on my path many strange and dangerous spirits; above all, however, and again and again, the one of whom I have just spoken: in fact, no less a personage than the God DIONYSUS, the great equivocator293 and tempter, to whom, as you know, I once offered in all secrecy294 and reverence my first-fruits—the last, as it seems to me, who has offered a SACRIFICE to him, for I have found no one who could understand what I was then doing. In the meantime, however, I have learned much, far too much, about the philosophy of this God, and, as I said, from mouth to mouth—I, the last disciple295 and initiate223 of the God Dionysus: and perhaps I might at last begin to give you, my friends, as far as I am allowed, a little taste of this philosophy? In a hushed voice, as is but seemly: for it has to do with much that is secret, new, strange, wonderful, and uncanny. The very fact that Dionysus is a philosopher, and that therefore Gods also philosophize, seems to me a novelty which is not unensnaring, and might perhaps arouse suspicion precisely among philosophers;—among you, my friends, there is less to be said against it, except that it comes too late and not at the right time; for, as it has been disclosed to me, you are loth nowadays to believe in God and gods. It may happen, too, that in the frankness of my story I must go further than is agreeable to the strict usages of your ears? Certainly the God in question went further, very much further, in such dialogues, and was always many paces ahead of me... Indeed, if it were allowed, I should have to give him, according to human usage, fine ceremonious tides of lustre296 and merit, I should have to extol297 his courage as investigator298 and discoverer, his fearless honesty, truthfulness, and love of wisdom. But such a God does not know what to do with all that respectable trumpery299 and pomp. "Keep that," he would say, "for thyself and those like thee, and whoever else require it! I—have no reason to cover my nakedness!" One suspects that this kind of divinity and philosopher perhaps lacks shame?—He once said: "Under certain circumstances I love mankind"—and referred thereby to Ariadne, who was present; "in my opinion man is an agreeable, brave, inventive animal, that has not his equal upon earth, he makes his way even through all labyrinths300. I like man, and often think how I can still further advance him, and make him stronger, more evil, and more profound."—"Stronger, more evil, and more profound?" I asked in horror. "Yes," he said again, "stronger, more evil, and more profound; also more beautiful"—and thereby the tempter-god smiled with his halcyon301 smile, as though he had just paid some charming compliment. One here sees at once that it is not only shame that this divinity lacks;—and in general there are good grounds for supposing that in some things the Gods could all of them come to us men for instruction. We men are—more human.—
296. Alas! what are you, after all, my written and painted thoughts! Not long ago you were so variegated302, young and malicious303, so full of thorns and secret spices, that you made me sneeze and laugh—and now? You have already doffed304 your novelty, and some of you, I fear, are ready to become truths, so immortal305 do they look, so pathetically honest, so tedious! And was it ever otherwise? What then do we write and paint, we mandarins with Chinese brush, we immortalisers of things which LEND themselves to writing, what are we alone capable of painting? Alas, only that which is just about to fade and begins to lose its odour! Alas, only exhausted129 and departing storms and belated yellow sentiments! Alas, only birds strayed and fatigued306 by flight, which now let themselves be captured with the hand—with OUR hand! We immortalize what cannot live and fly much longer, things only which are exhausted and mellow! And it is only for your AFTERNOON, you, my written and painted thoughts, for which alone I have colours, many colours, perhaps, many variegated softenings, and fifty yellows and browns and greens and reds;—but nobody will divine thereby how ye looked in your morning, you sudden sparks and marvels307 of my solitude, you, my old, beloved—EVIL thoughts!
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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incarnated
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| v.赋予（思想、精神等）以人的形体( incarnate的过去式和过去分词 )；使人格化；体现；使具体化 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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asses
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longing
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humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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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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flickering
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psychical
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| adj.有关特异功能现象的；有关特异功能官能的；灵魂的；心灵的 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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radically
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radical
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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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virtue
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abdicated
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prerogatives
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| n.权利( prerogative的名词复数 )；特权；大主教法庭；总督委任组成的法庭 | |
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royalty
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commonwealth
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justification
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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essentially
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appropriation
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obtrusion
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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33
incorporation
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| n.设立，合并，法人组织 | |
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34
disparaging
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| adj.轻蔑的，毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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35
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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36
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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37
immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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38
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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39
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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40
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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41
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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42
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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43
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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44
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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45
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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46
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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47
antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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48
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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49
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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50
mendicant
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| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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51
aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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52
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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53
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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54
derivatively
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| adv.衍生地 | |
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55
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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56
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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57
reverence
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|
| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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58
saga
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| n.(尤指中世纪北欧海盗的)故事，英雄传奇 | |
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59
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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60
inter
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| v.埋葬 | |
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61
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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62
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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63
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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64
ignoble
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|
| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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65
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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66
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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67
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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68
retaliation
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|
| n.报复，反击 | |
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69
outlets
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|
| n.出口( outlet的名词复数 )；经销店；插座；廉价经销店 | |
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70
pointed
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|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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71
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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72
unearth
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| v.发掘，掘出，从洞中赶出 | |
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73
condemnation
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|
| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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74
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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75
refinement
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|
| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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76
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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77
prominence
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|
| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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78
helping
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|
| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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79
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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80
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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81
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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82
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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83
attains
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的第三人称单数 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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84
refinements
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|
| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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85
artifice
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|
| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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86
tempted
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|
| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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87
grotesquely
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|
| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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88
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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89
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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90
endorses
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| v.赞同( endorse的第三人称单数 )；在（尤指支票的）背面签字；在（文件的）背面写评论；在广告上说本人使用并赞同某产品 | |
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91
strata
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|
| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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92
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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93
propensity
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|
| n.倾向；习性 | |
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94
forth
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|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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95
remains
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|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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96
seduce
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|
| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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97
prostrate
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|
| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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98
nourishment
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|
| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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99
prodigies
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|
| n.奇才，天才（尤指神童）( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
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100
monstrous
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|
| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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101
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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102
exterminated
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| v.消灭，根绝( exterminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
simplicity
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|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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104
rebellious
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|
| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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105
vassals
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| n.奴仆( vassal的名词复数 )；（封建时代）诸侯；从属者；下属 | |
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106
varied
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|
| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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107
victorious
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|
| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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108
maturity
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|
| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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109
penal
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|
| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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110
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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111
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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112
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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113
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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114
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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115
severs
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的第三人称单数 )；断，裂 | |
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116
deviations
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| 背离，偏离( deviation的名词复数 )； 离经叛道的行为 | |
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117
deterioration
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| n.退化；恶化；变坏 | |
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118
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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119
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
tempo
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| n.(音乐的)速度；节奏，行进速度 | |
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121
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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122
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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123
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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124
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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125
artifices
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|
| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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126
overflowing
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|
| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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127
cornucopias
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|
| n.丰饶角（象征丰饶的羊角，角内呈现满溢的鲜花、水果等）( cornucopia的名词复数 ) | |
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128
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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129
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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130
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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131
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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132
incurably
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| ad.治不好地 | |
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133
mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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134
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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135
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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136
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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137
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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138
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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139
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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140
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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141
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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142
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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143
spurts
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| 短暂而突然的活动或努力( spurt的名词复数 )； 突然奋起 | |
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144
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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145
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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146
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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147
worthiest
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| 应得某事物( worthy的最高级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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148
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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149
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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151
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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152
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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153
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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154
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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155
predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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156
sordid
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|
| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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157
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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158
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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159
virtuous
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|
| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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160
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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161
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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162
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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163
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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164
requital
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| n.酬劳；报复 | |
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165
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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166
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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167
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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168
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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169
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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170
concurring
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| 同时发生的，并发的 | |
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171
entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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172
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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173
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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174
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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175
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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176
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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177
succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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178
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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179
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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180
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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181
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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182
suffocate
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| vt.使窒息，使缺氧，阻碍；vi.窒息，窒息而亡，阻碍发展 | |
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183
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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184
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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185
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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186
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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187
glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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188
conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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189
assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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190
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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191
paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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192
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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193
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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194
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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195
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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196
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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197
defilement
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| n.弄脏，污辱，污秽 | |
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198
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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199
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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200
languish
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| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
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201
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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202
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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203
clairvoyant
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| adj.有预见的；n.有预见的人 | |
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204
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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205
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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206
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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207
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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208
interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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209
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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210
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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211
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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212
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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213
travesty
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| n.歪曲，嘲弄，滑稽化 | |
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214
raves
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| n.狂欢晚会( rave的名词复数 )v.胡言乱语( rave的第三人称单数 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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215
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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216
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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217
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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218
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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219
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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220
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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221
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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222
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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223
initiate
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| vt.开始，创始，发动；启蒙，使入门；引入 | |
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224
epicurism
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| n.贪口福，美食主义 | |
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225
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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226
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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227
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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228
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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229
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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230
impels
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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231
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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232
impurity
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| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
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233
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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234
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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235
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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236
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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237
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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238
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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239
dormant
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|
| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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240
lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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241
plummet
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| vi.(价格、水平等)骤然下跌；n.铅坠；重压物 | |
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242
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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243
compulsorily
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| 强迫地，强制地 | |
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244
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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245
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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246
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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247
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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248
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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249
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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250
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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251
asinine
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| adj.愚蠢的 | |
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252
recluses
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| n.隐居者，遁世者，隐士( recluse的名词复数 ) | |
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253
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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254
conserve
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| vt.保存，保护，节约，节省，守恒，不灭 | |
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255
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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256
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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257
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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258
impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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259
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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260
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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261
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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262
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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263
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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264
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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265
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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266
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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267
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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268
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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269
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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270
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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271
mendacious
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| adj.不真的，撒谎的 | |
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272
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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273
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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274
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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275
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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276
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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277
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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278
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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279
taboo
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| n.禁忌，禁止接近，禁止使用；adj.禁忌的；v.禁忌，禁制，禁止 | |
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280
amulet
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| n.护身符 | |
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281
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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282
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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283
allurement
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| n.诱惑物 | |
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284
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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285
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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286
placid
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|
| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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287
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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288
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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289
thawing
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| n.熔化，融化v.（气候）解冻( thaw的现在分词 )；（态度、感情等）缓和；（冰、雪及冷冻食物）溶化；软化 | |
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290
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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291
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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292
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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293
equivocator
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| n.说模棱话的人，说话支吾的人 | |
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294
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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295
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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296
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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297
extol
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| v.赞美，颂扬 | |
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298
investigator
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| n.研究者，调查者，审查者 | |
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299
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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300
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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301
halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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302
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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303
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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304
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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305
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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306
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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307
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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