by Joseph Suglia


Wherein I lecture on Nietzsche’s Twilight of the Idols: Or, How to Philosophize with a Hammer [Götzen-Dämmerung: Oder, Wie man mit dem Hammer philosophiert] and muse over the aphorism “Lesson from the School of War: What does not kill me makes me stronger,” which appears in this book.


It is impossible to believe in an ideal and still sufficiently love yourself.

Hello, everyone.  My name is Joseph Suglia, and I will be holding a lecture on Götzen-Dämmerung: oder Wie man mit dem Hammer philosophiert, Twilight of the Idols: Or, How to Philosophize with a Hammer, by Friedrich Nietzsche.

Let me begin by expatiating on the title.

Twilight of the Idols, Götzen-Dämmerung, recalls the fourth part of Richard Wagner’s Ring opera, which is entitled Twilight of the Gods, GötterdämmerungTwilight of the Gods concerns Ragnarök, which is the spectacular destruction of the world and the gods by submersion in water.  However, Twilight of the Idols means something quite different.  Nietzsche is suggesting by his title that there are no gods, but there are certainly idols.

All idols are anti-life, and all idols should be demolished.  An idol is the deification of nothingness, and Nietzsche proposes that we would be better off without any idols, we would do well to dispense with all idols, idolatry, and idolization.

If you idolize an imaginary entity, you diminish yourself.  Even to hold up rationality as an ideal and to call the human animal “the rational animal” is to disgrace the body and to disgrace the totality of the human beast.  The vital impulses, such as selfishness, are diabolized, and the anti-life impulses, such as asceticism, such as chastity, such as meekness, are angelized by classical morality and classical religion.  What Nietzsche does, first, is to depose the angelized impulses, such as self-denial.  Then, he valorizes the demonized impulses, such as selfishness.  Finally, he displaces the difference between “virtue” and “vice” altogether.  There are no virtues, and there are no vices.  There are, however, values, and each human being should invent one’s own values.  A common value is no value at all, since value is based of rarity, not on commonness.  That, in a nutshell, is Nietzsche’s argument.

The secondary title, How to Philosophize with a Hammer, Wie man mit dem Hammer philosophiert: What does this mean?  It has at least two connotations.  The first is that Nietzsche intends in this book, as well as in most of his others, to shatter ideals, to blow them up, to explode them into flinders.  All of Nietzsche’s late polemical writings have as their object the defamation of ideals.

What is an ideal?  An ideal is any principle, any idea, any concept that is placed above humanity.  Such as the soul, such as the gods, such as the Beyond.  If you believe in ideals, this means that you believe in the ideal world, the epekeina.  And if you believe in the ideal world, this implies that you are defaming the this-world, the actual world, the only world there is.

If you believe in the purity of ideality, then you are devaluing yourself.

It is impossible to believe in an ideal and still love yourself.  And what Nietzsche wants to do is raise humanity, elevate humanity to the status of gods.  Be your own idol, be your own hero, be your own god.  Every human being has the desire to become a god, and all idols deserve to be slaughtered.

So, Nietzsche’s philosophizing is the hammering of ideals, the destruction of all ideals, for every ideal posits a transcendence, a beyond, a world that is higher than the world in which we are living.

Every ideal humiliates humankind, lessens humankind, which means that ideals narrow human possibilities.

So, that is the first connotation of “philosophizing with a hammer.”  The second connotation that is likely intended is that of the reflex hammer.  This book was published in 1888, and guess what else was released in 1888!  The tomahawk reflex hammer—also known as the Taylor reflex hammer—was developed by John Madison Taylor in 1888, in the United States of America.  Now, perhaps Nietzsche was unaware of this development, but he did read newspapers, albeit with a thick admixture of contempt and disgust, and this was the first reflex hammer ever invented.  The second connotation, then, is that Nietzschean philosophy tests the soundness and healthiness of ideals—and always reveals such ideals to be hallow.

Nietzsche never actually writes, “What does not kill me makes me stronger.”  Or: “That which does not kill me makes me stronger.”  This statement is one of the most famous statements that have ever been attributed to Nietzsche, and one can find it in the music of Kayne West and all over  The original statement is Aphorism Number Eight, and it occurs in the first section of the book entitled “Epigrams and Arrows,” Sprüche und Pfeile.  However, again, Nietzsche does NOT actually write, “What does not kill me makes me stronger.”  This is one of the most miscited passages in the history of philosophy.

What Nietzsche actually writes is this: “From Life’s School of War: What does not kill me makes me stronger,” Aus der Kriegsschule des Lebens.—Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich stärker.

What does Nietzsche mean by this, precisely?

When Nietzsche writes, “What does not kill me,” he is referring to the crisis of deep suffering.  The loss of a parent, the loss of a child, the loss of one’s property, the loss of a spouse, a gnawing, debilitating illness, abuse, violence: All of these things are examples of profound crisis and the crises of deep suffering.

What does Nietzsche mean by the first “Me”?: “What does not kill me.”  Who am “I”?  I am anyone, anyone who is not yet distinguished, anyone who is not yet distinctive, anyone who is not yet differentiated, anyone who is still immature and not yet vornehm.  At this stage, I am mobbish; I am a member of the mob, of the crowd, of the canaille.

What does Nietzsche mean by “makes me stronger”?  He means this:

What does not kill me makes me distinguished, distinctive, elegant, dignified, vornehm.  Deep crisis confers upon me the right to separateness—the ability to experience long solitude.  Deep suffering makes me capable of living separately from other human beings; it also makes me more profound.  The crisis of deep suffering transforms me into a free spirit.

What does not kill me kills me.

Deep suffering makes one deeper.  Deep suffering makes us profound—but who are we?  We are the free spirits.  And what transforms us into free spirits?  The crisis of profound suffering.

To put it another way: Deep trauma gives birth to the sovereign individual.  It is not just that trauma allows us to grow; it is that trauma is necessary for growth into the sovereign individual.

What does not kill me, the crisis of deep suffering, transforms me into the free spirit.

Now who is the free spirit?  The free spirit is, negatively, one who does not think according to a program, an ideology, a dogma, a policy, or a party.  The free spirit is capable of thinking for oneself and is capable of thinking two or more thoughts at once, both Pro and Contra, both “Yes” and “No” simultaneously.

Another word for a free spirit is “libertist” or “antinomian.”  A free spirit is opposed to all idols, to all traditions, and destroys ideals in order to clear a space for one’s own freedom.

The free spirit, the libertist, the antinomian, makes trauma the organ, the function, of one’s own power.

So, the free spirit converts trauma into strength.  The free spirit transforms trauma into an appendage of the will-to-power.

Now, we should discuss the will-to-power.

The will-to-power means that the whole of life is a perpetually self-permuting sequence of power struggles and that every living entity seeks to exert power over all other living entities.  Life is violence, but not violence in the literal sense.  Life is violence in the sense that every living organism seeks to overthrow obstacles that impede its growth and wants to escalate its degree of power.  This is a peculiarly Nietzchean idea: Life is violence.  The Latin word for “life” is vit, and vit is also the basis for the word violence.  The word for “life” in Latin, vit, is the same word that is contained in the word violence.

Ressentiment is inimical to life, it is an anti-life position.  You might not know what I am talking about.  If this sounds strange, please watch and listen to my videos on On the Genealogy of Morals, especially the second and the third video in the series, in which I discuss ressentiment.

Ressentiment is what Nietzsche calls “misarchism” because it denies that all organisms seek mastery, domination, lordliness over all other organisms.  Misarchism holds that all government, all administration, is evil, but it is a necessary evil, whereas anarchism holds that all government should be annihilated.

Life, by its very essence, is dissymmetrical and hierarchical, according to Nietzsche.

Let us not be ungrateful toward those who have power, he is suggesting, for they impel us to take power away from them.

So, Nietzsche is affirming life as the power-will from an extramoral perspective, beyond good and evil, without the interference of moral judgement or moral evaluation.

Some assume that Nietzsche must be a fascist because he developed the theory of the will-to-power.  Those who believe this have no understanding of fascism and no understanding of Nietzsche.  Nietzsche was a lifelong anti-nationalist and vituperates endlessly against anti-Judaism or what he calls “anti-Semitism.”  Nietzsche was a friend of the Jews.  He loved the Jewish people and even loved the Hebraic Bible, the central text of Judaism.  Let no one therefore mistype Nietzsche as a “fascist” or a “proto-fascist.”  Nietzsche was an enemy of, if not fascism, then at least many of the lineaments of what would come to be known as “fascism.”

Neither was he a misarchist or an anarchist, for hierarchies must exist, he thought.

He had a certain sympathy for the idea of an aristocracy, it is true.  But he was no proto-fascist, not at all.

So, what affects me calamitously, what affects me catastrophically paradoxically intensifies my personal power.  That is what Nietzsche means when he writes, in this book, “From life’s school of war: What does not kill me makes me stronger.”


The first idol that Nietzsche smashes is “the problem of Socrates.”  What is the problem of Socrates?  The problem of Socrates is the following problematical equation: Reason = Virtue = Happiness.  Vernunft ist gleich Tugend ist gleich Glück.

We learn from Socrates—particularly, in the Charmides—that the wise person is the one who restrains one’s desires.  This restriction of the impulses, of the desires, of the inclinations, of the appetites, of the proclivities, of the predilections is called “sophrosyne,” and it is linked to human flourishing or eudaemonia.

Nietzsche never actually uses the term sophrosyne in this text, but he is clearly thinking of it.

The Socratic problem, then, is that the restriction of the desires leads to virtuousness or the virtuous character and the virtuous character leads to human flourishing or eudaemonia.

Now, there are massive problems with this Socratic equation.  The first—and the one on which Nietzsche fixes his attention—that restraining one’s impulses will lead to happiness.  No, it will not.

Nietzsche writes: “When people need reason to act as a tyrant, which was the case with Socrates, the danger cannot be small that something else might start acting as a tyrant.”

What might that “something else” be?  Nietzsche does not give us a direct answer to this question, but I think that I know.  Restraining the desires by reason will lead to the recrudescence, the resurgence of the desires in their fullest force.  The more you try to repress your desires, the more your desires will surge upward.  This is what Freud calls “the return of the repressed,” Die Wiederkehr des Verdrängten.

Repression is one attempt to manage the unruliness, the untrammeledness of the riot of emotions and the other feelings and moods.  But there is another form of self-maintenance, and that is the justification of the feelings and the moods.

For instance: Rationalized love.

Rationalized love is not instinctual love.  Think of a woman who tries to find a man attractive, even though she has no genuine passion for him.  She rationalizes her desire for the man—that is to say, she gives reasons to desire him.  This sort of thing seldom works.  Rational desire is not authentic desire at all.

Happiness comes from the release of the instincts, the liberation of the desires, the affects, the feelings, the instincts, not from the repression of the desires, the affects, the feelings, the instincts.  I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to say something in German: Die Moral ist eine Qual.  Morality is torment.  That is to say, the inhibition of the inclinations is a torment.  Every child knows this, but let no one suppose that Nietzsche is a hedonist.  Let no one suppose that Nietzsche is a eudaemonist, a sybarite, a hedonist.  No, not at all.

In the section of the book entitled “Morality as Anti-Nature,” Moralität als Widernatur, Nietzsche makes it quite clear that he is not endorsing the running-wild of the desires, the running-amok of the desires, the running-riot of the desires.

No, not at all.  The passions ought to be intellectualized, cosmeticized, sublimated, rather.  And the name of the intellectualization, cosmeticization, and sublimation of the passions has a name.  Its name is “love.”

Nietzsche writes: “The intellectualization of sensuality is called love: It represents a great triumph over Christianity,” Die Vergeisterung der Sinnlichkeit heisst Liebe: sie ist ein grosser Triumph ueber Christenthum.

Well, first of all, let me say that this is reminiscent of something that Nietzsche writes in Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future: “What is done out of love always occurs beyond Good and Evil,” Was aus Liebe getan wird, geschieht immer jenseits von Gut und Böse.

The meaning of both of these statements is essentially the same.  Classical religious morality separates two different kinds of romantic love.  The first kind of romantic love is the pure kind, the sacred kind.  And the second is what is called concupiscence—that is to say, carnal love or lust.

Now, classical morality condemns carnal love.  It seeks to extirpate desires that are inextirpable.  Morality is inimical to the impulses; it rebels against life, it revolts against the impulses of life.

Nietzsche is affirmative of the impulses of life, but he is not a carnalist, either.  He doesn’t believe in a rigid distinction between pure love and carnal love.

This is a false antinomy, according to Nietzsche, even though he does not explicitly write this in the passage that I am citing.  The antithesis between pure love and fleshly passion is a false distinction.  What Nietzsche names “the intellectualization of sensuality” is the supersession of the false dualism between the so-called “spiritual love” and the so-called “carnal love.”  I believe that this is the main point which Nietzsche is making, even though he does not make this point explicit.

Love—Nietzschean love—exists beyond conventional religious morality because it is the synthesis of the pure and the crude; it is the marriage between the dove and the pig.

Happiness comes from the feeling of the enhancement, the intensification of one’s vitality.  But this is not some kind of do-whatever-you-want, let-chaos-reign, all-hail-disorder.  It is not some kind of unconstrained scruffiness, some kind of laisser-aller.

Nietzsche teaches us this in a different book, but one that was written in the same year as this book was written, The Anti-Christian, Der Antichrist.

According to Nietzsche, Socrates had a pathological obsession with reason.  Socratic philosophy is the pathology of rationality (according to Nietzsche).

Nietzschean thought is not a rationalism.  It is an agonistics and an erotics.


The second ideal that Nietzsche explodes is the idea of absolute being, the permanency of absolute presence.  The idea of a permanent being behind the whirlwind of the senses.  Now, this permanent being might be the stability of the “I” (the unchanging center of the Self).  It might be the eidos of Plato, which would exist in some spaceless space, in some timeless time.

It might be the idea of a signified meaning that exists behind words.

Meaning does not exist behind words—it is generated by the relations among words and among letters and syllables.

Permit me to quote Shakespeare, Henry IV: Part One.  The lines are spoken by Falstaff:

​“What is honour?  A word.  What is in that word honour?  What is that honour?  Air.  A trim reckoning!”

What Falstaff says about the word honour may be fairly said about all words.  What is a “man”?  “Man” is a word.  What is within that word?  Air.

The subject “I” is a grammatical superstition, and our concept of the Self (as an unchangeable and unageable center of consciousness) comes from a prejudice of Western grammar.  Because so many of our sentences begin with the word “I” (or some other subject), we assume, unconsciously, that every action has an agent.

As Nietzsche writes in this book, famously, “I am afraid that we have not got rid of God because we still have faith in grammar,” Ich fürchte, wir werden Gott nicht los, weil wir noch an die Grammatik glauben…

It is quite rare for a philosopher to write about the body.  Schopenhauer was one of the first philosophers to take the body seriously, in a positive manner.

Nietzsche, fascinatingly, writes about the nose, the nose which can detect motion.  Nietzsche thinks that the nose can distinguish subtleties that a spectroscope would miss.  That is an intentional allusion to a Brian Eno song.  Nietzsche inspired many musicians, including Marilyn Manson.  It is clear that Nietzsche’s The Anti-Christian inspired many of Marilyn Manson’s lyrics.

I’m not sure if the nose can detect motion, but I do know that the olfactory sense plays a role in hearing and gustation (the sensation of taste).

Nietzsche writes about the nose in order to highlight his argument that the so-called world of the appearances, the world of phenomenality, IS the so-called true world.  Our senses do not lie, as Plato believed.  The sensorium gives us the only information about the world that we can have: sensory information.

All of this is to highlight the argument that the nose and the other sense organs bring us into closer contact with reality than mathematics or logic.

There is no logos behind the maelstrom of appearances.  There is no Parousia, no permanence of absolute presence.  Everything is motion without fixity, everything is change without stasis.

Neither is there the absolute origin or the absolute finality.  What seems to be a terminal point is a node in a web.  There are no absolute beginnings or absolute ends.  There is only becoming, not being—if by “being,” one means “the stasis of presence.”

So, appearances—what appears to our senses—are not errors.  The dichotomy between the so-called “true world” and the so-called “world of appearances” is a false dichotomy.  There is only one world, and that is the world of the senses.  This is why Nietzsche writes, in italics: “[W]e got rid of the illusory world along with the true one!” [M]it der wahren Welt haben wir auch die scheinbare abgeschafft!  The true world is a fiction (I mean “fiction” in the sense of “something that has been fabricated”).

The importance of art, for Nietzsche, is that art reminds us that phenomena are all that we have.  Art highlights phenomenality—works of art illuminate the “fact” that there is only one world, the only demonstrable, probative, provable, livable world is the phenomenal world.


The third idol that is twilit in this book: Imaginary causation.

We know now that devils do not cause illnesses.  We know now that angels do not heal the sick.  We no longer believe that daemons imprecate humanity by diffusing plagues throughout the world.  But there was a time when such things were believed.

There was a time when people believed that meat gave birth to maggots.  Maggots emerge from meat left out in the sun.  This, of course, is a confusion of cause and effect.  There was a time when people believed that grain gave birth to mice.  This is another confusion of cause and effect.

There was a time when people thought that certain babies were evil.  I don’t believe this!  Don’t blame me!  They also believed that evil babies came from incubi—the mother mated, perhaps unknowingly, with an incubus who crawled into her bed at night.  The products of such an unholy union were called “cambions,” half-human, half-daemonic hybrid offspring.

Imaginary causality works in this fashion: A phenomenon is experienced and then an imaginary cause is superadded after the fact.  A chimerical cause is chimerized where a natural explanation would do much better.  Instead of applying Occam’s razor, one introjects an imaginary cause to a natural process.  Flies are attracted to meat and lay their eggs on meat to which they attracted; the larval stage of a fly is a maggot.  Mice are attracted to the grain in the barn.  The farmer sees a mischief of mice in the barn and assumes, erroneously, that the grain gave birth to the mice.  A child is born, and that child is unruly, unmanageable.  The father believes, falsely, that his wife coupled with an incubus.

This false logic might also take the form of the confusion of chronology and causality.  I went to a Japanese restaurant and woke up sick this morning.  I am now convinced that the food that I ate last night sickened me.  This might be the case, but it is not necessarily the case.  A creepy, irritating man leaves an insulting comment on someone’s YouTube channel.  The next day, the person who runs the YouTube channel deletes it.  I suppose that the manager of the YouTube channel deleted her channel because she was offended.  But there is no immediate evidence that would support this assertion.  Post hoc ergo propter hoc, “after this because of this,” is the confusion of chronology with causality.  Simply because something happens first does not mean that it is the cause of something else.

Morality is based on imaginary qualities or causes, such as human responsibility or the free will, to which I shall presently return.  There is a great deal of talk in this culture about whether or not it is necessary to believe in God in order to be a moral person.  Then there is the theodical cliché: How can you reconcile the idea of a beneficent god with a world that is overflowing with misery?

But one doesn’t have to go that far.  Atheists have the tendency to attack theists for believing in an intervening God, but that seems hypocritical to be.  So many of the godless seem to believe in the imaginary.  Consider the imaginary presuppositions of traditional morality.  Traditional morality, even without religion, is based on the imaginary.

There are a number of famous atheists who seem very religious to me, for these atheistic public intellectuals believe in imaginary causes, such as moral responsibility.  It has never been proven that any human being is morally responsible.  Now, one might say that being morally responsible has its benefits, but isn’t that another question?

If someone believes in moral responsibility, that person believes in imaginary causation.  And it is very likely that such a person believes that morality is universal, as well, which it is not.

I have expanded on this subject elsewhere, but let me say a few words to refute the fallacious claim that morality is universal.

Anyone who believes that morality is universal is ignoring the historical fact that marriage, for example, was at one time regarded as something transgressive.  Today, marriage is regarded as a virtue; at other times, it was regarded as a vice.  For instance, throughout Europe, there was a practice known as jus primae noctis, “the right of the first night,” or the droit de seigneur.  The right of a feudal lord to take possession of a bride on the day of her wedding or at any time he wanted to.  This was a practice that we would regard as disgraceful today, but the point is that marriage was once regarded as something that was contrary to the right of the lord.

Hubris was regarded as a transgression in Ancient Greece.  Consider the myth of Prometheus—Prometheus stole fire from the gods and was punished by being shackled to a rock.  Every night, an eagle would devour his liver, which would then regrow only to be re-devoured.  In Ancient Greece any violation of nature (the gods were emblematical of nature) was seen a transgression, but look at the violation of nature which is mountaintop blasting!  This is something that is often practiced in our societies.

Revenge was considered a virtue in Ancient Greece (read the Orestia), but we disapprove of it today, etc., etc.


The fourth idol which is toppled from its pedestal is the argumentum ad consequentiam, the argument from consequence, though Nietzsche does not use this term.  The argumentum ad consequentiam is a logical fallacy.  I might believe that I am a hammerhead shark with every fiber of my being, but that does not mean that I am a hammerhead shark.  But pleasure proves nothing.  The pleasure produced by an idea proves absolutely nothing about the soundness of that idea.  Nietzsche makes the point that hope ferments comfort—it could just as easily be argued that hope ferments discomfort, but fine.  Irenicism might bring me comfort, I might desire with my entire being for there to be peace in the near future, but that doesn’t mean that one can look forward to the prospect of an irenic future.  It is impossible to make absolute statements about the future with any degree of justification, and the future doesn’t care about me and my emotional state.  Just because I desire a comforting cause, this doesn’t necessarily imply that the ostensible cause is the cause.


The fifth mythology is already one of the best-refuted mythologies in existence: voluntarism, the mythology of the freedom of the will.  Nietzsche doesn’t actually demolish the concept of the freedom of the will in this book.  He already annihilated the factitious concept of the free will in other of his books.  Instead, Nietzsche is wondering: What is the benefit of having other people believe in the freedom of the will?  Cui bono?

This is the argument, and it is an interesting one: Those who are invested in the propagation of free-will theory are practicing a form of sadism.

Epexegesis: “There must be a free will because I have the emotional need to believe in the free will” (this is another version of the argumentum ad consequentiam).  But there is a specific emotional need at play here:

Translation: “There must be a free will because I want to punish people.  And I cannot punish them by inflicting them with guilt unless they believe that they are free to choose whatever they choose.”

Now, we were taught in On the Genealogy of Morals that all human beings are cruel, but some of us interiorize our impulse toward cruelty.  When cruelty is reintrojected in the human self, that is called “guilt” and “the bad conscience.”  And the inculcation of guilt actively negates my self-esteem.

But all human beings are cruel.  Nothing is more natural to the human animal than a taste for cruelty.  Though Nietzsche never writes about sociopathy, this idea makes me rethink modern psychology’s take on sociopathy.  Perhaps it is inaccurate to throw certain people into a bucket labelled “Sociopaths.”  Perhaps there is an economy of sociopathy.  Perhaps everyone has the capacity for sociopathy.  If I am wrong about this, why do so many people enjoy violent sports, such as boxing or tauromachy (bullfighting)?  Is there a certain moment at which any human being can read about the destruction of other human beings with coldness, with indifference?


The sixth idol which is blown into smithereens is the ideal that life has a purpose.  Another of the most famous statements that Nietzsche ever made also appears in this book, and you will find it on memes all over social media.  It is Aphorism Twelve: “If someone has a Why? in life one can get along with almost any How?”

However, this aphorism has been often misinterpreted.  Nietzsche is suggesting that the idea of a purpose in life makes life tolerable, to be sure, but he is not suggesting that life actually has a real purpose.  Life has no purpose at all, according to Nietzsche.  As I wrote in my essay on Human, All-Too-Human: A Book for Free Spirits, all is purposeless yet necessary.

Life does not move in the direction of some transcendent goal, unless death and decomposition would be considered a “goal.”

But everyone is necessary in relation to the whole economy of life.  There is an amazing profusion of human types in the economy of life.  And one should never wish to wish away any human being, for each human being is necessary for the operation and self-maintenance of the whole economy of life.  Every mediocrity is essential to the economy of life; without the mediocre, the remarkable would be unremarkable.  Bad books are essential because they are consonant with the tastes of undiscerning people.


The seventh idol is that the idea that humanity is progressively improving, which it manifestly is not, and it is refreshing to read Nietzsche’s counter-argument to the Enlightenment.  If you’d like an example of the Enlightenment hypothesis that humanity is gradually refining itself, read Lessing, “The Education of the Human Race,” Die Erziehung des Menschengeschlechts.

I already discussed Nietzsche’s diagnosis of modernity in my lecture series on Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future.  The malady of modernity, for Nietzsche, is the paralysis of the will.  In Götzen-Dämmerung: Oder, Wie man mit dem Hammer philosophiert, Nietzsche has a slightly different critique of modernity.  In modernity, according to the logic of this book, progression and regression are one and the same.  The ostensible “refining” of humankind is really a taming, a domesticating, a making-docile of the human beast.  Animals are trained—this doesn’t mean that they become sophisticated.  Neither is it the case that the human beast becomes sophisticated simply because it is trained to be “civilized.”  Making-civilized is retrogressive; it is the manipulation and curtailing of the life-instincts.  An uncaged animal is more advanced than the modern human being.

Nietzsche is in good company.  Kafka said something similar to Gustav Janouch: “In the light of Darwinism, human evolution looks like a monkey’s fall from grace.”

H.L. Mencken wrote something quite similar, but regrettably, I can’t find the citation.  Mencken made the argument that the human being evolved into an ape.  Of course, it is a falsification to think that human beings evolved from apes; they did not.  Mencken was inverting the common misconception of Darwinian evolution.

As I have said above, Nietzsche is an antinomian.  He reminds us, again and again, not to believe in any traditional concept that you haven’t evaluated yourself.  It makes no sense to believe in a concept merely because it is old.  To do so is to enter the logical fallacy known as the argumentum ad antiquatitam, the argument from tradition.  Simply because an idea is hoarily old, this does not imply that such an idea is valid.

Permit me to enumerate all of the ideals that are detonated in this book, all of the idols that are twilit:

False Idol One: Reason leads to virtue, which leads to happiness.

False Idol Two: Absolutes exist.  There is such a thing as absolute, motionless, changeless being, whether it is the Self, permanency, an unconditional origin, absolute finality, signified meaning that comes before language, etc.

False Idol Three: Imaginary causes are real causes.

False Idol Four: A belief that gives me pleasure is a true belief.

False Idol Five: There exists something like a free will.

False Idol Six: Life has a transcendent purpose.

False Idol Seven: Humanity is progressively improving.


The End

Joseph Suglia

On Nietzsche’s MORGENRÖTHE: GEDANKEN ÜBER DIE MORALISCHEN VORURTHEILE / On Nietzsche’s THE DAWN OF DAY / DAYBREAK by Friedrich Nietzsche / THE DAWN OF DAY by Friedrich Nietzsche / THE DAWN OF DAY by Friedrich Nietzsche / DAYBREAK by Friedrich Nietzsche / DAYBREAK: THOUGHTS ON THE PREJUDICES OF MORALITY by Friedrich Nietzsche / DAWN OF THE DAY by Friedrich Nietzsche / THE DAWN / Friedrich Nietzsche DAYBREAK / Nietzsche, THE DAWN OF DAY / Friedrich Nietzsche’s


by Joseph Suglia


“I advise you to cultivate that form of contempt which is called pity.”

—Joseph Conrad, Victory


M = Morgenröthe: Gedanken über die moralischen Vorurtheile (1881; second edition: 1887).  The numbers refer to the numbers of the paragraphs that are cited.

D = Daybreak: Thoughts on the Prejudices of Morality, ed. Maudemarie Clark and Brian Leiter. Cambridge University Press, 1997.  The numbers refer to the pages of the text.


Those who read Nietzsche in English translation have been lied to, deceived, seduced, hoodwinked by dishonest translators and commentators.  My intention here will be twofold.  First, to correct some of the horrifying misinterpretations in the introduction to the Cambridge University Press translation of Nietzsche’s Morgenröthe: Gedanken über die moralischen Vorurtheile (1881; 1887), entitled Daybreak: Thoughts on the Prejudices of Morality (first published in 1997).  I will hose off the slime with which Nietzsche’s great book has been slathered and amplify what Nietzsche actually writes.  This will not have been, then, an interpretation of Nietzsche’s Daybreak but an attempt to illuminate and magnify his writing so that it becomes more legible.

* * * * *

Daybreak is Nietzsche’s inaugural attack on morality.  The argument is not that human beings should be immoral but that they should be moral for different reasons than have been traditionally presented.  His attack on morality is based on the critique of voluntarism (the theory of the free will) and the critique of altruism that was launched in Human, All-Too-Human (1878; 1880).  The goal of Daybreak, as Nietzsche writes in the Preface to the 1887 edition, is to “undermine trust in morality” (Vetrauen zur Moral zu untergraben).  Nietzsche does take pains to acknowledge that his own stance is self-contradictory, inasmuch as his critique of morality is itself “moral,” in a sense, coming, as it does, from an uncritical trust in rationality.  The fact that Nietzsche cites Hegel approvingly in this regard shows us that Nietzsche exists in closer proximity to Hegel than is customarily acknowledged.  Nietzsche uses the figure of the scorpion to describe this movement of turning-morality-against-itself ([der kritische Wille] gleich dem Skorpione, den Stachel in den eigenen Leib sticht [M Preface]), though I think a more felicitous figure would be that of the amphisbaena, a serpentine creature in Greek mythology that has two heads, one of which dangles at the tip of its tail and which can sometimes be seen biting the other head.  Why?  Free spirits are forever shedding their opinions, much in the way that the snake sloughs off its skin.  All of Nietzsche’s writing is intentionally self-contradictory.

Morality is based on two false presuppositions: that human beings are self-conscious subjects who make their own choices, the sources of which are transparent to them, and that human beings are capable of selfless compassion for others, of other-directedness, of caring for other people without any reference to themselves.

The first false presupposition of morality: Human beings are self-conscious subjects who make their own choices, the sources of which are transparent to them.

We are not in control of what we think or what we feel.  We are not in control of our minds because we are part of our minds.  Our minds are more powerful than we are.  Every conscious thought issues from the unconscious mind: “All of our so-called consciousness,” Nietzsche writes, is “a more or less fantastical commentary on an unknown, perhaps unknowable, yet felt text” (all unser sogenanntes Bewusstsein [ist] ein mehr oder weniger phantastischer Commentar über einen ungewussten, vielleicht unwissbaren, aber gefühlten Text) [M 119].  And all unconscious data is formed by our history, by our environment, by tradition, by mood, by our physiology, by our heredity (though Nietzsche did not live to see the discovery of genetics), not by some nonexistent “free will.”  There can be no moral thinking or immoral thinking insofar as we are unconsciously compelled to think whatever we consciously think and are therefore not responsible for our thoughts.  Morality implies responsibility—and if we are not responsible for what we think, consciously or unconsciously, how could we be held responsible for the alleged “morality” or the alleged “immorality” of our thoughts?

Consider the hypnagogic state—what the Italians call dormiveglia, that twilight between alertness and slumber.  You are neither awake nor asleep.  Your thoughts rush and gush.  How could one be responsible for the rushing and gushing of thoughts when the mind is in this semi-conscious state?  And if one is not responsible for such thoughts, for which thoughts is one responsible, and why?

If there is no freedom of thought (and there is none), there are no free actions, either.  No actions are good or evil—for surely, goodness is voluntary goodness and evilness is voluntary evilness.  People are neither voluntarily good nor voluntarily evil, which means that they are neither good nor evil.  As a result, we should perhaps stop pouring people into twin buckets, one marked GOOD and the other marked EVIL and develop richer and more complex ways of evaluating human behavior.

If people are constrained to perform good deeds, then praise is never earned.  The Australian taxi driver who returns $500,000 to the Japanese businessman who left the money in his cab does not deserve to be heroized.  If people are constrained to perform bad deeds, then neither is punishment ever deserved.  Criminals should be pathologized, for criminality is a pathology [M 202], not the result of sinfulness [M 208].  And why should anyone feel guilt or regret for something that one did?  It makes as little sense to feel guilt or regret for something that you did not choose to do as it does for someone else to blame you or to praise you for what you did not choose to do.

The second false presupposition: Human beings are capable of selfless compassion for others, of other-directedness, of caring for other people without any reference to themselves.

Why does anyone behave morally to begin with?  People are moral out of laziness, out of cowardice, out of convenience, out of submissiveness to tradition.  Above all, they are moral out of the desire for self-satisfaction.

(Parenthetical remarks: All morality is arbitrary: Every age has a different sense of what is “good” or “evil,” what is blameworthy or praiseworthy [M 2].  The ancient Jews believed that wrath was a virtue (as evidenced by the Hebraic Bible); the ancient Greeks believed in the virtuousness of envy (as evidenced by Hellenic mythology) and of revenge (as evidenced by the Oresteia).  Dissembling once counted as a virtue (as evidenced by Homer).  The ancient Greeks despised pity (as evidenced by Aristotle) and hope (as evidenced by Hesiod) and praised shame (as evidenced by Plato).  Our culture, by contrast, despises shame (consider the all-pervasive campaigns against shaming in our culture of timidity) and extols pity and hope (as evidenced by the 2008 presidential campaign) as virtues.)

Every human being is self-directed (though, as I have stated elsewhere, Nietzsche did not believe in a hypostatized or substantialized human self).  Everything that you do, you do for your own benefit or pleasure, even if that pleasure is a dark pleasure or a negative pleasure or the pleasure that comes from denying oneself a pleasure.  Compassion is selfish because life is selfish.

Despite what the editors of the Cambridge University Press translation write about him, Nietzsche never claims that there is such a thing as a “moral motive” or a “morally motivated action” (xxv).

The introduction to the Cambridge Daybreak is nameless.  Who typed this text?  It is impossible to say with conviction, though it was likely put together by Maudemarie Clark and Brian Leiter, the editors of the volume.  If I had written such an atrocity, I would not have put my name on it, either.

The agenda of Clark and Leiter (I will assume that they are the writers of the introduction) is to turn Nietzsche into someone who believes that the human animal is a self-sacrificing animal that can be dedicated absolutely to “the Other.”  As I will argue, Nietzsche is not suggesting that there are other-centered impulses, and he is hardly repudiating the necessary existence of egoistic instincts.

The passage that the editors make hash browns out of is Paragraph 103 (“Es giebt zwei Arten von Leugnern der Sittlichkeit”; “There Are Two Kinds of People who Deny Morality”).  The passage is worth citing in its entirety in German:

Es giebt zwei Arten von Leugnern der Sittlichkeit.—“Die Sittlichkeit leugnen”—das kann einmal heissen: leugnen, dass die sittlichen Motive, welche die Menschen angeben, wirklich sie zu ihren Handlungen getrieben haben,—es ist also die Behauptung, dass die Sittlichkeit in Worten bestehe und zur groben und feinen Betrügerei (namentlich Selbstbetrügerei) der Menschen gehöre, und vielleicht gerade bei den durch Tugend Berühmtesten am meisten. Sodann kann es heissen: leugnen, dass die sittlichen Urtheile auf Wahrheiten beruhen. Hier wird zugegeben, dass sie Motive des Handelns wirklich sind, dass aber auf diese Weise Irrthümer, als Grund alles sittlichen Urtheilens, die Menschen zu ihren moralischen Handlungen treiben. Diess ist mein Gesichtspunct: doch möchte ich am wenigsten verkennen, dass in sehr vielen Fällen ein feines Misstrauen nach Art des ersten Gesichtspunctes, also im Geiste des La Rochefoucauld, auch im Rechte und jedenfalls vom höchsten allgemeinen Nutzen ist.—Ich leugne also die Sittlichkeit wie ich die Alchymie leugne, das heisst, ich leugne ihre Voraussetzungen: nicht aber, dass es Alchymisten gegeben hat, welche an diese Voraussetzungen glaubten und auf sie hin handelten.—Ich leugne auch die Unsittlichkeit: nicht, dass zahllose Menschen sich unsittlich fühlen, sondern dass es einen Grund in der Wahrheit giebt, sich so zu fühlen. Ich leugne nicht, wie sich von selber versteht—vorausgesetzt, dass ich kein Narr bin—, dass viele Handlungen, welche unsittlich heissen, zu vermeiden und zu bekämpfen sind; ebenfalls, dass viele, die sittlich heissen, zu thun und zu fördern sind, — aber ich meine: das Eine wie das Andere aus anderen Gründen, als bisher. Wir haben umzulernen, —um endlich, vielleicht sehr spät, noch mehr zu erreichen: umzufühlen.

There are those, Nietzsche tells us, who deny that anyone is capable of a moral motive. This first kind of philosopher (Lichtenberg, La Rochefoucauld, et al.) is opposed to those Pharisees whose morality lies in their words, not in their hands: the sanctimonious, the sophists, the takers, the verbalizers, the hypocrites.  The second denier of morality denies that morality is based on objectively true presuppositions.  This second category of philosopher understands that all morality is misbegotten.  Nietzsche belongs to the second camp.

The editors are fond of the following sentence (rendered into English): “Here it will be conceded that the motives of action are real, but that it is errors which, as the basis of all moral judgment, drive them to their moral actions.”  The editors assume that this sentence implies that Nietzsche believed that people can have good, moral intentions: In this passage, they write, Nietzsche “admits the existence of moral motivation” (xxvi).  They think that Nietzsche is the precursor of Martin Buber or Emmanuel Levinas, that he is someone who has the greatest piety for the Thou or for the Other.  When he wrote Human, All-Too-Human, then, Nietzsche was a sinner who thought that people were self-interested.  Now, he undergoes an epiphany as he travels on the road to Damascus: “In Daybreak, by contrast, we can begin to see the shift in Nietzsche’s strategy: he explicitly raises the question about the value of unegoistic actions, at the same time that he begins to move away from the psychological egoism of Human All Too Human” [xxiv-xxv].

According to this (mis)interpretation, the Nietzsche of Daybreak has rejected Human, All-Too-Human, with its reduction of all altruism to human selfishness, in favor of an interpretation of morality that allows for moral impulsion.  The editors call attention to “Daybreak’s [alleged] repudiation of the thoroughgoing psychological egoism of Human, All Too Human” [xxv].  In Daybreak, Nietzsche has seen the Light of Day: “The passage [cited above] thus functions to separate Nietzsche’s new position from his earlier one: he no longer denies the existence of morally motivated actions, but claims instead that these actions, when they occur, are based on erroneous presuppositions” (xxv).

This is nonsense.  Even worse, it goes against the thrust and tenor of Nietzschean thought.  It violates the grain of the text.  Nietzsche wants us to undeceive ourselves of the false assumption of “moral motives.”  He wants us to think in luculent manner.  He wants a world that is unalloyed by the false presupposition that moral intentions are possible.

The correct interpretation of the passage cited above is as follows: Human beings might believe that they have moral impulses that entrain them to perform moral actions, but nowhere in Daybreak does Nietzsche write that their moral motives are anything other than modes of self-deception.

Nietzsche writes (to translate): “I also deny morality: [I do not deny] that innumerable human beings feel themselves to be immoral, but [I do deny] that there is any ground in truth for them to feel this way.”

The most important word in this regard is fühlen (“to feel”).  Human beings feel themselves to be immoral or moral, but this does not mean that they are immoral or moral.  To turn to the alchemy metaphor: There are those who identify themselves as alchemists, but this does not mean that alchemy is anything other than a quack pseudo-science or that alchemists are anything other than quackpots.  Many human beings feel that they are performing moral actions, but do I really need to write that the feeling that one is performing a moral action is not the same thing as a genuinely moral intention?  Human beings might feel that they are self-responsible moral agents who are morally impelled to perform moral actions, but they are being self-deceptive in having such feelings.  They might explain to themselves that they are moral beings, but this does not mean that they are moral!  The unconscious impulse behind their “moral intentions” is always, for Nietzsche, selfishness.

The writers of the introduction to the Cambridge University Press translation do not separate consciousness from the unconscious mind, even though Nietzsche consistently does precisely this, especially in the passage in which he affirms the “non-knowledge of the self” (Das, was den Menchen so schwer zu begreifen fällt, ist ihre Unwissenheit über sich selbst) [M 116].  The idea of “moral intentions” becomes questionable when we consider the unreadability of the self to itself.  Sadly, the editors seem to have forgotten the sentence of Nietzsche in which he declares that moral actions are never what they appear to be to the subject who performs them: Die Handlungen sind niemals Das, als was sie uns erscheinen! [Ibid.].  We are not what we appear to be to ourselves, never mind how we appear to other human beings.  “We are strangers to ourselves”: This is the premise of Toward the Genealogy of Morals.  The core of the human animal is unknown and unknowable to that same animal.  What distinguishes us from all of the other animals is that our essence is unknown and unknowable to us—this insight made Freudian and Lacanian psychoanalysis possible.  If one does not understand these points, one does not understand Nietzsche.

The other person is unknowable to us, moreover, except insofar as he or she leaves an impression on us: Wir begreifen Nichts von [dem Nächsten], als die Veränderungen an uns, deren Ursache er ist [M 118].  Other people will attempt to leave imprints upon you, as if you were a ball of wax—and yet you will know nothing of them other than the psychic impressions that they leave upon you.  We can neither say that the other human being is “good” or “evil” in himself or in herself.  “Good” or “evil” are names, labels, deictic markers that we attach to the other human being.  A person is nominated as “good” inasmuch as s/he pleases us; a person is nominated as “evil” inasmuch as s/he displeases us.  And yet this person is neither good nor evil in him- or herself.  In this fashion, Nietzsche moves away from Stirner, who some think of as Nietzsche’s predecessor.  The Stirnerian moral-ego system is one in which what pleases me is right and what displeases me is wrong.  We know from Iva Overbeck that Nietzsche read Stirner (cf. Conversations with Nietzsche, ed. Sander L. Gilman, pages 113-114): Here he is moving beyond the naivety of Stirner and not defining “good” as that which is good to me, nor is he defining “evil” as that which is evil to me.  Both “good” and “evil” are mystifications, abstractions, and misinterpretations of the human mind.

Clark and Leiter do not seem to be conscious of Paragraph 148, wherein Nietzsche asserts that there are no moral actions, if morality means “other-centeredness.”  The moral intentions behind such actions would be other-centered, as well.  We never do anything purely for the other person or without self-interest, and our will is constrained by mood, by the unconscious, by degrees of sickness, by degrees of health and the feeling of well-being, by our memory of the past, by hunger, and/or by the need to urinate.

In an unpublished fragment from the summer of 1880—which, as far as I know, has never before been rendered into English—Nietzsche writes:

“Will to urinate,” that means: There is, first of all, a pressure and a compulsion; secondly, a medium through which to release oneself; thirdly, a habit to be exercised, after it has been given from the intellect to the hand.  In itself, the pressure or compulsion has nothing to do with the alleviation of the bladder: It does not say, “I want.”  It says, rather, “I suffer” [translation mine].

Let me make a simple remark that every child could understand: Although one might choose when to urinate, no one chooses whether to urinate.  And the discomfiting and discomforting need to urinate can shape one’s decision-making process, perturb one’s attention, and determine one’s words and actions.  The insistent and persistent existence of the need to urinate in itself invalidates the hypothesis of the free will, for who has absolute power over urination?  One has no more control over one’s thoughts as one has control over whether or not one has the need to urinate.  If the need to urinate were subject to some “free will,” wouldn’t most people have willed away or scheduled their micturition sessions?

Furthermore: If he admits “the existence of moral motivation” [xxvi] in Daybreak, why are all of Nietzsche’s examples of moral actions examples of egoic, self-interested behavior, of extreme vaingloriousness, of vanity?  There is the nun who flaunts her chastity in order to punish fleshlier women with the image of her stern and proud virginity, her freedom from the desire for a man’s touch, her austere holiness: Die Keuschheit der Nonne: mit welchen strafenden Augen sieht sie in das Gesicht anderslebender Frauen!  wie viel Lust der Rache ist in diesen Augen! [M 30].  There is the artist who declares his greatness and champions his excellence in order to excite envy in his contemporaries: Dort steht ein grosser Künstler: die vorempfundene Wollust am Neide bezwungener Nebenbuhler hat seine Kraft nicht schlafen lassen, bis dass er gross geworden ist, —wie viele bittere Augenblicke anderer Seelen hat er sich für das Grosswerden zahlen lassen! [Ibid.].  If I may submit an example that Nietzsche does not give: The man who gives money to a beggar does so not out the desire to help the beggar, but out of the desire to feel superior to the beggar and out of the desire to advertise his superiority over the beggar—though, as Nietzsche points out in this very book, he will become irritated afterward for having done so, as he would have been irritated for not having done so.  In each case, the striving for distinction (Streben nach Auszeichnung) [M 113] is at the same time the striving to dominate another person—it is not an isolating experience, though it ends in a self-relation.  The moralist attempts to annihilate the other human being by the assertion one’s superiority and then attempts to recuperate oneself through this annihilation.  One injures the other in order to injure oneself—and then triumphs over both pity for the person one injured and over self-pity in order to exuberate and luxuriate in the feeling of one’s own power.  Such is the magnetic glory of the martyr.

Not only is absolute other-directed agape love for the other human being impossible; it would not even desirable if it were to be universalized [M 143]: It would create a nightmare world in which everyone fervently loved everyone else, a frenzy of mass-love that would inexorably lead the beloved to languish for lovelessness [M 147].

(Parenthetical remarks: What good is a virtue if it cannot be displayed?  Why be virtuous at all if one cannot delight in dramatizing virtues in front of an audience for the sake of their approbation?  Today, people call this (too often, for my taste) “virtue signaling”: Was nützte eine Tugend, die man nicht zeigen konnte oder die sich nicht zeigen verstand! [M 29].  And yet there is a darker side to the performance of one’s moral uprightness.  Morality is cruelty.  It is an attempt to inflict misery and the perception of one’s own superiority on another: Man will machen, dass unser Anblick dem Anderen wehe thun und seinen Neid, das Gefühl der Ohnmacht und seines Herabsinkens wecke [M 30]. Moralistic language is the perfect license for a mean-spirited person to release his or her pent-up aggressions upon another—consider the Rote Armee Fraktion or the Baader-Meinhof Group or the Antifa protesters for relatively recent and recent examples of this.)

The reflection on pity (Mitleid) is inarguably the center of Daybreak.  If this is true (and it is), then how could one claim, as the writers of the introduction to the Cambridge University Press translation do, that Nietzsche believes in selfless motives?

Pity is the affect of morality, not respect (Achtung), as it is for Kant.  This allows Nietzsche to show the sadism and the lust for power that lies at the foundation of all morality.  Pity implies a relation to transcendence—not the transcendence of God or of a supersensible morality but the surpassing power and dominance of the one who pities.  It is always possible to withhold pity.  If it is always possible to withhold pity, then we are exercising power over the piteous.  If we want to feel our power, we can either withhold our pity or threaten to withhold our pity.  One pities dogs, one pities cats, one pities university professors—creatures to which one feels oneself superior.  If we see someone drowning and have the power to save his life, we might save him out of pity—but this is selfishness and a counterstrike against one’s own feeling of fragility and powerlessness [M 133].  Pity potentiates the one who feels pity.

There can be no rivalry where there is pity—Nietzsche almost writes this.  An enemy is an equal—one does not pity one’s enemies.  If you want a rivalry to end, pity your enemy.  This does not imply that pity equalizes or levels the distinction between the one who is piteous and the one who is pitiable but rather that it introduces an unsurpassable distance between the one who pities and the one who is pitied, between the one who has the power to dispense pity and the pitiable.

Nietzsche enjoins us to “Wake up!” (Wachen wir auf!) [M 464].  We should awaken from our intellectual benightedness into intellectual enlightenment—Daybreak is a text that belongs to the European Aufklärung.  We should move from the dreamfulness of morality, religion, and metaphysics to the wakefulness, to the awakeness, of rationality.

The title, Daybreak, alludes to the dawning of a world in which humanity will be undarkened by morality, religion, and metaphysics.  Nietzsche enjoins us to disencumber ourselves of all of these things, to pierce the encrustation of moral, religious, and metaphysical prejudices.  It will be a world in which no one believes in any beyond, in any otherworldly transcendence.  Human life will become at long last meaningful when our successors recognize that there is no reason for them to judge one another or themselves, that they are fundamentally innocent.  (There is no reason to judge what is involuntary.  The free spirit believes in the innocence of all opinions, as s/he believes in the innocence of all actions [M 56].)  It will be a world in which polyamory will replace monogamy, a world in which suicide will not be criminalized or moralistically condemned, a world in which criminals will be permitted to choose their own forms of containment [M 187], a world in which the criminal-justice system will be founded on the idea of deterrence and rehabilitation, not punishment, a world in which no one will be considered guilty of anything, a world in which no one will be considered responsible for anything that one does, a world in which it will be generally recognized that all human thought and action is necessary and beyond one’s conscious control.  It will also be a place of regular gymnastic exercise, if we believe the Nietzsche of Human, All-Too-Human.  Much like the future that is evoked within the pages of the greatest of all Nietzschean novels, The Rainbow by D.H. Lawrence, the future in which all of this would take place is heralded yet never directly shown.  Its promise is described purely negatively.  What will this world look like?  Nietzsche never tells us.  Nietzsche (and Lawrence) criticizes the conditions of the modern world and opens the doors to an extra-moral, extra-religious, and extra-metaphysical future without ever being explicit in his vaticinations.

To return to the second paragraph of this commentary: Nietzsche does not advise us to be immoral; rather, he advises us to be moral out of different reasons than out of deference to a convention or belief in the supernatural.  We should become the self-legislators of morality—and if this means endorsing polyamory, suicide, and revenge, so be it.  Let us no longer be camels (moral agents), to forecast the language of Also Sprach Zarathustra.  Let us become lions (critics of morality), and thereafter we shall transform into children (inventors of a morality of irresponsibility and a morality of innocence).  It is time, and high time indeed, to rethink, to accept, to refuse to condemn impulses that are unavoidably human (envy, covetousness, disobedience).  Then, perhaps we would do what comes naturally without a bad conscience, as Nietzsche writes: Wenn der Mensch hört auf, sich für böse zu halten, hört er auf, böse zu sein [M 148].  He exhorts us to praise egoic actions and to devalue the so-called “selfless actions” until things balance out.

Nietzsche replaces good and evil with gradations of power.  All is power.  (This is a flaw in Nietzschean thought: If everything is power, then nothing is power.  Nietzsche’s power-absolutism leads him to tautologous formulations.)  Everything can be understood in terms of relativities of power (this is a point that Nietzsche will enlarge upon in the Nachlass): Every human being has the desire for dominance over all other human beings.  And what better way of dominating another human being than by flaunting one’s moral superiority?  Every human being has the desire to become God.

“Love always occurs beyond good and evil,” Nietzsche will write in Beyond Good and Evil: He means self-love, which eradicates Christian guilt.  Remember that pride is the deadliest sin.  Self-love exists outside of the categories of sin and redemption.  Another way of saying this: The one who loves himself or herself has no need of Christianity.


One of Nietzsche’s Mistakes

Nietzsche appears to believe that credo quia absurdum est (“I believe it because it is absurd”) is the motto of the Catholic Church.  And yet this statement was never made by Tertullian or by any of the Church Fathers.  Tertullian writes, rather, credibile est, quia ineptum est (“It is credible because it is inept”).  As always, when Nietzsche makes an error, it is a productive error.


Aphorisms Inspired by Nietzsche’s Morgenröthe: Gedanken über die moralischen Vorurtheile

Prospective suicides will not commit the act, if they think that no one will care.

Words are not solutions; they are problems.

If you want your rivalry with someone else to end, pity your rival.

There can be no rivalry where there is pity for the rival.

Steve Harvey and Dennis Prager believe in the existence of objective morality because they have the emotional need to believe this—as if their self-preservation were something essential.

Saving a drowning man presents one with an advantageable situation: It allows the rescuer to be worshipped as a hero.

Joseph Suglia