Introduction
Human, All Too Human: A Book for Free Spirits is a book by 19th-century philosopher
Friedrich Nietzsche, originally published in 1878. A second part, Assorted
Opinions and Maxims, was published in 1879, and a third part, The Wanderer and
his Shadow, followed in 1880.
The book is Nietzsche's first in the aphoristic style that would come to
dominate his writings, discussing a variety of concepts in short paragraphs or
sayings. Reflecting an admiration of Voltaire as a free thinker, but also a
break in his friendship with composer Richard Wagner two years earlier,
Nietzsche dedicated the original 1878 edition of Human, All Too Human “to the
memory of Voltaire on the celebration of the anniversary of his death, May 30,
1778.” Instead of a preface, the first part originally included a quotation
from Descartes's Discourse on the Method. Nietzsche later republished all three
parts as a two-volume edition in 1886, adding a preface to each volume, and
removing the Descartes quote as well as the dedication to Voltaire.
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Preface
1.
Human, all—too—Human with its two sequels is the memorial of a crisis.
It is called a book for free spirits: almost every sentence in it is the
expression of a triumph—by means of it I purged myself of everything in me
which was foreign to my nature. Idealism is foreign to me: the title of the
book means: "Where you see ideal things, I see— human, alas! All too human
things”! I know humanity better. The expression "free spirit” in this book
must not be understood as anything other than a spirit that has become free,
that has once more taken possession of itself. The tone the pitch of the voice
has completely changed; the book will be thought wise, cool and at times both
harsh and scornful. A certain spirituality of noble taste seems to be ever
struggling to dominate a passionate undercurrent. In this respect there is some
sense in the fact that it was the hundredth anniversary of Voltaire’s death
that served so to speak as an excuse for the publication of the book in 1878.
For Voltaire, in contrast to everyone who wrote after him was above all a
grandee of the spirit: precisely what I am also. The name of Voltaire on one of
my writings—that was truly a step forward—towards myself. Looking into this
book a little more closely you discover a merciless spirit who knows all the
secret hiding places in which ideals can be found—where they find their
dungeons and as it were their last refuge. With a torch in my hand, the light
of which is not by any means a flickering one, I illuminate this underworld of
ideals with beams that pierce the gloom. It is war, but a war without powder
and smoke, without warlike attitudes, without pathos and contorted limbs—all
these things would still be "idealism”. One error after the other is
quietly laid on ice; the ideal is not refuted—it freezes. Here for instance
"the genius” freezes; round the corner "the saint” freezes; under a
thick icicle "the hero” freezes; and in the end "faith” itself
freezes. So-called "conviction” and also "pity” are considerably cooled—and
almost everywhere the "thing in itself” is freezing to death.
2.
This book was begun during the first musical festival at Bayreuth; a
feeling of profound estrangement from everything that surrounded me is one of
the works first conditions. Anyone who has any notion of the visions which
flitted across my path will be able to guess what I felt when one day I came to
my senses in Bayreuth. It was just as if I had been dreaming. Where on earth
was I? I recognized nothing that I saw; I scarcely recognized Wagner. It was in
vain that I called up reminiscences. Tribschen—remote island of bliss: not the
shadow of a resemblance! The incomparable days devoted to the laying of the
foundation stone, the small group of the initiated who celebrated them and who
were far from lacking hands for the handling of delicate things: not the shadow
of a resemblance! What had happened? Wagner had been translated into German!
The Wagnerian had become master of Wagner! German art! The German master!
German beer! We who know only too well the kind of refined artists and
cosmopolitanism in taste to which alone Wagner’s art can appeal were beside
ourselves at the sight of Wagner bedecked with German "virtue”. I think I
know the Wagnerian, I have experienced three generations of them, from the late
Brendel who confounded Wagner with Hegel to the "idealists” of the
Bayreuth Gazette who confound Wagner with themselves—I have been the recipient
of every kind of confession about Wagner from ‘beautiful souls”. I would give
an entire kingdom for just one intelligent word! Truly blood-curdling company!
Nohl Pohl and Kohl and others of their like to infinity! There was not a single
abortion that was lacking among them—no, not even the anti-Semite—Poor Wagner!
Into whose hands had he fallen? Better for him to have gone amongst swine! But
among Germans! Some day for the edification of posterity one ought really to
have a genuine Bayreuther stuffed or better still preserved in spirit—for it is
precisely spirit that is lacking in this quarter—with this inscription at the
foot of the jar: "A sample of the spirit whereon the German Empire was
founded”. But enough! In the middle of the festivities I suddenly packed my
trunk and left the place for a few weeks despite the fact that a charming
Parisian lady sought to comfort me; I excused myself to Wagner simply by means
of a fatalistic telegram. In a little spot called Klingenbrunn deeply buried in
the recesses of the Bohemian forest I carried my melancholy and my contempt of
Germans about with me like an illness—and from time to time, under the general
title of "The Ploughshare” I wrote a sentence or two down in my notebook,
nothing but severe psychological stuff which it is possible may have found its
way into Human, all—too—Human.
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