Uncle Adolf’s table talk, 168

the-real-hitler

12th August 1942; isolated remarks

Dancing was the first method of artistic expression employed by man. The most beautiful dance in the world is without doubt the waltz, a perfect harmony of movement and music. After it I should place the Schuhplattler dance of Upper Bavaria, which, thanks to its austere and dignified style, never makes a man look ridiculous. But the ballroom dancing of today…! It’s nothing but a series of simian posturings!

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Uncle Adolf’s table talk, 188

the-real-hitler

24th June 1943, evening

The vibrant pulse of Berlin—Vienna the home of music— Mozart—Slav blood and German blood—Beethoven—For and against Vienna—The new capital of the Reich—A remark of Treitschke.
 

In Berlin, I think, people work harder than anywhere else. I know of no other city in which it would have been possible to complete the construction of the Reich Chancellery in nine months. The Berlin workman is unique as a swift and efficient craftsman. There is nothing to touch him in Munich or Vienna, where the infusion of foreign blood—Polish, Czech, Slav, Italian—still has an influence.

When one speaks of Vienna and music and proclaims Vienna to be the most musical city in the world, one must not forget that at the time of our great composers, Vienna was the Imperial city. She was an attraction for the whole world, and was thus the city which offered artists the greatest scope and opportunity. In spite of this, how shabbily the musicians were treated there! It is not true that either Beethoven or Haydn had any success there during their lifetime. Mozart’s Don Juan was a failure there.

Why then did Mozart go to Vienna? Simply because he hoped to get a pension from the Emperor, which he never obtained. Mozart’s family, it has been established, came from Augsburg; he was therefore not an Austrian but a Swabian. The whole blossoming of our music in Vienna is not due to the town; such things do not spring from their environment, but from the genius of a race.

Really creative music is composed partly of inspiration and partly of a sense of composition. The inspiration is of Slavonic origin, the art of composition is of Germanic. It is when these two mingle in one man that the master of genius appears. In Bach’s music it is the composition which is marvellous, and he certainly had no drop of Slav blood in his veins. As regards Beethoven, on the other hand, one glance at his head shows that he comes of a different race. It is not pure chance that the British have never produced a composer of genius; it is because they are a pure Germanic race.

Do not for a moment imagine that I am hostile to Vienna. I criticise with equal vigour everything in Berlin which displeases me. My task is a far greater one, and I do not think in terms of Vienna or Berlin.

It is perhaps a blessing in disguise that I was for so long a Stateless person; for it has taught me the tremendous value of a unified Germany.

Treitschke once said: “Germany has cities, but she possesses no capital.” To that I will add that she must, and she shall, have one. I shall take care that no town in the Reich can rival the capital.

I have examined certain projects for Vienna, but they demand a financial backing from the Reich which I do not consider should be accorded to any city but the capital of the Reich.

Any other decision would be wrong. Vienna must, of course, be cleaned up and cleared of slums; and this will be done. I have already cleared the Jews out of the city, but I should like to see the Czechs go, too. Whatever new construction may be undertaken in Vienna, it would be folly for her to try to surpass the existing glorious monuments of the Imperial City.

_____________________________

Consider obtaining a copy of the complete notes
published by Ostara Publications.

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Uncle Adolf’s table talk, 189

the-real-hitler

 

1st March 1944, midday

A nursery for film actors—Futility of the art critics—Weber’s Freischütz and Bizet’s Carmen.
 

It is often said that among our film actors we have none capable of playing certain parts—that, for instance, of the hero. This type of artiste, they say, is non-existent. I have never heard such nonsense. But to find them, you must, of course, look for them. Producers make the mistake of seeking always in the same old circle—the stage and the theatrical agencies. If they would look elsewhere, they would soon find what they want. One has only to think of the splendid types of manhood to be found even now, after five years of war, in our regiments.

Some years ago, before the war, I passed a camp of the Labour Service at Bergdorf. Immediately my car was surrounded by a crowd of bronzed and laughing young men. I remember remarking to one of my companions: “Why don’t our film producers come to places like this in search of talent? In a year or two it would be possible to transform one of these lads into an accomplished actor, even if it were just for one particular part for which they are seeking a star.” In this respect Leni Riefenstahl has the right idea: she scours the villages in search of the peasant types she requires.

In the nature of things, the opinion of an art critic must not be accepted as an irrevocable and unassailable truth. His criticism is, after all, only the expression of his own personal opinion.

When in ten different newspapers ten different critics give their opinion on one and the same work, ten separate personal opinions emerge—unless, of course, they have previously received instructions from interested parties. Has such an opinion any value? I doubt it. We are too prone to forget that the ancients disregarded the art critic. They judged a work on its merits, as they saw them, which, after all, is the natural method of selection. Art criticism, as it has developed since the beginning of the nineteenth century, means either the death of a work of art, since the critics never cease to tear it to pieces; or the death of the press, since the public could have no faith in a press in which the critic of each individual newspaper gives a completely different story on exactly the same work.

If we were to be deprived of art critics, we should not lose very much! One single critique signed with a well-known name may destroy the aspirations of an artist for as long as twenty years.

Examples are not lacking. How many of the artists whom we admire greatly today were previously castigated by the oracles of the times! What is true of painters is true of artists in other fields.

Hoffmann was sufficient gravely to prejudice the chances of success of Der Freischütz. And yet this work, with its deep harmonies, had all the ingredients which should have appealed to the romanticism in Hoffmann. Think of Wagner and how he was torn to bits for ten years by the critics! Had there been no one who appreciated him, it is questionable whether he would have continued with his work. The same thing happened with Carmen. And now the critics who tore these masterpieces to shreds are completely and utterly forgotten, and the works live on.

_____________________________

Consider obtaining a copy of the complete notes
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Published in: on March 12, 2015 at 11:07 am  Comments (2)  
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Degenerate “nationalists”

by Roger

Let it be declared that National Socialism, so uniquely responsive to harmony and beauty, health and strength, has absolutely no room for “rock”, that degenerate din of the African jungle to which the above hooligans [skinheads], and also others pretending to be National Socialists, are addicted, and which, we would have them know, Hitler would most certainly have prohibited. This is something that skinheads—if they are to elevate themselves from this category, have got to learn.

—Colin Jordan, “National Socialism:
Vanguard of the Future”, pp. 26-27,
Historical Review Press, 2011



I don’t know much about Génération Identitaire (their alleged British branch does not exist outside of Facebook, to my knowledge, and is inactive even there), but there is a popular current in continental Europe nowadays for “social-nationalism”, which is manifested through various different fronts: National-Anarchism, Autonomous Nationalism, and so forth. I find it repulsive aesthetically and politcially. The best example might be CasaPound in Italy, whose behaviour seems like an ostensibly right-wing mirror of the 1968 New Left. They live as squatters in unoccupied properties, they have their own rock band, and they organise meetings to promote extremely pretentious “beyond left and right” nonsense in which enemies like Che Guevara are revised as heroic national liberators.

Worst yet are the Autonomous Nationalists, who record “NS Hip-Hop” and idolise the likes of Otto Strasser, a renowned traitor who spent the large part of his life attacking Adolf Hitler and the Third Reich from outside (he was essentially the Trotsky of National Socialism). They self-consciously dress themselves like anarchists and they use anti-fascist symbols, like a bunch of inverted Situationists.

This must be heard to be believed: (YouTube link) .

H youth1How can a nation go from producing marches like Preußens Gloria and Volk ans Gewehr to this? I’ll tell you how: the imposition of foreign anti-values by the 1945 Allied occupiation (which Strasser, the hero of countless social-nationalists, fully supported; in fact, he testified against Germans at the Nuremberg show trials). Even the German federal constitution was written by the occupiers, so naturally their culture ended up getting debased by what Solzhenitsyn referred to in 1994 as “liquid manure from the West”, which was flooding into Russia after the fall of Soviet Socialism. We can and should hate all Bolsheviks, but it is impossible to deny that the Soviet Union’s protectionist attitude towards culture managed to prevent Beatlemania from taking off in most of Eastern Europe.

The above quotation by Colin Jordan is taken from an essay entitled “The Enemy Within”, which is largely a critique of Strasserism. The fact that attacked the skinhead rock fans in the same same essay shows how little things have changed since he wrote that. Here is another one from the same book of essays, again against rock music and its worshippers:

This is what we are up against! The bulk of our younger generation clad appropriately in the slovenly uniform of the creed of slovenliness, debauching their minds in an ecstasy of adoration of a chaos of cacophony and the vile creatures of the night purveying it. This represents democracy’s maturity, and that maturity is the prelude to communism. (pp. 108-109)

I also enjoy Revilo P. Oliver’s definition of rock music: “the cacophonous din that has replaced music in degenerate circles”.

H.C. Strache, the leader of the FPÖ, has released several videos of himself rapping. It is a disgrace. I want to like that party, seeing as it has the support of 42% of Austrians in the 18-30 age group, but it is hard to get enthused when its most senior figure is happy to make such a fool of himself in public. Perhaps it can only garner the support of that 42% by being degenerate.

Dante’s outer circle

In the third season of Downton Abbey, when Matthew experiences a visual shock while entering a jazz club in London trying to rescue Rose dating a married man, Matthew proclaims aloud that the club is “Dante’s outer circle.”

Downton-Abbey-Christmas-2013

(In the above photo inside Highclere Castle this spoiled girl, Rose, appears with a pink dress.) Downton Abbey is the only recent TV series that I might recommend. Even the kissing of Rose with a Negro in the next season is depicted as a silly revenge of Rose against her abusive mother. But there’s no obvious cultural or racial treason in the episodes I’ve watched as to date. (I’ve only missed the last one, the 2013 Christmas special of the fourth season).

These sort of post-war London clubs that shocked Matthew were in operation a hundred years ago. Music is infinitely worse now. Since the self-destructive defense mechanisms of abused adolescents are my specialty I’d claim that the rock classics you may listen today—for example “Tie Your Mother Down” by the group Queen that I used to like when I was the victim of an engulfing mother—are precisely silly defense mechanisms.

Now that I wrote a book confessing how I was abused as a teen I realize that a mature man may develop non-degenerate defense mechanisms to cope with past memories.

Alas, this is not the case of the overwhelming majority of white nationalists. All of them seem to fail to comprehend that it is impossible to revert back to the healthy sexual mores depicted in Downton Abbey if at the same time they don’t reject the music of Queen and the myriads of other rock groups.

In his blog’s entry of the first day of the new year, Iranian for Aryans reposted what musician Roger had said recently:

I’ve just finished reading this interview with the late Cardinal Domenico Bartolucci, former musical director of the Sistine Chapel, and I thought you might be interested by some of his comments. He is speaking primarily about liturgical music, but he also discusses about the general condition of music in this rotten century:

“[My father] was a workman at a brick factory in Borgo San Lorenzo, in the province of Florence. He loved to sing in church. And he loved the romance of Verdi and Donizetti. But at that time, everybody sang: the farmers while they were dressing the vines, the shoemakers while they were working a sole. There were bands in the piazza, during the holidays music directors came from Florence, and the area theatre had two opera seasons each year. It’s all gone now.”

Simple Italian factory workers used to love the music of Verdi and Donizetti? I wonder how this fits with the black metal apologists’ belief that classical music was historically something for a tiny bourgeois clique, and that most normal people were only familiar with folk songs.

I can remember them trying to make these arguments in the comment threads of Counter-Currents, Alternative Right and the Occidental Observer. There is no excuse these people will not use if it will enable them to continue listening to their beloved modern music. Were they serious, they would spend a moment considering why old reactionaries, who grew up before rock music became ubiquitous, are so repulsed by distorted guitars and screeching. (Modern man knows better, of course.)

When asked if the old musical traditions are disappearing, the cardinal said, “it stands to reason: if there is not the continuity that keeps them alive, they are destined to oblivion.”

I think that sums it up in a nutshell. One of my goals in 2014 is to acquire a tenor viol and start learning music by the English consort composers (as well as continental composers from the same time period). Whether it will be possible to find other violists to form a consort is another problem, but keeping the music alive with one’s own hands is a good starting point. It is undoubtedly the case that music cannot survive as a collection of digital audio files. That will turn it into a mere museum piece. If that happens, it will be sad but just. A civilised nation cannot choose to embrace African voodoo devilry at the expense of its own culture and expect to continue living with dignity.

Yup… Precisely because my mother is a piano teacher I rebelled against my family’s traditions and, like Downton Abbey’s Rose, never learnt how to play it. But now that I fully processed my pain thru a thick book I realize that my adolescent infatuation with Queen was just silly. I no longer listen rock. In fact, I just started learning piano at my relative old age!

Cesar tocando piano 2014

(It’s me playing the piano…)

By the way, in a most recent personal communication, Iranian commented on Roger’s above sentence: “There is no excuse these people [white nationalists] will not use if it will enable them to continue listening to their beloved modern music”:

How correct Roger is! What we have here is a degenerated breed of WNs / “traditionalists” who, basically, have no musical taste, are divorced from their superior heritage, and desire a world where bad music and pornography reign sans Jew.

Recently at Facebook, a Counter-Currents sodomite responded to Iranian that a Persian ought not dare teach him what his western cultural roots are.

Can’t he? I am not an American either but, to my present ears, years after I processed my adolescent pain, the “music” promoted by Counter-Currents and other nationalist sites is becoming like Dante’s outer circle certainly…

Postscript of January 11: Alternative Right is gone now, but Richard Spencer has opened a new site promoting exactly the same “black metal” degeneracy.

Mexico: The crypto and the mulatto

Here in Mexico, a couple of days ago, after my family celebrated the Day of Independence, I caught my Catholic father and sister speaking in high terms about Miguel Hidalgo, the Catholic priest that in 1810 started the war of independence; and José María Morelos, the mulatto that continued Hidalgo’s anti-white wars. While father and daughter recognized that Hidalgo and Morelos killed lots of Iberian white civilians and “from 20,000 to 30,000 prisoners of war,” they, nonetheless, regard them as “heroes.” In the Mexican wars of independence from Spain of 1810 to 1821 my father and sister could have been confused with Spaniards and, still, like many other Mexicans who could pass as Mediterraneans, they side the crypto-Jew and the mulatto. Why?

miguel-hidalgo

The 19th century portraits of Hidalgo are fake. All of them used a man of Austrian origin who posed as the father of the independence. Original reports depict Hidalgo with hooked nose. The overwhelming majority of Mexicans ignore that the Catholic priest Hidalgo was probably the son of Jewish conversos. Even the Mexican Jews, no longer cryptos, acknowledge it: “Two genealogical studies of the eighteenth century, the Archivo General de la Nación de Mexico and the Ramo de la Inquisición, suggest that Father Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla, the father of Mexican Independence, had a Converso background and that Bartolomé de las Casas, a Bishop who fought to free slaves in Nueva España, also had Jewish ancestors.” In case of my family, they are under the naïve impression that both Hidalgo and Las Casas were of pure Spanish origin.

But what about the mulatto Morelos? The 1944 edition of José Vasconcelos’ A Brief History of Mexico that my father read long ago, says (my translation):

For Morelos, for example, to be comparable to Washington, it must be assumed that Washington had decided to recruit blacks and mulattoes to kill the English. Instead, Washington disdained blacks and mulattoes and recruited the English of America, who did not commit the folly of killing their own brothers, uncles, and relatives, only because they were born in England. Quite the contrary, each participant of the American Revolution felt pride for his British ancestry and hoped for the betterment of the English. This should have been the sense of our own emancipation, to transform New Spain into an improved Spain, better than that of the peninsula but with its blood, our blood. The whole later disaster of Mexico is explained by the blind, criminal decision that emerged from the womb of Hidalgo’s mobs and is expressed in the suicidal cry: “Death to the Spaniards!”

So why many Mexicans who physiognomically could pass as southern Italians, Greeks or Spaniards side the mulatto against their blood? Recently, for example, my father’s orchestra composition, La Espada (The Sword), was a success in Mexico City: an homage to the mulatto Morelos (my father has zero black blood by the way).

The music is good—the first ten minutes can be listened in the above clip—, but the libretto is outrageous. The poet Carlos Pellicer (1897-1977) wrote it and my father adapted it for 150 voices and orchestra:

Tú fuiste una espada de Cristo,
que alguna vez, tal vez, tocó el demonio.
Gloria a ti por la tierra repartida.
Perdón a tu crueldad de mármol negro…
Gloria a ti al igualar indios, negros y blancos…
Gloria a ti que empobreciste a los ricos
Y te hiciste comer de los humildes,
Procurador de Cristo en el Magníficat.

My rough translation:

You [Morelos] were a sword of Christ,
once, perhaps, touched by the devil.
Glory to you for distributing the land.
Sorry for your cruelty of black marble…
Glory to you for equating indians, blacks and whites…
Glory to you that made the rich poor
And made the humble eat,
Attorney of Christ in the Magnificat.

When Pellicer said “touched by the devil” he meant the killings of unarmed Iberian whites that the mulatto ordered in cold blood. That’s why Pellicer said “black marble”: Morelos’ appearance was even darker than the Amerind skin! So much that, to avoid being called names, Morelos covered his curly hair—obvious black heritage—with the legendary bandana that adorns his head in every single picture that represents him.

JOSE MARIA MORELOS Y PAVONThe rest of my rough translation of the famed poet needs no explanation. However, as far as I know Catholic Pellicer (whom I met as a child when my family visited him at Tepoztlán) didn’t have black blood either. You can imagine where all of these ethno-suicidal ideas came from: the religion of the inversion of values of these Body-snatched Mexican Pods, my family included.

Sparta – XII

This specific chapter of Sparta and its Law has been moved: here.

If you want to read the book Sparta and its Law from the beginning, click: here.

Sparta – VIII

This specific chapter of Sparta and its Law has been moved: here.

If you want to read the book Sparta and its Law from the beginning, click: here.

“Her little child”

Spanish version of this post: here.

Excerpted from Werner Ross’s Der ängstliche Adler – Friedrich Nietzsches Leben (1980):

Carl_Ludwig_Nietzsche


(Carl Ludwig Nietzsche,
Nietzsche’s father)


The boy does not remember the Röcken home dominated by women, but only the image of the father, idealized on par as it gradually fades out. The pious rural cleric remains completely safe from the uprising against Christianity, which would be the true mission of Nietzsche from his eighteen years. Since then, his father is for him an “ethereal angel.” One of the qualities that he has inherited from him is the kindness, the renunciation of revenge for nobility. So in the late self-portraiture of Ecce homo we read that, in case of offense, Nietzsche prohibits himself “any retaliation, any measure of defense.”

[Chechar’s note: Those who have read the passages of Alice Miller in The Untouched Key as to why Nietzsche went mad—just imagine a self-proclaimed Antichrist who, simultaneously, never defended himself before the father clergyman!—would treasure passages such as these.]

Another inherited quality is the love of music. In a postcard to Peter Gast [Heinrich Köselitz] of the time of Zarathustra an observation is included: “It is raining in torrents, music gets me away. I like that music and the way I like it is something I cannot explain based on my experiences: rather based on my father. And why should not…?”

The phrase is cut, but can be completed with another of Ecce homo in which he says: Why should not I continue to live in him and he in me after his untimely death?

And he was no less mystical in his later years, when he conceived the doctrine of eternal recurrence, so he could skip the generational order to become a descendant of Napoleon, Caesar or Alexander. But the same process also allowed otherwise: the mysterious identification with the father, either in the agonizing fear of premature death and madness, either in the gut, not even confessed to his friend Gast, that having survived the fateful thirty-third year of his life he would merge with his father to form a single figure with him.

The family was assured that Fritz (short for Friedrich) would be clergyman as the father. His mother, who was not limited to accompany him to the bed but every night carried him into it, panting said, “If you continue like this I’ll have to carry you up to bed until you study theology.” Fritz, meanwhile, was a precocious and obedient child; knew by heart passages of the Bible and religious songs so that their local school classmates called him the little shepherd. He was no friend of other children, and in school they laughed at him but then, at home, spoke wonders of the little sage.

Young Nietzsche, whose strange factions made one think of an owl, had an excellent performance. An anecdote belonging to the repertoire of Elisabeth [Nietzsche’s sister] tells us that, at one point, it started raining and as everyone ran from school to their homes, he continued to walk at a leisurely pace with the board over his hat and scarf on the blackboard. When Nietzsche got home was completely soaked. That why he had not run like the others? Well, because the school regulations say that, after school, children should go to their houses quietly and politely. The story seems credible; it was not normal behavior, but a show of obedience directed against his classmates’ behavior.

The little shepherd never tires of reciting pious maxims, edifying virtuous desires and prayers. Words like purpose, wise decision of God, beneficent hand of God, heavenly father come out of his lips with astonishing naturalness.

The strongest impressions were those that religious music gave Nietzsche. In the misty autumn evenings, the boy came sneaking into the cathedral to witness the rehearsals of the Requiem for the day of the dead; he was overwhelmed to hear the Dies irae and was deeply delighted with the Benedictus. It was not just a childish impulse that led him at fourteen, in Schulpforta, to write in all seriousness motets, chorale melodies and fugues and even try a Missa for solo, chorus and orchestra. At sixteen Nietzsche outlined a Miserere for five voices and, finally, began a Christmas oratory on which he worked for two years.

At seventeen, the son of the pastor received confirmation. His classmate Deussen, also a son of pastor says the two maintained a pious attitude, away from the world. They were willing to die immediately to go to meet Jesus. When his friend Wilhelm Pinder received confirmation, Nietzsche wrote: “With the promise you walk into the line of Christian adults who are considered worthy of the most precious legacy of our Savior, and through their enjoyment of life, achieve happiness of the soul.” Not even from the pastor’s pen would have come such pious words.

In High School Nietzsche had an “excellent” in religion. The commentary reports confirm that the student has shown, along with a good understanding of the New Testament, a keen interest in the doctrine of Christian salvation which he has easily and solidly assimilated, and is also able to express himself clearly on the subject.

The above was extracted from one of the first chapters of Ross’ book. Unlike Curt Paul Janz, hundreds of pages later Ross only dedicates a few paragraphs to Nietzsche’s life after his breakdown. He writes:

Nietzsche’s biography ends in the early days of 1889, although his life was extended until August 25, 1900. Paralyzed and demented, he died of pneumonia.

On August 10, 1889 Nietzsche entered the psychiatric clinic of the University of Basel; a week later he is taken to the Jena University Clinic where he remains for about fifteen months, and on March 24, 1890 he is discharged in writing and sent home. Nietzsche remains under the care of his mother until her death in 1897. In July 1897 the sister purchases a Weimar villa, “Silberblick,” for the Nietzsche Archive and in it she installs the patient.

About the demented Nietzsche several persons issued reports: (1) Turin dentist, Dr. Bettmann, who with Overbeck brought Nietzsche to Basel; (2) the diaries of Basel and Jena for the sick by the physician (and later professor) Ziehen; (2) the mother in his letters to Professor Overbeck, and (4) friends and visitors, from Gast to Deussen and from Overbeck to Resa von Schirnhofer.

The extracts that follow from 1889-1892 show on one hand the state of the disorder, but on the other they shed light on the “healthy” Nietzsche, specifically those oppressed and repressed aspects that madness liberated.

Dentist Bettmann’s opinion, in Turin:

The patient is usually excited, he asks much food but is unable to do something and take care of himself. He claims to be a famous man, and constantly asks a woman for him.

Basel journal for the sick, January 1889:

He only answers partially and incompletely or not at all to the questions addressed to him, insisting in his confused verbiage nonstop.

First day at Jena, January 19, 1889:

The patient walks on the department with many bows of courtesy. With majestic step, staring at the ceiling, enters the room and gives thanks for the “great reception.” He doesn’t know where he is.

Extracts from the diary for the sick at Jena, from January to October 1889:

He wants his compositions to be premiered. He has little understanding or memory of ideas or passages from his works. He always identifies the physicians correctly. He proclaims himself now Duke of Cumberland, now Emperor, etc… “At last I have been Frederick William IV,” “My wife Cosima Wagner has brought me here.” “At night they have uttered curses against me, have used the most horrible mechanisms.” “I want a gun if there is any truth in the suspicion that the very Grand Duchess commits these filthy acts and attacks on me.”

At night we always have to isolate him. He often smears himself with excrement. He eats excrements. He urinates in his boot or glass and drinks the urine or smears himself with it. Once he smeared a leg with excrement. He wraps excrements in paper and puts it all in the drawer of a table.

The mother to Overbeck, April 8, 1889:

About an hour ago my son has been taken to the department of the peaceful sick… The greatest joy you can provide is to speak in Italian or French to him… Gone are the ideas of grandeur that initially made him so happy…

On March 24, 1890 the mother takes Nietzsche out of the center to live with him in Jena. On one occasion Nietzsche undresses in public with intent of swimming and a guard is hired, who follows at a distance mother and son when they go for a walk. On June 17, 1890 she writes to Overbeck:

He plays a little of music every day, partly his small compositions or songs of an old book of songs… The religious sentiment is asserted more and more in him. During Pentecost, when we were sitting quietly in the balcony with me holding an old Bible [he says] that in Turin he had studied the whole Bible and taken thousands of notes, when I read this or that psalm; this or that chapter, I expressed surprise that he knew the Bible so thoroughly.

From 1892 Nietzsche can no longer feed himself. He has to be washed and dressed. The walks have to be abandoned because Nietzsche shouts and hits everything on his way. In 1894 Nietzsche recognizes Deussen, but in 1895 he no longer recognizes Overbeck.

In madness it clearly appears a regression to infantile and juvenile stages. In the time of megalomania Dionysus and Zarathustra are totally excluded. Instead it reappears Frederick William IV [discussed in Ross’ earlier chapters], and Nietzsche says to his mother he is twenty-two. The last letter to Jacob Burckhardt is written by a “student.” His fears (the light should remain lit at night, the door must be closed) belong to an early childhood stage, like the “magic of the pieces of glass.” It is also noteworthy the return to the old religion and a fearful, even radical avoidance of everything philosophical. As a sick man Nietzsche is an obedient or uninhibited child.

At the end he completely sinks into apathy.

nietzsche_demented

The mother, fearful, “limited” (as seen in the Basel clinic) was at first mean, although she continued to receive Nietzsche’s pension. But when he was with her she cared for him, protected and looked after him with motherly love. Friedrich then again became what in her opinion should have always been: her little child.

Dance over the abyss

der_kampf_mit_dem_daemon

If you look into an abyss, the
abyss, likewise, looks into you.



This self-addressed pæan of intoxicated happiness is, I know, regarded by modern physicians as a morbid euphoria, as the last pleasure in a decaying brain, as the stigma of that megalomania which is characteristic of the early stage of paralytic dementia. But Nietzsche talks clearly and incisively amid the ardours of intoxication. No other mortal, perhaps, has ever in full awareness and without a trace of giddiness leaned so far and seen so clearly over the edge of the precipice of lunacy.

No doubt the light that sparkles here is a perilous one. It has the phantasmal and morbid luminosity of a midnight sun glowing red above icebergs; it is a northern light of the soul whose unique splendour makes us shudder. It does not warm us, it terrifies us. It does not dazzle, but it slays. He is not carried away as was Hölderlin by an obscure rhythm of feeling, is not overwhelmed by the onrush of melancholy. He is scorched by his own ardours, is sunstruck by his own rays, is affected by a white-hot and intolerable cheerfulness. Nietzsche’s collapse was a sort of carbonization in his own flames.

He commanded the German emperor to go to Rome in order to be shot; he summoned the European powers to take united military action against Germany, to encircle his fatherland in a ring of iron. Never did apocalyptic wrath shout more savagely into vacancy, never did so glorious presumption scourge a mind beyond earthly bounds. His words issued like hammer-blows striving to demolish the edifice of established civilisation. The Christian era was to cease with the publication of his Antichrist, and a new numbering of the years was to begin.

“No one has written, felt, suffered in such a manner before; the sufferings of a god, a Dionysius.” These words, penned when his mental disorder had already begun, are painfully true. The little room of the fourth floor, and the hermitage of Sils-Maria, not only sheltered the man Friedrich Nietzsche whose nerves were breaking under the strain, but also served as the places from which were issued a marvellous message to the dying century. The Creative Spirit had taken refuge beneath the attic roof heated by the southern sun, and was bestowing its entire wealth upon a timid, neglected, and lonely being, bestowing far more than any isolated person could sustain.

Within those narrow walls, wrestling with infinities, the poor mortal senses were stumbling and groping amid the lightening-flashes of revelation. Like Hölderlin, he felt that a god was revealing himself, a fiery god whose radiance the eyes could not bear and whose proximity was scorching. Again and again the cowering wrench raised his head and attempted to look upon the countenance of this deity, his thoughts running riot the while.

Was not he who felt and wrote and suffered such unthinkable things, was not he himself God? Had not a god reanimated the world after he, Nietzsche, had slain the old god? Who was he? Who was Nietzsche? Was Nietzsche the Crucified; the dead god or the living one; the god of his youth, Dionysius; or both Dionysus and the Crucified—the crucified Dionysius?

More and more confused grew his thoughts; the current roared too loud beneath the superfluity of light. Was it still light? Had it not become music? The narrow room on the fourth floor in the Via Carlo Alberto began to intone; the shining spheres made music; all heaven was aglow. What wonderful music! Tears tricked down his face, warm tears. What sublime tenderness, what auspicious happiness! And now, what lucidity! In the street, everyone smiled at him in friendly fashion; they stood up to greet him; they made obeisance to him, the slayer of gods; they were all so delighted to see him. Why? Why?

He knew. Antichrist had appeared upon earth, and men acclaimed him with hosannas. The world hummed with jubilation, was full of music. Then suddenly the tumult was stilled. Something, someone fell down. It is he, himself, in the street, in front of the house where he lodged. He was picked up. He found himself back in his room.

Had he been asleep for a long time? It seemed very dark. There was the piano. Music! Music! Then, unexpectedly, people appeared in the room. Surely one of them must be Overbeck. But Overbeck is in Basel; and where is he, Nietzsche? He no longer remembers. Why does the company look at him so strangely, so anxiously? He is in a train, rattling along the rails, and the wheels are singing; yes, they are singing the “Gondolier’s Chanty,” and he joins in, signs in an interminable darkness.

He is in a strange room, and always it is dark. No more sunshine, no light at all, either within or without. People talk in the room. A woman among them, surely it is his sister? He had thought she was travelling. She reads aloud to him, now from one book, now from another. Books? “Was not I once a writer of books?” Comes a gentle answer, but he cannot understand. One in whose soul such a hurricane has raged grows deaf to ordinary speech. One who has gazed so intently into the eyes of the daimon is henceforth blinded.

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