Zarathustra’s prologue, 4

 
Thus_Spoke_Zarathustra
Revilo Oliver’s texts on Aryan ethnosuicide and the need to create a religion of hate have moved me to translate some explanatory notes of Thus Spoke Zarathustra at the bottom of this entry (see also my first post in the comments section).
 
 

4

Now Zarathustra looked at the people and he was amazed. Then he spoke thus:

“Mankind is a rope fastened between animal and Overman – a rope over an abyss.

A dangerous crossing, a dangerous on-the-way, a dangerous looking back, a dangerous shuddering and standing still.

What is great about human beings is that they are a bridge and not a purpose: what is lovable about human beings is that they are a crossing over and a going under.[1]

I love those who do not know how to live unless by going under, for they are the ones who cross over.

I love the great despisers, because they are the great venerators and arrows of longing for the other shore.

I love those who do not first seek behind the stars for a reason to go under and be a sacrifice, who instead sacrifice themselves for the earth, so that the earth may one day become the Overman’s.

I love the one who lives in order to know, and who wants to know so that one day the Overman may live. And so he wants his going under.

I love the one who works and invents in order to build a house for the Overman and to prepare earth, animals and plants for him: for thus he wants his going under.

I love the one who loves his virtue: for virtue is the will to going under and an arrow of longing.

I love the one who does not hold back a single drop of spirit for himself, but wants instead to be entirely the spirit of his virtue: thus he strides as spirit over the bridge.

I love the one who makes of his virtue his desire and his doom: thus for the sake of his virtue he wants to live on and to live no more.

I love the one who does not want to have too many virtues. One virtue is more virtue than two, because it is more of a hook on which his doom may hang.

I love the one whose soul squanders itself, who wants no thanks and gives none back: for he always gives and does not want to preserve himself.[2]

I love the one who is ashamed when the dice fall to his fortune and who then asks: am I a cheater? – For he wants to perish.

I love the one who casts golden words before his deeds and always does even more than he promises: for he wants his going under.

I love the one who justifies people of the future and redeems those of the past: for he wants to perish of those in the present.

I love the one who chastises his god, because he loves his god: for he must perish of the wrath of his god.[3]

I love the one whose soul is deep even when wounded, and who can perish of a small experience: thus he goes gladly over the bridge.

I love the one whose soul is overfull, so that he forgets himself, and all things are in him: thus all things become his going under.

I love the one who is free of spirit and heart: thus his head is only the entrails of his heart, but his heart drives him to his going under.

I love all those who are like heavy drops falling individually from the dark cloud that hangs over humanity: they herald the coming of the lightning, and as heralds they perish.

Behold, I am a herald of the lightning and a heavy drop from the cloud: but this lightning is called Overman. –”

 

______________________

The above German-English translation by Adrian del Caro is taken from Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Cambridge University Press, 2006). This Cambridge edition lacks the more detailed notes by Andrés Sánchez-Pascual in Así Habló Zaratustra (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2014), translated below.

Notes:

[1] See footnote 5. [Note of the Ed.: In this site’s translation: here]

[2] Paraphrase of Luke, 17, 33: “Whosoever shall seek to save his life shall lose it; and whosoever shall lose his life shall preserve it.”

[3] A direct quote inverting its sense of Hebrews 12: 6: “For whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.” See also, in Part Four, “The Awakening.”

Zarathustra’s prologue, 3

 
Thus_Spoke_Zarathustra
Revilo Oliver’s texts on Aryan ethnosuicide and the need to create a religion of hate have moved me to translate some explanatory notes of Thus Spoke Zarathustra at the bottom of this entry (see also my first post in the comments section).
 
 

3

When Zarathustra came into the nearest town lying on the edge of the forest, he found many people gathered in the market place[1] for it had been promised that a tightrope walker would perform. And Zarathustra spoke thus to the people:

I teach you the Overman.[2] Human being is something that must be overcome. What have you done to overcome him?

All creatures so far created something beyond themselves; and you want to be the ebb of this great flood and would even rather go back to animals than overcome humans?

What is the ape to a human? A laughing stock or a painful embarrassment. And that is precisely what the human shall be to the Overman: a laughing stock or a painful embarrassment.[3]

You have made your way from worm to human, and much in you is still worm. Once you were apes, and even now a human is still more ape than any ape.

But whoever is wisest among you is also just a conflict and a cross between plant and ghost. But do I implore you to become ghosts or plants?

Behold, I teach you the Overman!

The Overman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will say: the Overman shall be the meaning of the earth!

I beseech you, my brothers, remain faithful to the earth and do not believe those who speak to you of extraterrestrial hopes! They are mixers of poisons whether they know it or not.

They are despisers of life, dying off and self-poisoned, of whom the earth is weary: so let them fade away!

Once the sacrilege against God was the greatest sacrilege, but God died, and then all these desecrators died. Now to desecrate the earth is the most terrible thing, and to esteem the bowels of the unfathomable higher than the meaning of the earth!

Once the soul gazed contemptuously at the body, and then such contempt was the highest thing: it wanted the body gaunt, ghastly, starved. Thus it intended to escape the body and the earth.

Oh this soul was gaunt, ghastly and starved, and cruelty was the lust of this soul!

But you, too, my brothers, tell me: what does your body proclaim about your soul? Is your soul not poverty and filth and a pitiful contentment?

Truly, mankind is a polluted stream. One has to be a sea to take in a polluted stream without becoming unclean.

Behold, I teach you the Overman: he is this sea, in him your great contempt can go under.

What is the greatest thing that you can experience? It is the hour of your great contempt. The hour in which even your happiness turns to nausea and likewise your reason and your virtue.

The hour in which you say: ‘What matters my happiness? It is poverty and filth, and a pitiful contentment. But my happiness ought to justify existence itself!’

The hour in which you say: ‘What matters my reason? Does it crave knowledge like the lion its food? It is poverty and filth and a pitiful contentment!’

The hour in which you say: ‘What matters my virtue? It has not yet made me rage. How weary I am of my good and my evil! That is all poverty and filth and a pitiful contentment!’

The hour in which you say: ‘What matters my justice? I do not see that I am ember and coal. But the just person is ember and coal!’

The hour in which you say: ‘What matters my pity? Is pity not the cross on which he is nailed who loves humans? But my pity is no crucifixion.’

Have you yet spoken thus? Have you yet cried out thus? Oh that I might have heard you cry out thus!

Not your sin – your modesty cries out to high heaven, your stinginess even in sinning cries out to high heaven![4]

Where is the lightning that would lick you with its tongue? Where is the madness with which you should be inoculated?

Behold, I teach you the Overman: he is this lightning, he is this madness! –”

When Zarathustra had spoken thus someone from the crowd cried out:

“We have heard enough already about the tightrope walker, now let us see him too!” And all the people laughed at Zarathustra. But the tightrope walker, believing that these words concerned him, got down to his work.

 

______________________

The above German-English translation by Adrian del Caro is taken from Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Cambridge University Press, 2006). This Cambridge edition lacks the more detailed notes by Andrés Sánchez-Pascual in Así Habló Zaratustra (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2014), translated below.

Notes:

[1] Markt is the word used by Nietzsche, here translated literally, market. It does not refer only to the place of purchase and sale of goods but, in general, to a spacious place where people meet, the public square. Even today the central square of many German cities is called Marktplatz.

[2] On the “Overman,” a term that has led to many misunderstandings, says Nietzsche himself in Ecce homo: “The word ‘Overman’ as the designation for a type of the highest successfulness as opposed to ‘modern’ men, to ‘good’ men, to Christians and other nihilists—a word that in the mouth of a Zarathustra, the annihilation of morality, becomes a very thought-provoking word—has been understood almost everywhere with complete innocence in the sense of those values whose antithesis the figure of Zarathustra was meant to represent: that is to say, as the ‘idealistic’ type of a higher kind of man, half-‘saint,’ half-‘genius’.”

[3] An echo of fragments 82 and 83 of Heraclitus: “The most beautiful ape is ugly compared to man.” “The wisest man is an ape compared to god.”

[4] “Crying to Heaven” is a biblical expression. See Genesis, 4, 10: “And he said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground” (words of Yahweh to Cain). As he almost always does with these biblical “quotes,” Zarathustra gives it an antithetical sense from that in the original.

Zarathustra’s prologue, 2

 
Thus_Spoke_Zarathustra
Revilo Oliver’s texts on Aryan ethnosuicide and the need to create a religion of hate have moved me to translate some explanatory notes of Thus Spoke Zarathustra at the bottom of this entry (see also my first post in the comments section).
 
 

2

Zarathustra climbed down alone from the mountains and encountered no one. But when he came to the woods suddenly an old man stood before him, who had left his saintly hut in search of roots in the woods.[1] And thus spoke the old man to Zarathustra:

“This wanderer is no stranger to me: many years ago he passed by here. Zarathustra he was called; but he is transformed.

Back then you carried your ashes to the mountain[2]: would you now carry your fire into the valley? Do you not fear the arsonist’s punishment?

Yes, I recognize Zarathustra. His eyes are pure, and no disgust is visible around his mouth.[3] Does he not stride like a dancer?

Zarathustra is transformed, Zarathustra has become a child, an awakened one[4] is Zarathustra. What do you want now among the sleepers?

You lived in your solitude as if in the sea, and the sea carried you. Alas, you want to climb ashore? Alas, you want to drag your own body again?”

Zarathustra answered: “I love mankind.”

“Why,” asked the saint, “did I go into the woods and the wilderness in the first place? Was it not because I loved mankind all too much?

Now I love God: human beings I do not love. Human beings are too imperfect a thing for me. Love for human beings would kill me.”

Zarathustra replied. “Why did I speak of love? I bring mankind a gift.”

“Give them nothing,” said the saint. “Rather take something off them and help them to carry it – that will do them the most good, if only it does you good!

And if you want to give to them, then give nothing more than alms, and make them beg for that too!”

“No,” answered Zarathustra. “I do not give alms. For that I am not poor enough.”

The saint laughed at Zarathustra and spoke thus: “Then see to it that they accept your treasures! They are mistrustful of hermits and do not believe that we come to give gifts.

To them our footsteps sound too lonely in the lanes. And if at night lying in their beds they hear a man walking outside, long before the sun rises, they probably ask themselves: where is the thief going?[5]

Do not go to mankind and stay in the woods! Go even to the animals instead! Why do you not want to be like me – a bear among bears, a bird among birds?”

“And what does the saint do in the woods?” asked Zarathustra.

The saint answered: “I make songs and sing them, and when I make songs I laugh, weep and growl: thus I praise God.

With singing, weeping, laughing and growling I praise the god who is my god. But tell me, what do you bring us as a gift?”

When Zarathustra had heard these words he took his leave of the saint and spoke: “What would I have to give you! But let me leave quickly before I take something from you!” – And so they parted, the oldster and the man, laughing like two boys laugh.

But when Zarathustra was alone he spoke thus to his heart: “Could it be possible! This old saint in his woods has not yet heard the news that God is dead!” [6]

 

______________________

The above German-English translation by Adrian del Caro is taken from Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Cambridge University Press, 2006). This Cambridge edition lacks the more detailed notes by Andrés Sánchez-Pascual in Así Habló Zaratustra (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2014). I have translated Sánchez-Pascual’s notes to English.

Notes:

[1] By the end of the work the retired pope will come looking for him and find dead this old hermit; see in the fourth part, “Retired.”

[2] See, in this first part, “On the Hinterworldly,” and “On the Way of the Creator,” and in the second part, “The Soothsayer,” where reference to ashes reappears. The ash is symbol of cremation and rejection of false juvenile ideals.

[3] The purity of the eyes and the absence of disgust in the mouth are attributes of Zarathustra referred on numerous occasions; see, for example, in the second part, “On the Sublime Ones,” and the fourth, “The Voluntary Beggar.”

[4] The “awakened one” is a common epithet of Buddha, which applies here to Zarathustra.

[5] A reference to Thessalonians 5: 2, “For you yourselves know very well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night.”

[6] The idea of the death of God, which runs through the whole work, and the ignorance by the hermit saint, will be a topic of conversation between Zarathustra and the retired pope when both speak and the hermit has died. See, in the fourth part, “Retired.”

Published in: on August 21, 2015 at 9:52 am  Comments (1)  

Zarathustra’s prologue, 1

 
Thus_Spoke_Zarathustra
Revilo Oliver’s texts on Aryan ethnosuicide and the need to create a religion of hate have moved me to translate some explanatory notes of Thus Spoke Zarathustra at the bottom of this entry (see also my first post in the comments section).

 
 

1[1]

When Zarathustra was thirty years old[2] he left his home and the lake of his home and went into the mountains. Here he enjoyed his spirit and his solitude and for ten years he did not tire of it. But at last his heart transformed, – one morning he arose with the dawn, stepped before the sun and spoke thus to it:

“You great star! What would your happiness be if you had not those for whom you shine![3]

For ten years you have come up here to my cave: you would have tired of your light and of this route without me, my eagle and my snake.[4]

But we awaited you every morning, took your overflow from you and blessed you for it.

Behold! I am weary of my wisdom, like a bee that has gathered too much honey. I need hands that reach out.

I want to bestow and distribute until the wise among human beings have once again enjoyed their folly, and the poor once again their wealth.

For this I must descend into the depths, as you do evenings when you go behind the sea and bring light even to the underworld, you super-rich star!

Like you, I must go down[5] as the human beings say, to whom I want to descend.

So bless me now, you quiet eye that can look upon even an all too great happiness without envy!

Bless the cup that wants to flow over, such that water flows golden from it and everywhere carries the reflection of your bliss!

Behold! This cup wants to become empty again, and Zarathustra wants to become human again.”

– Thus began Zarathustra’s going under.[6]

 

______________________

The above German-English translation by Adrian del Caro is taken from Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Cambridge University Press, 2006). This Cambridge edition lacks the more detailed notes by Andrés Sánchez-Pascual in Así Habló Zaratustra (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2014). Thus, I have translated Sánchez-Pascual’s notes to English. Page numbers refer to that edition in Spanish.

Notes:

[1] This § 1 of Thus Spake Zarathustra literally reproduces the aphorism 342 of The Gay Science. Only the “Lake Urmi” that appears there is here replaced by “the lake of his home.” The aforementioned aphorism is entitled “Incipit tragædia” (Tragedy begins) and is the last of the fourth book of The Gay Science, entitled “Sanctus Januarius” (St. January).

[2] This is the age at which Jesus begins his preaching. See the gospel of Luke, 3, 23: “Jesus was about thirty years old when he began his work.” In the sought antagonism between Zarathustra and Jesus, this is the first of the confrontations. As can be seen throughout the work, Zarathustra is partly Jesus’ anti-figure. And so, the age when Jesus begins preaching is the same in which Zarathustra withdrew to the mountains in order to prepare for his task. Immediately after, a second contrast between the two becomes apparent: Jesus spent only forty days in the wilderness; Zarathustra spent ten years in the mountains.

[3] Zarathustra will pronounce the same invocation to the sun at the end of the work. See, in the fourth part, “The Sign.” [Note of the Ed.: Precisely the chapter mentioned by the end of my 2012 essay, “Dies irae”]

[4] The two heraldic animals of Zarathustra respectively represent his will and his wit. They will provide company on numerous occasions and even act as his conversational partners, especially in the very important chapter of the third part entitled, “The Convalescent.”

[5] “Untergehen.” It is one of the key words that illustrate the figure of Zarathustra. This German verb contains several nuances that hardly may be held simultaneously in the Spanish translation. Untergehen is primarily, and literally, “walk (gehen) down (unter).” Zarathustra, in effect, gets down from the mountains. Secondly the term usually designate the “sunset,” and Zarathustra makes it clear that he wants to act like the sun at sunset. Thirdly, Untergehen and the substantive Untergang are used to mean sinking, destruction, decay; thus the title of the famous work of Spengler’s, Der Untergang des Abendlandes (translated as The Decline of the West). Zarathustra also declines in his task and fails. His task, he says several times, destroys him. As a Castilian terminus technicus of Untergehen, here it has been adopted “hundirse en su ocaso” [Note of the Ed.: literally, “sinking into his sunset”—contrast it with the Cambdridge translation, “go down”] which seems to retain the three senses. However, Nietzsche plays countless times with this German compound word and also in contrast to other compounds. For example, he contrasts and joins Untergang and Übergang. Übergang is “passing to the other side” over something, but it also means “transition.” Man, Zarathustra would say, is “a transit and a sunset.” That is, by sinking into his decline, like the sun, he moves to the other side (of the earth, it is understood, according to the old belief). And “passing to the other side” means surpassing oneself and becoming the Overman.

[6] This same phrase is repeated later, on page 62. The “sunset” of Zarathustra ends towards the end of the third part, in the chapter entitled “The Convalescent” which states: “Thus – ends Zarathustra’s going under!”

Sparta – XIX

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.

Published in: on September 24, 2013 at 1:01 pm  Comments Off on Sparta – XIX  

Curt Paul Janz on Nietzsche, 1

Nietzsche_after_catastrophe

Excerpted from Curt Paul Janz’s last volume of his biography, Friedrich Nietzsche. Biographie. Band 3: Die Jahre des Siechtums, Chapter “The Catastrophe”:


Omens

In the last months before the disaster, acute disturbances of the understanding of reality and his identity increasingly piled up. A fact whose significance cannot be underestimated is that Nietzsche’s philosophical thought is definitely interrupted with the Antichrist on September 30, 1888. In a completely wrong assessment of the magnitude and significance of the matter, Nietzsche wants to see from that date a new beginning, a new measure of time, and what happens is the beginning, just for him, of a “new” time, a new and radically different consciousness.

What is perhaps the most significant part of his philosophy, the critique of knowledge, seems totally forgotten. Nietzsche no longer speaks of moral and cultural criticism; there are only vague memories of the world of Zarathustra (lyrical content is precisely what revives in some poetry). On the contrary, neither the “overman” or the “eternal return” are any longer defended.

With the alleged murder of Pauline Christianity as inverted Platonism and as a building for Jewish priestly power, Nietzsche believes he has finished the major philosophical work. Everything else, all “revaluation of all values” naturally follows that, so that he is no longer committed but to ensure the propagation of this final “knowledge.” With it, on September 30, 1888 philosophy is finished!

“It’s all over,” Nietzsche writes to Carl Fuchs on December 18. Even before, it shone occasionally, and strangely, this split regarding his own work. Thus for example on July 18, 1888, Nietzsche makes the arrogant statement to Fuchs: “I have given men the deepest book they possess, my Zarathustra” (which is also repeated multiple times to other recipients), and Nietzsche adds a few lines later: “Since then I do nothing but buffoonery to keep beating a vulnerability and an unbearable tension,” an idea—that of being the “jester of the millennium”—that continues well into the time of the transition into darkness. The strangeness toward his latest work, The Genealogy of Morals, can be captured more accurately in the letter of August 22, 1888 to Meta von Salis:

The first glance I threw inside surprised me: I discovered a long prologue… whose existence I had forgotten… Actually I kept in memory only the title of the three treaties: the rest, the content, was lost. This is the result of extreme intellectual activity… which, as it were, had brought a wall in the middle… Those times I underwent an almost uninterrupted state of inspiration, so that this text emerged as the most natural thing in the world… The style is passionate and disturbing, full of finesses: flexible and colorful as I had not written such prose before.

Nietzsche took another decisive step still further in this way when he confesses to Köselitz on December 9, 1888:

A few days ago I leafed thru my writing, for which only now I am mature… I’ve done everything very well, but I had never thought of it… Damn, how much is hidden in there! —In the Ecce homo you will find a discovery on the third and fourth Untimely Meditations that will put you on the willies, as it did to me. Both speak only about me, anticipating… Neither Wagner nor Schopenhauer appear there psychologically… I could only understand these writings four days ago.

The reference to Ecce homo is to be taken very seriously. For very valuable and significant the biographical and data regarding the history of his work are, in this letter the interpretations of his books are to be taken with extreme care. The Nietzsche of Ecce homo is no longer the Nietzsche who wrote a philosophical work. He is now facing a stranger. He “interprets it,” thinks he only now understands his work; that only now he has a feel for it. Unwittingly, with the signing of the letter he reveals that he is not the same: “Yours, the phoenix.”

Thus start the mystifying pseudonyms. For example, in the December 18 letter to Fuchs he is “the monster,” and after the collapse the pseudonyms take full possession of him. After philosophy, what Nietzsche first lost is his identity. Just two weeks later, on December 31, 1888 (to Köselitz) he does not already know his address: “Suppose it could be in principle the Palazzo del Quirinale.” Turin, from which emerged the young Italian kingdom, and Rome, from where it dominates now, merge into one before that blotchy look.

Later Nietzsche sees himself as the organizer of a European congress of princes, who wants to convene on January 8, 1889 in Rome, the heart of “Imperium Romanum.” He has already drafted the invitations: one for the Italian king Umberto II, another for Mariani, the papal secretary of state, and one for the “House of Baden.”

What remains for the moment is poetry and music. But even poetry could not be maintained for long…

Published in: on August 3, 2013 at 11:26 am  Comments Off on Curt Paul Janz on Nietzsche, 1  

The seventh solitude

der_kampf_mit_dem_daemon

A great man is pushed and hustled and
martyrized until he withdraws into solitude.

 

Nietzsche lived in many different towns; he travelled into countless realms of the mind; frequently he endeavoured to escape from solitude by crossing a frontier into a foreign land; but always his journeyings brought him back to solitude, heartsore, weary, disillusioned.

His solitude had become complete isolation, the final, the seventh, solitude, wherein one is not merely alone but also forsaken. A void surrounded him, an awe-inspiring silence; no hermit or anchorite in the desert was ever more abandoned. They, at least, still had their God whose shade dwelt in their huts. But he, “the murderer of God,” had neither God nor man to companion him. To the extent that he drew nearer to himself, he receded from the world; and, as his voyages extended, “the desert widened” around him.

Generally the works conceived and written in loneliness gain more and more ascendancy upon the minds of men; by a magnetic force they attract increasing numbers of admirers into the invisible circle of their influence. But Nietzsche’s books alienated even his friends. In Germany no publisher would any longer accept his manuscripts. During his twenty years of production, his manuscripts accumulated in a cellar and came to weigh many hundredweight. He had to draw upon his own slender resources in order to get his books printed. Not only did nobody buy the few volumes that were issued, but he found no readers when he gave them away. So vast was the chasm between this man’s genius and the pettiness of the time.

Practically no reviewer or critic took the slightest notice of Zarathustra, which the author described as “the greatest gift ever bestowed upon men.” One day he lamented: “After such an appeal as my Zarathustra, a cry that came from my heart, it is terrible not to hear a responsive word, to hear nothing, absolutely nothing, to be surrounded by silence, to be a thousand times more isolated than heretofore. This is a situation exceeding all others in horror; even the strongest might die under the strain… And I am far from being the strongest. Sometimes it seems to me as though I were indeed wounded unto death.” This gnawed at his vitals, undermining his proper pride, inflaming his self-assertive impulse, consuming his soul. Lack of recognition was the shaft which poisoned his isolation, and raised his temper to fever-heat.

“Prolonged silence has exasperated my pride.” At all costs he wanted response, sending letter upon letter, telegram upon telegram. Blindly and wildly he flung his missiles far and wide, never looking to see if they hit the mark. Since he had slain the gods, he set himself up as a divinity. “Must we not become gods if we are to be worthy of such deeds?” Having overthrown all the altars, he built an altar for himself in order to praise himself, seeing that no one else would acknowledge him. He chanted his own dirge with enthusiasm and exultation, mingling it with songs celebrating his deeds and his victories. To begin with, a twilight covered the landscape of his mind as when black clouds stalk up from the horizon and distant thunder growls; then a strident laugh rent the sultry air, a mad, violent, and wicked laugh full of despair, heartbreaking: this was the pæan of Ecce Homo.

As the book develops, its cadences become increasingly spasmodic, the yells of laughter are more shrill amid the glacial silence; he is, as it were, outside himself. His hands are raised, his feet stamp rhythmically; he breaks into a dance, a dance over the abyss, the abyss of his own annihilation.

Flight into music

der_kampf_mit_dem_daemon

For many years music remained a private amusement to which Nietzsche delivered himself up in a spirit of irresponsible pleasure, with the pure delight of an amateur, a pastime altogether outside his main “mission” in life. Music flooded his being only after the philological crust had been removed, only when his erudite objectivity of outlook had become disintegrated, when his cosmos had been shattered as if by a volcanic eruption.

Precisely because he had pent up these primal springs of his nature for so long behind the damns of philology, erudition, and indifference, did they gush forth so vehemently and penetrate into every crevice, irradiating and liquefying his literary style. It was as if his tongue, which had hitherto sought to explain tangible things, had suddenly refused its allotted task and insisted upon expressing itself in terms of music. Even his punctuation—unspoken speech—his dashes, his italics, could find equivalents in the terminology of the elements of music.

The details of each work are vibrant with music, and the works as a whole read like symphonies. They no longer belong to the realm of architecture, of intellectual and objective creations, but are the direct outcome of musical inspiration. Of Thus Spake Zarathustra he himself says that it was written “in the spirit of the first phrase of the Ninth Symphony.” And how better can I describe the opening of Ecce Homo than as a magnificent organ prelude destined to be played in some vast cathedral? “Song of Night” and “Gondolier’s Chanty” resemble the croonings of primitive men in the midst of an infinite solitude. When was his inspiration more joyous and dancing, more heroic, more like a lilting cadence of the Grecian music of antiquity, than in the pæan indited during his ultimate outburst of happiness, in the Dionysian rhapsody? Illuminated from on high by the pellucid skies of the South, soaked from beneath by the waters of music, his language became as it were a wave, restless and immense.

Music, limpid, freedom-giving, and light, became the dearest solace of Nietzsche’s agitated mind. “Life without music is nothing but fatigue and error.” “Was a man ever so athirst for music as I?” He, the solitary wanderer cast out by the gods desired only that they should not rob him of this one consolation, this nectar, this ambrosia which eternally refreshed and reinvigorated the soul. “Art, nothing but art! Art was given us that we might not be slain by truth.”

The world had forsaken him; his friends had long since gone their ways and ignored his existence; his thoughts strayed forth on interminable pilgrimages. Music alone walked by his side, accompanying him into his final, his seventh, solitude.

When in the end he fell into the abyss, she watched over his obliterated mind. Overbeck, coming into the room after the catastrophe, found the unhappy madman sitting at the piano, his fingers fumbling the keys in a vain effort to find the harmonies so dear to him.

The diamond speaks

“Why so hard!”—said to the diamond one day the charcoal; “are we then not near relatives?”—

Why so soft? O my brethren; thus do I ask you: are ye then not—my brethren?

Why so soft, so submissive and yielding? Why is there so much negation and abnegation in your hearts? Why is there so little fate in your looks?

And if ye will not be fates and inexorable ones, how can ye one day—conquer with me?

And if your hardness will not glance and cut and chip to pieces, how can ye one day—create with me?

For the creators are hard. And blessedness must it seem to you to press your hand upon millenniums as upon wax,—

—Blessedness to write upon the will of millenniums as upon brass,—harder than brass, nobler than brass. Entirely hard is only the noblest.

This new table, O my brethren, put I up over you: Become hard!—

Published in: on July 16, 2013 at 11:56 am  Comments (1)  

Crucify them!

Spartacus 's followers are crucified

This is my response
to J. Varlaan in yesterday’s thread:


Oh man, I must be with you and others like us in the aftermaths of the days of the rope! This is why I believe that white nationalist Christians are obsolete animals. Unlike Pierce, Covington and Linder, white nationalist Christians don’t harbor this sort of fantasies. These nice guys are incapable of indulging themselves in hate because their fucking religion, especially the Protestant branch, forbids them such sentiment.

Seriously man, my big dream is to mark the end the Christian Era that is killing us by exposing, for a hundred years, thousands upon thousands of crucified white traitors along the roads from Paris to Berlin and from Washington to Atlanta. So, speaking of the future, the rotten corpses on the crosses that were killed long ago in the revolutionary days would produce the visual shock that the white race so desperately needs.

That’s why I lean much closer toward Pierce’s seminal novel than to Covington’s quintet. The fanaticism required in the white psyche to survive the darkest hour must go far beyond Dave Duke’s bullshit YouTube propaganda of being fair to non-white peoples and their shitty cultures. Instead of the gospel, the coming overman must find inspiration in Thus spake Zarathustra and in The Turner Diaries.

If conquering the world for the race is the ultimate objective, one must first crucify the most notorious members of wickedest generation of history, and give the strong message to the survivors that Constantine’s abolition of the crucifixion practice in the year 337, out of veneration of a Galilean, is over.

Let the diamond speak!