I prefer to think of him as a tortured soul, with a gift for the aphorism, who art was stirred by an honesty (albeit a narcissistic honesty), that was intellectually and spiritually self-destructive. Yes, he was struggle was futile, and his victor’s crown became madness and defeat. But in the light of his own funeral pyre, some of our errors, our complanceny our hypocrisy (let me change that our to ‘my’) are brought to light.
I hate much of Nietzsche’s writings, especially his late stuff. I also reject his ideas (except for his aesthetic theories in “The Birth of Tragedy”, and “The Case Against Wagner”, both of which still convince me- in which he shows the antithesis of the spirit between noble Greek tragedy and degenerate 19th Century pessimism).
But “Also Sprach Zarathustra” must be considered a masterpiece of literature, a book which cannot be ‘not read’. It is a work of a creative genius, and is has its own beauty and tragedy, regardless of its truth.
I think Nietzsche is one of those writers who is virtually impossible to understand without spending a significant amount of time with him. There’s a complexity and nuance of thought and of
sensibility that defies easy understanding.
Here are a few quotes from Nietzsche that someone with only a passing familiarity with his writings – normally secondhand – would not likely recognize as having flowed from his pen:
–"Since humanity came into being, man hath enjoyed himself too little: that alone, my brethren, is our original sin!
And when we learn better to enjoy ourselves, then do we unlearn best to give pain unto others, and to contrive pain."
–“I would like to
take away from human existence some of its heartbreaking and cruel character.”
—“What is great is so alien to your souls that the overman would be awesome to you in his kindness.”
“Ah, how it sickens me to obtrude my own ideas upon others! How I rejoice in any mood and secret change within myself whereby the thoughts of others carry the day over mine! But from time to time I enjoy even a greater treat: when I am allowed to give away my intellectual house and goods, like the confessor sitting in a corner and anxiously waiting for a distressed one to come and tell the misery of his thoughts, so that hand and heart may again be filled and the troubled soul eased. Not only does he not want any praise: he would like to shun gratitude as well, for it is obtrusive and does not stand in awe of solitude and silence. To live without a name or slightly sneered at; too humble to arouse envy or enmity; with a head free from fever, a handful of knowledge and a bagful of experience; a physician, so to speak, of the poor in intellect, helping one or the other whose head is bewildered by opinions without this one really noticing who has helped him! Without any desire of setting himself right in his presence and carrying a victory, he would speak to him in such wise that after a short, imperceptible hint or contradiction, he may tell himself what is right and proudly walk away! Like an obscure inn which never refuses admittance to a person in need, but which is afterwards forgotten and laughed at! He has no advantage, neither better food, nor purer air, nor a readier intellect – but gives up, returns, imparts, grows poorer! He can be humble in order to be accessible to many and humiliating to none! He has much wrong resting on himself, and has crept through the worm-holes of all sorts of errors, in order to be able to reach many obscure souls on their secret paths. For ever dwelling in some kind of love and some kind of selfishness and self-enjoyment! Powerful and at the same time obscure and resigned! Constantly basking in sunshine and soft light of grace, and yet knowing the ladder, which leads to the sublime, to be near at hand! That, indeed, would be life! That, indeed, would be motive for a long life!”