Aristotle spoke in practical terms to my brain. He was Apollonian. Nietzsche found the fire in my heart. He was Dionysian. Nietzsche’s concept of the ubermensch, so horribly corrupted by the Nazis, showed its radiance and power when read without a thought to the horrors of the Second World War. It challenged the reader to soar above the sunshine of mountain tops when others chose the shadowed safety of the valleys. Like Thoreau’s “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation” and T.S. Eliots’s “Hollow men, heads filled with straw” or Elliot’s J. Alfred Prufrock who “measured out his life with coffee spoons” because he never had the courage to attempt the deeds of which he dreamed, Nietzsche warned me not to fall into the pathways dictated by convention, to never be caught in the doctrines of a creedbound group, but to be a Steppenwolf, a loner, drawing the best substance from each subculture he could sample, but opposing each subculture’s dark side, the part that would freeze the soul in sterile ritual, outworn thought, or outright hatred. Nietzsche, Elliott, Thoreau, and Edna St. Vincent Millay threw down a gauntlet. They said dare to take the challenge. Dare to do the dangerous, the outrageous, dare to be shunned, dare to stare destruction in the face, dare to stare down evil, even when its strength seems infinite and yours seems minuscule, look into the eyes of divinity though it is said that such a vision blinds, craft your own religion, find your own gods, seek forbidden, unspoken, and unknown truths, and undergo the pain or exhilaration of every human passion until you can feel with empathy the horror and the joys of millions, no matter where they be. Dare always to do the impossible. Dare to find the heart of authenticity. Dare to guard a hard-and-fast integrity based on what is right, what is just, what is most fervent in the human heart. Dare to be ecstatic when others are merely happy. Avoid the snares of the ordinary and bring Promethean fire from the realms of darkness to light the dark caves of humanity. The prose I’ve used is overblown, but so was Nietzsche’s, and frankly, it roused the soul through the its sheer audacity.