Friedrich Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols, or, How to Philosophize with a Hammer 

Götzen-Dämmerung, oder, Wie man mit dem Hammer philosophirt. Written in 1888 and published in 1889.

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You ask me which of the philosophers' traits are most characteristic?     For example, their lack of historical sense, their hatred of the very idea of becoming, their Egypticism.  They think that they show their respect for a subject when they dehistoricize it sub specie aeternitas — when they turn it into a mummy.  Everything that philosophers handled over the past thousands of years turned into concept mummies; nothing real escaped their grasp alive.  Whenever these venerable concept idolators revere something, they kill it and stuff it; they suck the life out of everything they worship.  Death, change, old age, as well as procreation and growth, are to their minds objections — even refutations.  Whatever has being does not become; whatever becomes does not have being.  Now they all believe, desperately even, in what has being.  But since they never grasp it, they seek for reasons why it is kept from them.  "There must be mere appearance, there must be some deception which prevents us from perceiving that which has being: where is the deceiver?"  "We have found him," they cry jubilantly; "it is the senses!  These senses, so immoral in other ways too, deceive us concerning the true world.  Moral: let us free ourselves from the deception of the senses, from becoming, from history, from lies; history is nothing but faith in the senses, faith in lies.  Moral: let us say No to all who have faith in the senses, to all the rest of mankind; they are all 'mob.  ' Let us be philosophers!  Let us be mummies!  Let us represent monotono-theism by adopting the manner of a gravedigger!  And above all, away with the body, this wretched idée fixe of the senses, disfigured by all the fallacies of logic, refuted, even impossible, although it is impudent enough to behave as if it were real!"  


With the highest respect, I exclude the name of Heraclitus.     When the rest of the philosophic crowd rejected the testimony of the senses because it showed multiplicity and change, he rejected their testimony because it represented things as if they had permanence and unity.  Heraclitus too did the senses an injustice.  They lie neither in the way the Eleatics believed, nor as he believed — they do not lie at all.  What we make of their testimony, that alone introduces lies; for example, the lie of unity, the lie of thinghood, of substance, of permanence.  "Reason" is the reason we falsify the testimony of the senses.  Insofar as the senses show becoming, passing away, and change, they do not lie.  But Heraclitus will remain eternally right with his assertion that being is an empty fiction.  The "apparent" world is the only one: the "true" world is merely added by a lie.  


And what magnificent instruments of observation we possess in our senses!     This nose, for example, of which no philosopher has yet spoken with reverence and gratitude, is actually the most delicate instrument so far at our disposal: it is able to detect tiny chemical concentrations that even elude a spectroscope.  Today we possess science precisely to the extent to which we have decided to accept the testimony of the senses — to the extent to which we sharpen them further, arm them, and have learned to think them through.  The rest is miscarriage and not-yet-science — in other words, metaphysics, theology, psychology, epistemology — or formal science, a doctrine of signs, such as logic and that applied logic which is called mathematics.  In them reality is not encountered at all, not even as a problem — no more than the question of the value of such a sign-convention as logic.  


The other characteristic of philosophers is no less dangerous; it consists in confusing the last and the first.     They place that which comes at the end — unfortunately!  for it ought not to come at all!  namely, the "highest concepts," which means the most general, the emptiest concepts, the last smoke of evaporating reality — in the beginning, as the beginning.  This again is nothing but their way of showing reverence: the higher may not grow out of the lower, may not have grown at all.  Moral: whatever is of the first rank must be causa sui.  Origin out of something else is considered an objection, a questioning of value.  All the highest values are of the first rank; all the highest concepts, that which has being, the unconditional, the good, the true, the perfect — all these cannot have become and must therefore be causes.  All these, moreover, cannot be unlike each other or in contradiction to each other.  Thus they arrive at their stupendous concept, "God."  That which is last, thinnest, and emptiest is put first, as the cause, as ens realissimum.  Why did humanity have to take seriously the brain afflictions of these sick web-spinners?  We have paid dearly for it!  


At long last, let us contrast the very different manner in which we conceive the problem of error and appearance.     (I say "we" for politeness' sake.)  In the past, alteration, change, any becoming at all, were taken as proof of mere appearance, as an indication that there must be something which led us astray.  Today, in contrast, precisely insofar as the prejudice of reason forces us to posit unity, identity, permanence, substance, cause, thinghood, being, we see ourselves somehow caught in error, compelled into error — so certain are we, on the basis of rigorous examination, that this is where the error lies.  It is no different in this case than with the movement of the sun: there our eye is the constant advocate of error, here it is our language.  In its origin language belongs to the age of the most rudimentary psychology.  We enter a realm of crude fetishism when we summon before consciousness the basic presuppositions of the metaphysics of language — in plain talk, the presuppositions of reason.  Everywhere reason sees a doer and doing; it believes in will as the cause; it believes in the ego, in the ego as being, in the ego as substance, and it projects this faith in the ego-substance upon all things — only thereby does it first create the concept of "thing."  Everywhere "being" is projected by thought, pushed underneath, as the cause; the concept of being follows, and is a derivative of, the concept of ego.  In the beginning there is that great calamity of an error that the will is something which is effective, that will is a capacity.  Today we know that it is only a word.  Very much later, in a world which was in a thousand ways more enlightened, philosophers, to their great surprise, became aware of the sureness, the subjective certainty, in our handling of the categories of reason: they concluded that these categories could not be derived from anything empirical — for everything empirical plainly contradicted them.  Whence, then, were they derived?  And in India, as in Greece, the same mistake was made: "We must once have been at home in a higher world (instead of a very much lower one, which would have been the truth); we must have been divine, because we have reason!"  Indeed, nothing has yet possessed a more naive power of persuasion than the error concerning being, as it has been formulated by the Eleatics, for example.  After all, every word and every sentence we say speak in its favor.  Even the opponents of the Eleatics still succumbed to the seduction of their concept of being: Democritus, among others, when he invented his atom.  "Reason" in language — oh, what an old deceptive female she is!  I am afraid we are not rid of God because we still have faith in grammar.  


It will be appreciated if I condense so essential and so new an insight into four theses.     In that way I facilitate comprehension; in that way I provoke contradiction.  First proposition.  The reasons for which "this" world has been characterized as "apparent" are the very reasons which indicate its reality; any other kind of reality is absolutely indemonstrable.  Second proposition.  The criteria which have been bestowed on the "true being" of things are the criteria of not-being, of naught, the "true world" has been constructed out of contradiction to the actual world: indeed an apparent world, insofar as it is merely a moral-optical illusion.  Third proposition.  To invent fables about a world "other" than this one has no meaning at all, unless an instinct of slander, detraction, and suspicion against life has gained the upper hand in us: in that case, we avenge ourselves against life with a phantasmagoria of "another," a "better" life.  Fourth proposition.  Any distinction between a "true" and an "apparent" world — whether in the Christian manner or in the manner of Kant (in the end, an underhanded Christian) — is only a suggestion of decadence, a symptom of the decline of life.  That the artist esteems appearance higher than reality is no objection to this proposition.  For "appearance" in this case means reality once more, only by way of selection, reinforcement, and correction.  The tragic artist is no pessimist: he is precisely the one who says Yes to everything questionable, even to the terrible — he is Dionysian.  

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