"Nietzsche, Friedrich - The Antichrist" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nietzsche Friedrich Wilhelm)

The Antichrist
THE ANTICHRIST
By
Friedrich Nietzsche
(Transl.) H.L. Mencken

Quickjump Index
PREFACE
This book belongs to the most rare of men. Perhaps not one of them is
yet alive. It is possible that they may be among those who understand my
"Zarathustra": how could I confound myself with those who are now
sprouting ears?--First the day after tomorrow must come for me. Some men
are born posthumously.
The conditions under which any one understands me, and necessarily
understands me--I know them only too well. Even to endure my
seriousness, my passion, he must carry intellectual integrity to the
verge of hardness. He must be accustomed to living on mountain tops--and
to looking upon the wretched gabble of politics and nationalism as
beneath him. He must have become indifferent; he must never ask of the
truth whether it brings profit to him or a fatality to him... He must
have an inclination, born of strength, for questions that no one has the
courage for; the courage for the forbidden; predestination for the
labyrinth. The experience of seven solitudes. New ears for new music.
New eyes for what is most distant. A new conscience for truths that have
hitherto remained unheard. And the will to economize in the grand
manner--to hold together his strength, his enthusiasm...Reverence for
self; love of self; absolute freedom of self.....
Very well, then! of that sort only are my readers, my true readers, my
readers foreordained: of what account are the rest?--The rest are merely
humanity.--One must make one's self superior to humanity, in power, in
loftiness of soul,--in contempt.
FRIEDRICH W. NIETZSCHE.
1.
--Let us look each other in the face. We are Hyperboreans--we know well
enough how remote our place is. "Neither by land nor by water will you
find the road to the Hyperboreans": even Pindar1,in his day, knew that
much about us. Beyond the North, beyond the ice, beyond death--our life,
our happiness...We have discovered that happiness; we know the way; we
got our knowledge of it from thousands of years in the labyrinth. Who
else has found it?--The man of today?--"I don't know either the way out
or the way in; I am whatever doesn't know either the way out or the way
in"--so sighs the man of today...This is the sort of modernity that made
us ill,--we sickened on lazy peace, cowardly compromise, the whole
virtuous dirtiness of the modern Yea and Nay. This tolerance and largeur
of the heart that "forgives" everything because it "understands"
everything is a sirocco to us. Rather live amid the ice than among
modern virtues and other such south-winds! . . . We were brave enough;
we spared neither ourselves nor others; but we were a long time finding
out where to direct our courage. We grew dismal; they called us
fatalists. Our fate--it was the fulness, the tension, the storing up of