Look on the Dark Side, Mara van der Lugt on Pessimism

 

In the 17th and 18th centuries, a group of Western philosophers came to clashes, on the page at least, over the age-old problem of evil: the question of how a good God could allow the existence of evil and suffering in the world. Philosophers such as Pierre Bayle, Nicolas Malebranche and G W Leibniz, later followed by such pillars of the canon as Voltaire, David Hume and Immanuel Kant, vehemently disagreed not only on how the problem could be solved – if it could be solved at all – but also on how to speak of such dark matters.
 
Some of these arguments of ‘theodicy’ (the attempt to justify creation) may seem antiquarian to modern eyes – but in an age where young people question the morality of bringing new children into the world, they are surprisingly relevant. After all, the issue is not just about God: it is about creation and, more specifically, the extent to which creation can be justified, given the ills or ‘evils’ that are in the world.
 
The question of creation is urgent for us today. Considering the great uncertainties of the climate crisis, is it justified to create new people, not knowing what kind of future lies ahead of them? And if it is justified, is there any point at which it ceases to be? Most people would probably agree that some worlds are imaginable in which creation would be immoral. At what precise point is life too bad, or too uncertain, to pass on?
 
In the early Enlightenment, of course, there were no such concerns for the future of the planet. But there were evils in existence – plenty of them. Crimes, misfortunes, death, disease, earthquakes and the sheer vicissitudes of life. Considering such evils, these philosophers asked, can existence still be justified?
 
This longstanding philosophical debate is where we get the terms ‘optimism’ and ‘pessimism’, which are so much used, and perhaps overused, in our modern culture. ‘Optimism’ was the phrase coined by the Jesuits for philosophers such as Leibniz, with his notion that we live in ‘the best of all possible worlds’ (for surely, if God could have created a better one, he would have done so). ‘Pessimism’ followed not long afterwards to denote philosophers such as Voltaire, whose novel Candide (1759) ridiculed Leibnizian optimism by contrasting it with the many evils in the world. ‘If this is the best of all possible worlds,’ Voltaire’s hero asks, ‘what on earth are the others like?’
 
But really, Voltaire wasn’t much of a pessimist: other philosophers such as Bayle and Hume went much further in their demonstrations of the badness of existence. For Bayle, and for Hume after him, the point is not just that the evils of life outnumber the goods (though they believe this is also the case), but that they outweigh them. A life might consist of an equal number of good moments and bad moments: the problem is that the bad moments tend to have an intensity that upsets the scales. A small period of badness, says Bayle, has the power to ruin a large amount of good, just like a small portion of seawater can salt a barrel of fresh water. Similarly, one hour of deep sorrow contains more evil than there is good in six or seven pleasant days.

 
Against that bleak vision, thinkers such as Leibniz and Jean-Jacques Rousseau emphasised the goods of life, and the power we have to seek out the good in all things, for if we learned to adjust our vision we would see that life is in fact very good: that ‘there is incomparably more good than evil in the life of men, as there are incomparably more houses than prisons,’ Leibniz writes, and that the world ‘will serve us if we use it for our service; we shall be happy in it if we wish to be.’ Just as the pessimists believed the optimists were deceived in their insistence on the goods of life, so too the optimists thought the pessimists’ eyes were skewed towards the bad: each side accused the other of not having the right vision.
 
A large part of the question thus became: what is the right vision?
 
One thing that struck me as I dug deeper into these questions was how concerned both the optimists and the pessimists were with the ethical assumptions underlying the theoretical arguments. On the surface, the question was: can creation be justified? But beneath it, never far removed, lay a deeper question, a question just as ethically and emotionally imbued: how to speak of suffering in a way that offers hope and consolation?
 
There is not just a theoretical, but also a moral objection that each side makes against the other. The great objection that the pessimists lay at the feet of the optimists is that to insist that life is good even in the face of hard, unyielding suffering, or to stipulate that we are in control of our happiness, that we shall be happy ‘if we wish to be’ – that this is to make our suffering worse. It is to add to suffering the responsibility for that suffering; it is to burden the sufferer with a sense of their inadequacy. If life is so good, then the sufferer’s trials must be a case of wrong vision – and indeed the optimists tend to say things just like that. This is why optimism, so say the pessimists, is a cruel philosophy. If it gains us some hope, it fails in consolation.
 
But on their side, the optimists prove to be similarly concerned. Their objection to the pessimists is that, if we insist on the intensity and ubiquity and inescapability of suffering, if we describe it in all its depths and bleakness (as the pessimists indeed are wont to do), this heaps suffering on suffering – and it is this that makes suffering worse, as ‘evils are doubled by being given an attention that ought to be averted from them,’ as Leibniz says.
 
Pessimism, so say the optimists, is itself unconsoling – but more than that, it is unhopeful.
 
The question concerning these philosophers, then, is not just the theoretical one about whether life in general is good or bad, but also a more concrete one: face to face with one who suffers, what can philosophy bring to the table? What can philosophy offer in the way of hope and consolation?
 
Both strands of thought have the same aim, but they plot different routes to get there: the pessimists offer consolation by emphasising our fragility, by recognising that no matter how hard we try, we may fail to achieve happiness, for no fault of our own. Meanwhile, the optimists seek to unfold hope by emphasising our capacity, by insisting that no matter how dark, how bleak our circumstances, we can always change our vision and direction, we can always aim for better.
 
Of course, there is no reason in principle why both roads could not be combined, each to serve as the necessary counterpart for the other, an antidote for the poison each draught may become when served up undiluted. But the fact remains that these earliest optimists and pessimists saw them as opposed – and in fact we do too: we still have the tendency to think in binary terms, as if there is in life a stark choice to be made between optimism and pessimism, or, in Noam Chomsky’s words, for optimism or despair:
 
“We have two choices. We can be pessimistic, give up, and help ensure that the worst will happen. Or we can be optimistic, grasp the opportunities that surely exist, and maybe help make the world a better place. Not much of a choice.”
 
That last example itself makes manifest the coarseness and onesidedness of our use of these terms. Optimism tends to be positively charged, pessimism negatively charged. When we call someone an optimist, it’s usually praise. This is why politicians are particularly keen to insist that they are optimists, or even to speak of a ‘duty of optimism’. Conversely, to call someone a pessimist is usually to deride, denounce, deflate them. ‘Pessimism is for losers,’ as one recent book title has it.
 
But are our choices so dichotomous? If there are shadows on the road of pessimism, there are dangers on the opposite road also. And these are the very dangers that those older pessimists kept warning us against: that if we overemphasise the power we have over our minds, our lives, our destinies, it is all too easy to stumble into cruelty.
 
We need not look very far to see examples of what optimism, in its darkest forms, can become. When a 2008 London tower block named Heygate Estate was sold off to foreign investors, its inhabitants were first evicted then offered mindfulness courses by the local council to deal with their anxiety, so that they were themselves made responsible for their misfortunes. If we are each radically in control of our mental states, what reason is there to ask for social justice? This is the shadow-side that cleaves to the popular narrative that ‘you are responsible for your own happiness’, and is bolstered by the subtle terror of a social media regime that pushes us to broadcast our success and happiness to the world.
 
It is in such cases that the consoling force of pessimism reveals itself: it’s OK to not be OK. Sometimes we fail, sometimes we run up against the hard walls of our own capacities or the world’s boundaries – and it can be consoling to be reminded that our suffering, our fragility, is not our fault. That we suffer despite ourselves. That it can be right to grieve for what we are losing, or are yet to lose, or have already lost.
 
We are so quick to equate pessimism with passivity or fatalism or despair, and to reject it on that basis – for, of course, we do not want a philosophy that tells us to give up. But is that really what pessimism means? As Joshua Foa Dienstag argued in his book Pessimism: Philosophy, Ethic, Spirit (2006), far from leading to passivity, pessimism can be closely linked to a tradition of moral and political activism, as in the case of Albert Camus, whose courage and activism in the Second World War were infused by his pessimistic views.
 
Even the darkest pessimists never said that life would only get worse or can never be better: this is a caricature of pessimism, sketched quickly to dismiss it. Arthur Schopenhauer, the bleakest of them all, did not subscribe to it. On the contrary, he suggested that it is precisely because we cannot control the course of things that we can never know what the future holds: life may become worse or better. ‘The pessimist,’ in Dienstag’s words, ‘expects nothing.’ There is not much hope in this, perhaps, but it is a kind of hope nevertheless. And so too is the faint glimmering that can be found amid the darkest pages of these writers: the quick unquiet intuition that something can be gathered in the black vision; that our eyes may be opened in ways they were not before; that we may see in the darkness.
 
It is why hopeful pessimism may not be a contradiction, but a manifestation of the wild power that is harnessed only when life’s darkest forces are gathered into the strange alchemy of hope.
 
I think about these things in this age marked by ecological depletion and devastation, by floods and fires and heat ceilings that no one had thought possible, by the spectre of the climate crisis that takes shape all around us. This age is marked also by the quiet, or not so quiet, desperation of the young. The same criticisms once waged against the pessimists of yore are now laid at the feet of the despairing young by those techno-optimists and advocates of progress for whom any consideration of the mere possibility of decline is itself a sign of weakness, a lack of imagination, a moral flaw – a failure of vision, most of all. And so they denounce young people’s outcry as pessimism, as fatalism, as ‘mere’ despair. They criticise them for the bleakness of their vision, call their statements exaggerated and the speakers spoiled.
 
It is all too easy to miss the fact that this generation – the first to grow up in a world where a climate emergency is not just on the horizon, but a stark reality – is haunted by a real sense of losing the future, as all the things they have been told give life meaning are rendered either pointless or problematic. Things like: study, get a good job, settle down – but what jobs are still certain? Where will it be safe to settle down? As Greta Thunberg said in Parliament Square in London in 2018: ‘And why should I be studying for a future that soon will be no more, when no one is doing anything whatsoever to save that future?’ Things like: start a family – but if there is no future for one’s children, is it still OK to procreate? Even more trivial things, like developing oneself by travelling, are no longer straightforward: for how important is self-development when weighed against the carbon cost of modern travel?
 

This is a wholesale collapse of meaning that is only now becoming clear to us. There is a very real sense in which young people are experiencing not only the loss of concepts, but the loss of the future itself, as all the usual answers to the question of what makes life worthwhile become increasingly uncertain. They are in that darkness, searching for some kind of hope, some kind of consolation – and what can we offer them? Surely we can do better than give the manifestly inadequate answer (which may also be an outright lie) to assure them that all will be well – since we know there is every chance it won’t be.
 
Any crude statements of optimism would be more than misplaced: it would be the kind of lie that deceives no one, least of all the sharpened moral senses of the young, who see through the empty promises and reassurances of politicians with an anger we know is justified. If we told them that everything will be OK, these are less than empty words: they are a failure to take their experience seriously, and that, as the pessimists would tell us, is the one thing guaranteed to make their suffering worse.
 
But if brute optimism fails – could pessimism do better? I have suggested that pessimism can have value – but could we go further? Could it be, in fact, a virtue?
 
To some, the very notion of a virtue of pessimism may seem absurd. For instance, we may subscribe to Hume’s notion that the mark of any virtue is that it is useful and agreeable, either to the person who possesses it or to others. But surely pessimism is neither useful nor agreeable. It is not useful, the argument goes, because it renders us passive, depresses not only ourselves but ‘our sense of the possible’, as Marilynne Robinson has said of cultural pessimism in particular. And it is not agreeable, since it intensifies our suffering, making us focus on the bad side of life rather than the good (or so arch-optimists such as Leibniz and Rousseau would have it). It is not surprising, then, that certain studies of supposed ‘moral exemplars’ identified positivity, hopefulness and optimism among the characteristics that such exemplars had in common.
 
But then, think of Greta Thunberg. If there is such a thing as a ‘climate virtue’, she would seem to exemplify it – considering the hard personal choices that she has made, the steadfastness of her vision, and the courage with which she holds world leaders to account and takes them to task for their half-heartedness, their unwillingness to commit fully to the cause. If this is not an exercise of virtues, then I don’t know what is – and yet there is nothing positive or optimistic about Thunberg. If there is hope, it’s a dark, bleak hope, full of rage and grief and pain for what is being lost – but infused also with insistence, perdurance, determination. It is clear that this activist, at least, will continue to strive even if her efforts are doomed to fail. This is not optimism: if anything, it is a hopeful pessimism, and I believe it has every right to be called a virtue in our age.
 
Hopeful pessimism breaks through the rusted dichotomy of optimism vs pessimism. It is this attitude, this perspective that is exemplified in Thunberg and other figures who by their example give an affirmative answer to the question posed by Paul Kingsnorth: ‘Is it possible to see the future as dark and darkening further; to reject false hope and desperate pseudo-optimism without collapsing into despair?’
 
The thing to avoid is not so much pessimism, but hopelessness or fatalism or giving up. Even despair need not be completely avoided, since it too can energise and encourage us to strive for change, but we should avoid the kind of despair that causes us to collapse. These things are not the same as pessimism, which is simply the assumption of a dark view of the present as well as the future and does not imply the loss of courage or insistence to strive for better: on the contrary, often these are the very gifts that pessimism can bestow.
 
One can be deeply, darkly pessimistic, one can find oneself in the cold hard clutches of despair, and yet not be depleted of the possibility (and it could just be a possibility) that better may yet arrive. This is a kind of hope that is dearly bought, that does not come lightly but is carved out of a painful vision which may just be the acknowledgment of all the suffering that life can and does hold. If anything, the pessimists have taught me this: that with eyes full of that darkness there can still be this strange shattering openness, like a door cracked open, for the good to make its entry into life. Since all things are uncertain, so too is the future, and so there is always the possibility of change for better as there is for worse.
 
This can itself be a moral stance: one that welcomes the good when it is given and urges it onwards on its journey, but also acknowledges the bad without explaining it away or overburdening the will of those it crushes in its path. Sometimes we are not in power to change the world as we would like to, and acknowledging this can be the greatest effort as well as the greatest consolation, while not taking away the drive to give our best and hardest labours to the cause.
 
As Jonathan Lear has written in his book Radical Hope (2006), one common phenomenon at times of cultural devastation is that old values lose their meaning. If they are to survive the collapse of the moral horizon, they need new meanings, new concepts to breathe life into them. The most difficult thing of all is to negotiate this change, to start inhabiting new virtues while the old are still among us. And this, I believe, is one way in which pessimism might serve us – as a virtue in itself, but also as a way of giving new meaning to virtues that are changing as part of this changing world. To behold with open eyes the reality before us requires courage, and not to turn away from it, forbearance, and yet not to decide that it ends there: this is hope.
 
Hope – not that everything will be all right in the end, but that nothing has ever truly ended; that there is this ‘crack in everything’ of which Leonard Cohen once sang, in the good as well as the bad, so that neither is ever entirely shut away from us. This is not the steadfast conviction that things are bound to get better – not the crude optimism that can no longer be a virtue in a breaking world, and might prove to be our besetting vice. It may be easier to lend our efforts under such a banner of assured success, but this ease is a deceptive one, for while it is possible to be dispirited by passivity or fatalism, it is possible to be depleted by continued disappointment also. What hopeful pessimism asks instead is that we strive for change without certainties, without expecting anything from our efforts other than the knowledge that we have done what we are called upon to do as moral agents in a time of change. This may just be the thinnest hope, the bleakest consolation – but it may also be the very thing that will serve us best in times to come, as a value, and yes, an exercise of moral fervour: a fragile virtue for a fragile age.     
 
Look on the dark  side. By Mara van der Lugt. Aeon  , April 26, 2022.

“We have two choices. We can be pessimistic, give up, and help ensure that the worst

will happen. Or we can be optimistic, grasp the opportunities that surely exist, and maybe help make the world a better place. Not much of a choice.” Noam Chomsky
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In an age marked by such overwhelming cause for concern for the state of the planet and the future of mankind as ours, the word pessimism has received a surprising amount of bad press.
 
Noam Chomsky, in the tellingly titled collection Optimism over Despair, puts the question of optimism and pessimism as something of a forking path: we can either be optimistic about the possibilities for the future, or we can be pessimistic, i.e. desperate, i.e. just “give up”. Similarly, and almost simultaneously, Steven Pinker in his book Enlightenment Now makes his plea for the belief in progress against what he sees as a widespread current of “pessimism”, or a belief in cultural decline. Musing from another angle, Marilynne Robinson strikes out against the “always fashionable” phenomenon of cultural pessimism, which has the “negative consequence of depressing the level of aspiration, the sense of the possible”, or even of “encouraging a kind of somber panic, a collective dream-state in which recourse to terrible remedies is inspired by delusions of mortal threat.” Even the unborn baby in Ian McEwan’s novel Nutshell sagely points out that pessimism is no less than an intellectual weakness, a refusal to see that things have never been better than in modern-day Western society: “Pessimism is too easy…”
 
It is generally a good idea to be at least mildly sceptical when encountering such sweeping statements, such denunciations of what is obviously or evidently a widespread fad­ – and we should be all the more suspicious when no convincing examples are given of a phenomenon of which we are all supposed to be so acutely aware. After all: who, these days, calls themselves a pessimist with any conviction? Where are these black-minded doomsaying pessimist throngs? When was pessimism ever a thing that was “in vogue”? And who says that pessimism is the same thing as believing in decline or resigning in despair?
 
It is in fact much more difficult to find a self-proclaimed pessimist than a self-proclaimed optimist, whether in politics, philosophy, science or everyday life, and the few examples we can find are hardly ever straightforward cases. Thus John Gray, perhaps the philosopher most notorious for his pessimism, will not take on the term without qualification: “I am hopefully pessimistic”, he says on the BBC-programme Desert Island Discs. This caution, this tentative nature of his self-description, and the very adjective he chooses to moderate it, are each telling: they reveal what pessimism is often accused of and has to defend against. But the things we most often associate with pessimism are far removed from what it really is; they are based on a mixture of misgivings, prejudices, and concerns that fail to do it justice. For the truth is that pessimism, or the philosophy properly known as pessimism, was never attractive, never popular, and never, ever easy. The truth is also that pessimism represents a much richer, deeper, and more interesting view on life than the dulled-down version lets us see. Furthermore, not only does this shallow glance on pessimism dull the truth of pessimism, but it does the same for the contrary doctrine known as optimism.
 
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So, what are optimism and pessimism? The standard view is that these terms simply refer to our chosen expectations about the future: an optimist believes things will get better; a pessimist believes things will get worse. Aside from the fact that this definition gets pessimism (as well as optimism) wrong in important ways, the main problem with this representation of both optimism and pessimism is that it sets the latter up for failure. If the two outlooks are supposed to tell us what we can expect, and therefore what we can hope for from the future, then optimism obviously wins, on moral grounds. The intuition is that pessimism leads to despair, which will in turn lead to resignation: to giving up. These, again, are Chomsky’s alternatives: we can choose either optimism or despair (that is: pessimism). If this is indeed the choice before us, then Chomsky is right, and ethics itself moves against pessimism. We ought not to be pessimists if to be a pessimist means giving up on our common future, and on our fellow man.
 
So much for the intuition; now for the facts. Do pessimists actually believe their outlook commits them to resignation? Far from it: in fact, in many cases, the opposite is true. Joshua Foa Dienstag has devoted an entire book to arguing that there is a pessimist tradition of political thought, and that pessimism can be a source of powerful political engagement. How else could we explain the fact that one of pessimism’s pivotal figures, Albert Camus, was also one of the most politically committed philosophers in Western thought?
 
The problem with the common-sense view of pessimism is that it relies on a mistaken conception of what pessimism, in its deepest and most significant manifestations, really is. Far from resting in a belief that things are going to get worse, pessimism in most cases doesn’t have to do with the future at all: rather, it is a philosophy that tries to give a place to the darker side of life, to the reality of evil and pain and suffering in human (as well as animal) existence. Furthermore, insofar as pessimism is oriented on a view towards the future, most philosophical pessimists will tell you that to be a pessimist is not to expect the worst, but rather to expect nothing at all. Pessimism has to do rather with a limitation of what we can possibly know about what life has in store for us. It is, therefore, not at all a positive belief in decline, but rather a negative belief, a refusal to believe that progress is a given. Thus, to those people who would cleverly say “I’m not a pessimist or an optimist: I am a realist”, the pessimists could answer that this is just another way of saying they are a pessimist, in that they suspend judgment on the question of what is or is not going to happen.
 
But this view cast upon the future is only a secondary and derivative part of what philosophical pessimism is at its most ardent and most interesting: an attempt to paint an alternative picture of the reality of human life. This, not the caricature we have become accustomed to, is the beating heart of pessimism. It is also its original conception.
 
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A quick turning back of history’s pages tells us that the terms optimism and pessimism first came into being in the early eighteenth century. This happened in the heat of the philosophical debate on the problem of evil: the question of how an all-good, all-knowing and all-powerful God could permit the many evils and sufferings of existence.
 
Interestingly, both terms were originally pejorative and oppositional in nature: they were coined as ways of putting down the opposing philosophy, and this derogatory nature still clings to them. (To this day, a person can still be discredited by being called a pessimist, or even, in some contexts, an optimist). Optimism was the first to be coined, by the Jesuits, to deride Leibniz’s famous system that we live in “the best of all possible worlds” – and it was the Jesuits too who coined pessimism as a name for the opposing view. But it was Voltaire’s famous Candide, or Optimism that ensured the worldwide success of this term, pessimism following only slowly in its footsteps.
 
Now if we look at what both terms meant philosophically, this was to do with a set of existential questions, such as: Do the goods of existence outweigh its evils? Is life worth living? Would it have been better for some people, or most people, or any people, never to have existed? Very roughly sketched, on the one hand, the “optimists” (such as Leibniz and, most fervently, Alexander Pope), argued that life is on the whole good, that God’s creation is therefore justified, and so the evils of existence don’t form an argument against the goodness, let alone the existence of God. On the other hand, the “pessimists” (such as Voltaire and David Hume) argued that the optimists failed to give sufficient weight to the depth of human misery: not only is it the case that the evils outnumber the goods of life, but the evils carry more weight – they matter more when we make up the balances. One hour of real suffering, said philosopher Pierre Bayle, is enough to tip the scales over five or six comfortable days. Therefore, considering the dreadful potential of human misery, the terrible extremes to which suffering may reach, existence is a wager that ought not to have been made. Better no existence, argued the most dark-minded of these philosophers, than an existence in which suffering could take such horrific forms. And we all know, they hinted, what the implications are for Whoever has created us this way.
 
This, in a nutshell, is the theoretical question of optimism versus pessimism. However, behind the theory there stands a profound ethical impulse, one that is equally active on both sides of the debate.
 
The reason the pessimists object so vehemently to the system of optimism (according to which the parts may suffer but the whole is good) is that it neglects the reality of suffering, or worse, explains it away. For instance, the optimists argue that we suffer because we have sinned, or we suffer because pain is useful to us, or we suffer by our own choice, since we have the power to rise beyond our suffering. The ethical drive of pessimism is that this is no way to speak of human experience: that this implies a failure in compassion for our fellow sufferers, or even that it can serve to make their suffering worse. No consolation could be less welcome than to be told, in your suffering, that you suffer pointlessly; that you suffer through your own doing. This, say the pessimists, is to double suffering with guilt.
 
On the other hand, the optimists too are driven by an ethical motivation, their argument being that pessimists exaggerate human suffering and so it is they who make suffering worse, by adding to the fact of suffering a reflection upon that suffering. The pessimists are now accused not only of ingratitude to their creator, but of moral weakness: here already is the view that there is something desperate and immoral about pessimism; that it is a failure of the will.
 
This moral concern on either side is, on my view, precisely what saves both philosophies: it gives them an integrity that they would lack as merely abstract considerations. It manifests a sense of engagement that takes several forms throughout the tradition, revealing itself fully in the question of how to speak sensitively and considerately of human suffering: how to find a language of compassion and consolation that nevertheless does justice to the breadth of our experiences. It is also what gives coherence to both traditions, which are defined precisely by their ethical opposition to each other. Thus what Voltaire and Rousseau, in their famous clash over the Lisbon earthquake, are really arguing about is not the abstract philosophical question of whether we live in the best of all possible worlds, but the proper grounding of consolation as well as hope. The last word of Voltaire’s Poem on the Lisbon Disaster is, famously, espérance.
 
It is, then, tragic, that throughout the history of philosophy, and up to the current day, both traditions have failed to recognize this ethical drive in the opponent, and to take the opposing philosophy truly seriously. Hence the division that continues today in even the most commonsensical uses of the terms optimism and pessimism; hence also the caricatures that have resulted on both sides, and especially those associated with pessimism.
 
And yet the person most responsible for pessimism’s bad name is also the philosopher whose name is most closely associated with pessimism: that arch-pessimist, Arthur Schopenhauer.
 
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The reason for this is that Schopenhauer, in his argument that life is marked deeply and principally by suffering, to the extent that suffering is the very end of life, leads us to the exact conclusion that latter-day pessimists are most eager to avoid: that we should cease to affirm life, and turn instead to resignation. In order to achieve “salvation”, on Schopenhauer’s view, we must radically turn away from this existence, which means turning from our pleasures as well our pains. We must give up happiness as our ideal, and go beyond ourselves, our desires, and especially our will, in order to go beyond the world.
 
 This kind of resignation, haunted as it is by dark ascetic musings, seems to confirm precisely that intuitive conception of pessimism as a kind of hopelessness, a philosophy of giving up. It also raises two questions that strike at the heart of pessimism’s bad reputation. First, doesn’t this kind of philosophical gloom make for a very potent argument for suicide? Second, doesn’t it mean we should just stop caring about anything, including our fellow man? These are the kinds of questions that have resulted in a bad name for not only Schopenhauer’s particular brand of pessimism, but for pessimism more generally. And yet Schopenhauer was the first to answer these questions in ways that should be enough to change our minds.
 
First of all: his is not an argument for suicide. Suicide, says Schopenhauer, is not an answer to the problem posed by existence. An awareness of the reality of pessimism should place us on a path of philosophical and spiritual enlightenment, in which we learn to understand the illusory nature of most of our knowledge and even of our own identities: of that which distinguishes us from other people. Pessimism is meant to help us find some kind of consolation in the fact that our suffering is not accidental and is not exceptional, but is an intrinsic part of our existence in this world. True resignation, for Schopenhauer, is an attempt to achieve salvation by conquering ourselves, which can only be done by living in acknowledgment of our human condition, not by choosing death instead (though what precisely is meant here by “salvation” remains somewhat mysterious).
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It is yet another misconception clinging to pessimism that its proponents must be pro-suicide. This is not the case even in that philosopher who famously argued that suicide is the most important philosophical question, Albert Camus. On the contrary, the canonical philosophers of pessimism give argument upon argument against suicide – but unlike most arguments against suicide, which make this case in moralistic or legalistic or theological terms, the pessimists’ arguments are deeply sensitive to the experience that informs the act, in all its tragic complexity and profundity. Their arguments distinguish themselves in that, more often than not, they are formulated from the inside of this experience, rather than from the outside, looking in. Theirs is an awareness that suicide tells us something about the darkest corners of existence and about the depths of human suffering. It is, in their eyes, not at all an action to be recommended, but an experience to be taken seriously.
 
As for the second question, far from making ethics impossible, Schopenhauer wants his argument to be a foundation for ethics: there is perhaps no philosopher who has given as much weight to the ethical mechanism of sympathy or compassion as Arthur Schopenhauer. His central idea is that, by going beyond our individual wills and pursuing an ethic of personal resignation, we will recognize that deep down we are all connected by a reality that is greater and stronger than our individual identities; hence I will recognize your suffering as my suffering, you will recognize mine as yours, and we will all want to do what we can to reduce the suffering we see in the (human as well as animal) world. It thus becomes impossible to turn away from suffering on the grounds that it isn’t I who suffer: for Schopenhauer, identity and individuality are illusory, so that a single creature’s suffering properly belongs to all creatures. While optimism, for Schopenhauer, entrenches us in our personal interests and desires and makes us insensitive to the suffering of others, pessimism grounds an ethic of extreme compassion, of suffering-with and feeling-with the other. Far from a glorification of suffering, it is an extremely compassionate philosophy. True “goodness of heart”, says Schopenhauer, “identifies all beings with its own nature.”
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Of course, there is still reason to be uncomfortable with almost every aspect of Schopenhauer’s philosophy of pessimism, and especially with his ethic of resignation, the giving up of any hope of happiness altogether. Schopenhauer calls this resignation, but it sounds rather like despair.
​
Contrary to this, there is much to be said for an optimist ethic that tells us to look for the good, the lighter side in all things; one that warns us against focusing too much on what Schopenhauer calls “the terrible side of life”, lest we lose heart and hope, lest we forfeit our capacity for goodness and kindness and for joy itself. Such an ethic would remind us that we must always believe, even in the darkest of times, that things can get better – which is a view that Schopenhauer does not allow us, though other pessimists do. This is also what Chomsky is getting at in his eulogy of optimism over despair. The question is whether what he is getting at is really optimism, or rather hope.
​
Could the two not go together, then? Could there be such a thing as hopeful pessimism, as John Gray suggests (which to many of us would seem like an oxymoron) – and could such hopeful pessimism not perform the same tasks as Chomsky’s optimism, and perform them better? I think it can – and should.
​
While it is deeply mistaken to suggest that pessimism is the same as fatalism or giving up, the concern behind this suggestion is nevertheless a valid one. This is the concern, voiced most clearly by Chomsky, that if we become too convinced that things are going to get worse whatever we do, we’ll end up doing nothing at all. But, as I have argued, this is not at all the point of pessimism, properly understood. If even that strand of pessimism most oriented towards resignation (Schopenhauer’s version) retains a profound ethical orientation; if even here the recognition of suffering in the world is tightly linked to the commitment to lessening that suffering – what this tells us about pessimism is that this is a philosophy that sees itself as charged with the highest ethical potential. Far from dissuading us from ethical or political action, the point of pessimism is to motivate us.
​
More importantly, the fatalistic concern raised by Chomsky goes both ways, and cuts optimism with the same blade. If it can be said that pessimism risks demotivation, it could also be said that, if we are too optimistic, too convinced that things will turn out fine in the end, whatever we do, we’ll equally end up doing nothing. Why worry ourselves about a complex problem such as climate change if we already believe everything will sort itself out in the end; that progress will prevail? How is such an attitude more likely to motivate us than one that takes seriously the reality of damage, the reasonableness of due concern?
​
This is of course as unfair a representation of optimism as the opposing view is of pessimism. Again, the point behind both viewpoints and philosophies is their ethical drive: both are directed towards a common orientation, which is to make sense of suffering, to offer hope as well as consolation; and, at least to some extent, to try to improve the human condition insofar as it can be improved. The difference between both traditions resides in the kinds of moral sources that are prioritized. To remain with the example of climate change, the optimists believe we will be best motivated if we draw from humanity’s success stories, such as new technologies and the vast human potential for change and innovation, while not focusing too much on the reasons we have for despair. In contrast to this, the pessimists hold not only that ethics demands we do justice to the reality of suffering and evils (including the possibility of impending disaster), but also that this is exactly what will motivate us to want to make a difference: it is precisely a recognition of the dire state of affairs in the world that is needed to impel us to action. The disagreement, then, is ultimately over what is most capable of morally paralysing us: overemphasizing our capacity or rather our incapacity?
 
 
Throughout the ages, the tension between optimism and pessimism has had to do with the conflicting demands of their double orientation: towards hope and, at the same time, towards consolation. On the one hand, this means to do justice to the reality of human suffering, without which, as especially pessimism recognizes, consolation is impossible. And, on the other, to offer a perspective that opens up new possibilities, new perspectives for the future, without which, as especially optimism recognizes, hope is impossible. This tension rises again and again in literature as well as the history of philosophy. I will point out merely two passages, one as subtle in its optimism as the other is in its pessimism.
​
​The first passage occurs at the end of Tolstoy’s War and Peace, where Pierre looks back at his past sufferings and draws from them a lesson that, without discounting or playing down these hardships, nevertheless manages to place them in a wider narrative of hope and meaning:
​
           “They say: sufferings are misfortunes,” said Pierre. “But if at once this minute, I was asked, would I remain what I was before I was taken prisoner, or go through it all again, I should say, for God’s sake let me rather be a prisoner and eat horseflesh again. We imagine that as soon as we are torn out of our habitual path all is over, but it is only the beginning of something new and good. As long as there is life, there is happiness. There is a great deal, a great deal before us.”
 
I believe there is great wisdom in this. But I also think this is something we should handle with great caution; something we should not make into too general a point. It is a wonderful thing when out of deep tragedies or great suffering comes “something new and good”; when bad experiences teach us new things, help us to reach beyond ourselves, to grow as persons. Speaking of the value of life, this is surely one of those things that makes life and living valuable to us: this possibility of bad things giving entry to the good. But while we should be deeply grateful when this is the case for us, it is not something we can count on, nor is it something that is dependent on our will. Not all that doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Not all suffering gives way to the new and good; not all bad experiences help us to grow. Some diminish us, some tragedies make life stop short in its tracks. Some suffering cuts us off from the attainment of the “new and good”, and, in Hilary Mantel’s words, makes us “foreign to ourselves”:
 
            “All of us can change. All of us can change for the better, at any point. I believe this, but what is certainly true is that we can be made foreign to ourselves, suddenly, by illness, accident, misadventure, or hormonal caprice.”
 
These words are drawn from Mantel’s memoir, Giving up the Ghost, and they comprise the second passage I wanted to mention, which seems to stand as a kind of counterpoint to Tolstoy’s muted optimism: where Pierre counterposed light to darkness, Mantel counterposes darkness to light. My own pessimism, if it deserves the name, rises exactly at this point. I believe, with and perhaps beyond Mantel, that there are those to whom the path of happiness is closed – truly closed. That there are experiences that can cut us off from ourselves and from our very capacity for happiness: from the good and from the true. To recognize this is not to forfeit hope or to give up on such persons, let alone on ourselves: it is rather to acknowledge that this too is life; this too is what it means to be alive.

​
And this is the great risk, the original sin of any overly optimistic description of reality or of the human capacity to flourish: the suggestion that this flourishing is entirely up to us, entirely in our human hands. This very modern ethic has had its most victorious moment at the heart of the American Dream, according to which each of us can (and should) achieve our aspirations, if only we are willing; “you are responsible for your own happiness”. This ethic is echoed in pop culture as it is in many currents of new age spirituality, some of which trace back all our good and bad fortunes, even our illnesses, to our own will and consciousness, thus making each of us starkly responsible for that which in older days would be referred to fate. Whatever befalls us, so say such “philosophies”, does so because we have attracted it. This is also an ethic that fits snugly within the modern Facebook paradigm, where we are supposed (there is a strong ought here) only to show our happiest face, our sunniest side – regardless of whether such a side is real or even possible for us. The pressuring potential of optimism, if wrongly interpreted, reveals itself fully here.
 
While many have surely drawn hope from the belief that our happiness is entirely in our hands, this is not simply a message of hope. It can become an imperative, and as soon as it does, it reveals its ugly side, in this overburdening of the will. This, not incidentally, was precisely what early pessimists such as Bayle and Voltaire were reacting so strongly against: the idea that we are as responsible for our suffering as for our happiness. If this gains us hope, it fails in consolation.
 
                                                                                        ***
 
A few months ago I came across a bench by a beach in Scotland that had black balloons tied to it. The bench itself was dedicated to the memory of a boy who had died one year before that day. There were flowers on the bench, and beside the flowers, a bunch of papers, with hundreds of names of persons, followed by their ages: fifteen, seventeen, twenty-one, thirty-two. On the first page there was a handwritten and touchingly misspelled note, telling us that this was a list of people lost to suicide, and suggesting to us these three things:
 
                        “ Be kind to people.
                         Look out for loved ones.
                         Its ok to not be ok.”
 
And this is what the ethic of pessimism, in its strongest, clearest, cleanest form, most pivotally represents: that “It’s ok to not be ok.” That to make suffering a question primarily of our will is merely to increase suffering, by heaping guilt upon it. That it’s a wonderful thing to live a life rich in wonder, and meaning, and happiness; and we should be deeply grateful if we are so blessed. But that our own happiness should not excuse us either from an awareness of the fragility of life, happiness, and good itself, or from a due consideration and concern for those less fortunate, less blessed, less beloved, or the truly miserable among us, who also walk this world.
 
The message of pessimism is that this, too, is a part of life, and that it deserves a place in our language, our shared experience; that we are not justified, that it is never justified, to close our eyes to that other, darker, “terrible” side of life. This is also the meaning of compassion in the ethic of pessimism, which need not at all be in conflict with optimism, but should stand shoulder-to-shoulder beside it as its necessary complement and companion. As Schopenhauer wrote, this is how deep down we should greet each other, not as Madame or Monsieur, but as “fellow sufferer, compagnon de misère.”
 
                                                                                   ***
 
Noam Chomsky argues for optimism over despair. We might equally, and more meaningfully, argue for hope over optimism.
 
If optimism risks, on the one hand, an overburdening of the will, and on the other, an understatement of the reality of true and dire damage done to the world and to ourselves – could not pessimism serve us better as a moral source? And where pessimism risks stumbling into resignation – could not hope help us to mind the gap? If optimism and pessimism both have their faces turned towards a common goal, could we not find in both the materials by which to travel forwards?
 
Why, then, not a philosophy of hopeful pessimism to guide us into the future?
 
 
Pessimism. By Mara van der Lugt. The Philosopher  October 1, 2019.
 

 

Dark Matters: Pessimism and the Problem of Suffering. By Mara van der Lugt
 
An intellectual history of the philosophers who grappled with the problem of evil, and the case for why pessimism still holds moral value for us today.
 
Princeton University Press

Mara van der Lugt, Lecturer at  University of St.Andrews 

Why Friedrich Nietzsche Is Misunderstood

It takes a strong philosopher to assume control of a preposition and propel it into a foreign language. That is what Friedrich Nietzsche did with the word über. In German, it can mean “over,” “beyond,” or “about.” You are reading an essay über Nietzsche. As a prefix, über is sometimes equivalent to the English “super”—übernatürlich is “supernatural”—but it has less of an aggrandizing effect. Nietzsche altered the destiny of the word when, in the eighteen-eighties, he began speaking of the Übermensch, which has been translated as “superman,” “superhuman,” and “overman.” Scholars still debate what Nietzsche had in mind. A physically stronger being? A spiritual aristocrat? A kind of cyborg? “Overperson” might be the most literal equivalent in English, although it is unlikely that DC Comics would have sold many comic books using that title.

In 1903, three years after Nietzsche’s death, George Bernard Shaw published his play “Man and Superman,” in which he equated the Übermensch with an overflowing “Life Force.” Three decades later, Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, two Cleveland teen-agers, created the first “Super-Man” story, depicting the character not as a caped hero but as a bald, telepathic villain bent on “total annihilation.” Super-Man soon reëmerged as a muscle-bound defender of the good, and during the Second World War he jumped into the fight against the Nazis. It’s unclear whether Siegel and Shuster knew of Nietzsche in 1933, but the word “superman” hardly existed in English before the philosopher’s ideas began to spread.

As Nietzsche worked his wiles on generations of English-speaking college students, the word Übermensch increasingly stood on its own, and “über” slipped into English as a prefix. In the nineteen-eighties, Spy described the Hollywood agent Michael Ovitz as an “über-agent.” The umlaut-free car-sharing service Uber, originally known as UberCab, is a related development, hinting at Silicon Valley fantasies of world domination. In the late twentieth century, the word “super” rebounded into German as all-purpose slang for “very”; if you wish to describe something as really, really cool, you say that it is super super toll. Somewhere, Nietzsche is laughing hysterically while screaming in anguish.

The adventures of “super” and “über” are a case study in the inescapability of Nietzsche’s philosophy, which has affected everyday discourse and modern political reality like no body of thought before it. Countless books on Nietzsche are published in dozens of languages each year, linking him to every imaginable zone of life and culture. One can read about the French Nietzsche, the American Nietzsche, the pragmatic Nietzsche, the analytic Nietzsche, the feminist Nietzsche, the gay Nietzsche, the black Nietzsche, the environmentalist Nietzsche. Lurking amid the crowd of avatars is the proto-fascist Nietzsche—the proponent of pitilessness, hardness, and the will to power who is cited approvingly by such far-right gurus as Alain de Benoist, Richard Spencer, and Aleksandr Dugin. Can a philosopher who has sown such confusion be said to possess a coherent identity? Or, as Bertrand Russell once argued, is Nietzsche merely a literary phenomenon?

When I was in college, in the nineteen-eighties, the French Nietzsche held sway. It was the heyday of post-structuralism, and Nietzsche appeared to anticipate one of the central insights of that era: that we are at the mercy of ever-shifting systems and perspectives. The work of Michel Foucault, Gilles Deleuze, and Jacques Derrida is all but inconceivable without Nietzsche’s example. So many professors distributed photocopies of the 1873 essay “On Truth and Lie in an Extra-Moral Sense” that we could have recited it as a postmodern pledge of allegiance: “What, then, is truth? A mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, and anthropomorphisms. . . . Truths are illusions about which one has forgotten that this is what they are.”

In the past few decades, other Nietzsches have come to the fore. Anglo-American philosophers have aligned him with various schools of post-analytic thought, seeing him as an idiosyncratic kind of psychologist or sociologist. Nietzsche’s political thinking is also a trending topic, although his ideas are devilishly difficult to reconcile with modern conceptions of left and right. He raged against democracy and egalitarianism, but also against nationalism and anti-Semitism. Nietzsche is often quoted in the chat rooms of the far right, and he also surfaces regularly in leftist discussions about the future of democracy.

Walter Kaufmann, the German-American émigré whose translations of Nietzsche were long the standard versions in English, once declared that the philosopher’s writings are “easier to read but harder to understand than those of almost any other thinker.” Ideologues keep trying to appropriate him because they want his rhetorical firepower on their side. Yet Nietzsche, like his fallen idol Richard Wagner, is at once emphatic and ambiguous, overbearing and elusive. Nietzsche’s famous adage that there are “no facts, only interpretations” is among his more debatable propositions, but it applies perfectly well to his own infuriating, invigorating body of work.

The itinerant, solitary, sickly life of Nietzsche has been told many times, most recently in English by the biographer Sue Prideaux, in “I Am Dynamite!” The title comes from an unnerving passage in “Ecce Homo,” Nietzsche’s autobiographical book of 1888, which was completed a couple of months before he descended into insanity, at the age of forty-four:

    I know my lot. One day my name will be linked to the memory of something monstrous [etwas Ungeheueres]—to a crisis like none there has been on earth, to the most profound collision of conscience, to a verdict invoked against everything that until then had been believed, demanded, held sacred. I am no man, I am dynamite.

How a Lutheran pastor’s son, trained in classical philology, ended up on that precipice of brilliance and madness is the essential drama of Nietzsche’s life. The passage has been read as an eerie premonition of his future appropriation by the Nazis—although there is no way of knowing exactly what kind of crisis is meant. Ungeheuer is an ambiguous word, hovering between the monstrous and the gigantic. Kaufmann translated it as “tremendous,” which takes away too much of the ominousness. Here is the sumptuous difficulty of Nietzsche: when you drill down on a word, an abyss of interpretation opens.

Nietzsche grew up in the village of Röcken, outside Leipzig. The church where his father preached still stands; Nietzsche, the scourge of Christianity, is buried in a plot next to the building. The elder Nietzsche, like his son, was afflicted by severe physical and mental problems—violent headaches, epileptic strokes, amnesiac episodes—and died at the age of thirty-five, when Friedrich was four. Nietzsche himself had a mental breakdown in middle age. The old story that his breakdown stemmed from syphilis is now widely doubted; a likelier explanation is a hereditary neurological or vascular disorder. Neurologists in Belgium and Switzerland have concluded that he had cadasil, a genetic condition that causes repeated strokes.

“I Am Dynamite!” lacks the philosophical scope of prior biographies by Rüdiger Safranski and Julian Young, but Prideaux is a stylish and witty narrator. She begins with the pivotal event in Nietzsche’s life: his introduction, in 1868, to Wagner, the most consequential German cultural figure of the day. Nietzsche would soon assume a professorship in Basel, at the astonishingly young age of twenty-four, but he jumped at the chance to join the Wagner operation. For the next eight years, as Wagner completed his operatic cycle “The Ring of the Nibelung” and prepared for its première, Nietzsche served as a propagandist for the Wagnerian cause and as the Meister’s factotum. He then broke away, declaring his intellectual independence first with coded critiques and then with unabashed polemics. Accounts of this immensely complicated relationship are too often distorted by prejudice on one side or another. Nietzscheans and Wagnerians both tend to off-load ideological problems onto the rival camp; Prideaux succumbs to this temptation. She insists that Nietzsche’s talk of a superior brood of “blond beasts” has no modern racial connotation, and casts Wagner’s Siegfried as an Aryan hero who “rides to the redemption of the world.” In fact, Siegfried is a fallen hero who rides nowhere; the redeemer of the world is Brünnhilde.

Prideaux’s picture of the Wagner-Nietzsche relationship fails to explain either the intensity of their bond or the trauma of their break. Early on, Nietzsche was hopelessly infatuated with Wagner’s music and personality. He described the friendship as “my only love affair.” As with many infatuations, Nietzsche’s expectations were wildly exaggerated. He hoped that the “Ring” would revive the cultural paradise of ancient Greece, fusing Apollonian beauty and Dionysian savagery. He envisaged an audience of élite aesthetes who would carry a transfiguring message to the outer world. Wagner, too, revered Greek culture, but he was fundamentally a man of the theatre, and tailored his ideals to the realities of the stage. At the first Bayreuth Festival, in 1876, Nietzsche was crestfallen to discover that a viable theatre operation required the patronage of the nouveau riche and the fashionable.

Personal differences between the two men provide amusing anecdotes. Nietzsche made sporadic attempts at musical composition, one of which caused Wagner to have a laughing fit. (The music is not very good, but it is not as bad as all that.) Wagner also suggested to Nietzsche’s doctor that the young man’s medical issues were the result of excessive masturbation. But the disagreements went much deeper, revealing a rift between ideologies and epochs. Wagner embodied the nineteenth century, in all its grandeur and delusion; Nietzsche was the dynamic, destructive torchbearer of the twentieth.

When they first met, they shared an admiration for the philosophical pessimism of Arthur Schopenhauer, who saw a world governed by the insatiable striving of the will. Only through the renunciation of worldly desire, Schopenhauer posited, can we free ourselves from our incessant drives. Aesthetic experience is one avenue to self-overcoming—an idea that the art-besotted Nietzsche seized upon. But he disdained Schopenhauer’s emphasis on the practice of compassion, which also promises release from the grasping ego. Wagner, by contrast, claimed to value compassion above all other emotions. “Parsifal,” his final opera, has as its motto “Durch Mitleid wissend, der reine Tor” (“The pure fool, knowing through pity”). Nietzsche’s 1878 book, “Human, All Too Human,” his inaugural assault on Wagner and Romantic metaphysics, hammers away at the word Mitleid, considering it an instrument of weakness. In its place, Nietzsche praises hardness, force, cruelty. “Culture simply cannot do without passions, vices, and acts of malice,” he writes.

These views made Wagner wince, as the diaries of Cosima Wagner, his wife, attest. In an earlier essay entitled “The Greek State,” Nietzsche had declared that “slavery belongs to the essence of a culture.” The intellectual historian Martin Ruehl speculates that Wagner persuaded Nietzsche to omit the essay from his first book, “The Birth of Tragedy Out of the Spirit of Music” (1872), which culminates in a paean to Wagner. During the same period, though, Nietzsche was castigating German tendencies toward nationalist chauvinism and anti-Semitism—conspicuous elements in Wagner’s political blatherings. What seems particularly unfortunate about the break is that each man had an acute sense of the other’s blindnesses.

Nietzsche not only rejected the sublime longings of nineteenth-century Romanticism; he also jettisoned the teleology of historical progress that had governed European thought since the Renaissance, and that had found its most formidable advocate in Hegel. Instead, Nietzsche grounded himself in a version of naturalism—the post-Darwinian conviction that humans are an animal species, led by no transcendent purpose. This turn yields Nietzsche’s most controversial concepts: the announcement of the death of God; the “eternal return,” which frames existence in terms of endlessly repeating cycles; and the will to power, which involves a ceaseless struggle for survival and mastery. It might be said that Nietzsche, in backing away from Wagner, backed into his own mature thought—the celebration of Dionysian energy, the “triumphal yes to life over and above all death and change.”

Between his final meeting with Wagner, in 1876, and his mental collapse of 1889, Nietzsche lived the life of an intellectual ascetic. Health problems caused him to resign his professorship in 1879; from then on, he adopted a nomadic life style, summering in the Swiss Alps and wintering, variously, in Genoa, Rapallo, Venice, Nice, and Turin. He wrote a dozen books, of increasingly idiosyncratic character, poised between philosophy, aphoristic cultural criticism, polemic, and autobiography. He worked out many of his ideas during vigorous Alpine hikes—a practice fondly re-created by John Kaag in the recent book “Hiking with Nietzsche.” The possibility of a romance with the psychologist Lou Andreas-Salomé arose and then subsided; a serious relationship was probably beyond his reach. The landscape of the mind consumed his attention. As Safranski wrote, “For Nietzsche, thinking was an act of extreme emotional intensity. He thought the way others feel.”

Translating Nietzsche is a difficult task, but the swagger of his prose, with its pithy strikes and sudden swerves, can be fairly readily approximated in English. Kaufmann, in his translations, brought to bear a strong, pugnacious style. In his introductions and footnotes, he distanced Nietzsche from fascist bombast—naming the Übermensch the “Overman” was just one strategy—and recast him as a kind of existentialist. But Kaufmann underplayed Nietzsche’s slippery elegance, and his choice not to translate “Human, All Too Human” and its successor, “Dawn” (1881), gave a skewed view of the thinker’s development. A series of translations from Cambridge University Press covered the gaps. Now Stanford University Press is halfway through a nineteen-volume edition of Nietzsche’s complete writings and notebooks. The press has been threatened with cuts in funding, but if the project is achieved English readers will have, for the first time, access to the entirety of Nietzsche’s work.

Since 1967, the German publisher De Gruyter has been amassing a critical edition of Nietzsche’s complete writings, which can be browsed on a dizzyingly comprehensive Web site, nietzschesource.org. This monumental project has, to the annoyance of some scholars, attracted increasing attention to Nietzsche’s extensive notebooks. These show a less awe-inspiring side of the philosopher, as he jots down items from his reading and delivers utterances esoteric, mundane, and bizarre:

When five people speak together, a sixth always has to die.

The Chinese eat very many dishes in very small portions.

I could become the European Buddha.

If you aren’t a bird, be careful not to camp above an abyss.

Woman is so little satisfied with herself that she would rather permit herself to be beaten than—

The last thought is left blessedly unfinished. Nietzsche’s misogyny is a brute fact that no pageant of interpretation can disguise.

Yet the notebooks contain some of Nietzsche’s most vital, pungent writing. Consider a remarkable passage from 1885, which appears in the most recent Stanford volume, “Unpublished Fragments (Spring 1885–Spring 1886),” in a translation by Adrian Del Caro. It has long been known to readers as the final section of “The Will to Power,” Nietzsche’s posthumous so-called magnum opus, assembled under the direction of his reactionary sister, Elisabeth Förster-Nietzsche, and published in 1901. To come across it in the Stanford edition, free of Förster-Nietzsche’s tendentious and often deceptive editorial practices, is a bracing shock:

            And do you also know what “the world” is to me? Should I show it to you in my mirror? This world: a colossus [Ungeheuer] of energy, without beginning, without end, a firm, unshakable magnitude of energy that does not get bigger, does not get smaller, that does not expend itself but only transforms itself, as a whole unchangeable in size, an economy without expenditures and losses, but likewise without growth, without income, encased by “nothingness” as by its border, nothing blurring, wasted, nothing infinitely extended, but laid into a definite space as a definite force, and not a space that would be “empty” anywhere, rather as force everywhere, as play of forces and waves of forces . . . this my Dionysian world of eternal self-creating, of eternal self-destroying, this mystery-world of the doubly voluptuous, this my beyond good and evil, without goal, if a goal does not lie in the happiness of the circle, without will, if a ring does not have good will for itself—do you want a name for this world? A solution for all its riddles? a light for you too, you hiddenmost, strongest, most intrepid, most midnightly?—This world is the will to power—and nothing else! And you yourselves are also this will to power—and nothing else!

The central sentence actually goes on for almost twice as long, disrupting the rat-a-tat rhythm that is typical of Nietzsche’s later writing. He generally resisted the epic long-windedness of nineteenth-century German prose, but here he makes an exception as he verbally acts out the condition of universal flux. An additional wrinkle is that the diction begins to resemble the ecstatic love duets of Wagner’s “Tristan und Isolde” (“Without naming / Without parting / Newly knowing / Newly burning”). You could quibble with this or that choice in Del Caro’s rendering—the statuesque word “colossus” seems a poor choice for Ungeheuer—but the passage has the right racing, dancing energy.

No creature in Nietzsche’s menagerie of concepts has caused as much trouble as the will to power. At first glance, this entity strongly resembles Schopenhauer’s all-devouring will. For Martin Heidegger, the will to power was the last gasp of metaphysics—an attempt to capture the “basic character of all beings,” which Heidegger wishes to supplant with his post-metaphysical idea of being-in-the-world. Gilles Deleuze, the chief guru of the French Nietzsche, wrote, “The will to power is not force but the differential element which simultaneously determines the relations of forces (quantity) and the respective qualities of related forces.” One needn’t know exactly what Deleuze means here to accept the underlying proposition that Nietzsche understands power less as a struggle for domination over others than as a struggle for power over oneself. Rather than fleeing abjectly from the will, as in Schopenhauer, one should seek to harness it, master it, ride it out.

When Nietzsche revisits this material, in “Beyond Good and Evil” (1886), he pulls back abruptly, placing the will to power in a hypothetical, almost ironic frame. He begins, “Supposing nothing were ‘given’ as real besides our world of desires and passions . . .” After a series of qualifications, he concludes, “Supposing finally that we were to succeed in explaining our entire life of drives as the taking shape and ramification of a basic form of the will—namely of the will to power, as my proposition has it . . . then we would have earned the right to unequivocally determine all effective force as: will to power.” Nietzsche, for all his bravado, likes to hedge his bets, as Tom Stern points out in the introduction to “The New Cambridge Companion to Nietzsche.” He writes that the philosopher’s style is one of “rhetorical questions, ellipses, fables, mini-dialogues, hints that much is left unsaid, and apparent praise for seeming to be other than you are.”

This cyclone of nuance goes missing when we reduce Nietzsche to maxims. Nor should we try to extract a system that can be summarized on a chalkboard. Ultimately, his writing is a mode of criticism, of übersubjective intellectual reportage, grounded in extreme self-awareness. Freud is said to have commented that Nietzsche “had a more penetrating knowledge of himself than any other man who ever lived or was ever likely to live.”

Monsters lurk in the Nietzschean deep. It cannot be a random mishap that so many unpleasant people have taken pleasure in his work. None other than Jacques Derrida discouraged talk of “falsifications” of Nietzsche, fascist or otherwise. “One can’t falsify just anything,” Derrida wrote, with unaccustomed bluntness. (One can, in fact, falsify anything, as a glance at the morning paper shows, but the point holds.) However selective the Nazi appropriation of Nietzsche may have been, it replicated elements of his thought. He did write that equality is the “greatest of all lies,” and divided humanity into a hierarchy of the weak and the strong. Hans Stark, the head of the admissions detail at Auschwitz, had a sign over his desk reading “Mitleid ist Schwäche” (“Compassion Is Weakness”). This could be read as a crude condensation of Nietzsche’s diatribe against compassion in “The Antichrist.”

Ronald Beiner, in a new book entitled “Dangerous Minds: Nietzsche, Heidegger, and the Return of the Far Right,” claims that the resurgence of far-right political movements around the world is evidence of Nietzsche’s nefarious influence. His hostility to absolute truth, Beiner writes, has “left us vulnerable to harsh new ideologies that appear to regard respect for truth as a snare.” To be sure, a circuitous chain of connections is needed to get from “Thus Spake Zarathustra” and “Beyond Good and Evil” to Donald Trump’s ravings about “fake news” or the vicious fictions of Sandy Hook conspiracy theorists. Merely to announce a high regard for truth is no guarantee that truth will be uttered. Indeed, some of the most hideous acts in history have been committed by people who believe themselves to be in sole possession of absolute truth. In the American context, merchants of hatred hardly need to look to a nineteenth-century German philologist for inspiration: they can draw on older and deeper wells at home.

Beiner is right to urge latter-day interpreters to abandon talk of an apolitical Nietzsche, but he is arguing largely with a previous generation of scholars. There is no lack of contemporary publications that deal forthrightly with Nietzsche’s political thinking: these include Hugo Drochon’s “Nietzsche’s Great Politics,” Tamsin Shaw’s “Nietzsche’s Political Skepticism,” and Gary Shapiro’s “Nietzsche’s Earth: Great Events, Great Politics.” Stern catalogues Nietzsche’s most problematic traits in the “Cambridge Companion,” although he adds the caveat that “we must have more categories available to us than ‘Nazi/not-Nazi,’ ‘anti-Semite/anti-anti-Semite,’ ‘far-sighted/foolish’ or ‘to be attacked/defended at all costs.’ ”

A recurring theme in these studies is that Nietzsche could be a fiercely prescient analyst of democratic politics, and that we can learn from his observations without following him into antidemocratic invective. In an essay in the “Cambridge Companion,” Christa Davis Acampora writes, “A popular view of Nietzsche regards him as an advocate of bald expressions of power, but he is better understood as someone who investigates—rather than celebrates—power.” Who can deny that human beings are a fundamentally predatory species, and that no political system or moral code has yet tamed our worst impulses? Nineteenth-century thinkers in the tradition of Hegel anticipated the attainment of a perfected state of humanity; instead, as Nietzsche foresaw, a century of unprecedented horrors ensued. During the Cold War, the powers that defeated fascism brought the world to the brink of a nuclear war that would have made the Second World War seem like a minor episode in comparison. Today, anthropogenic climate change is causing mass extinctions. To quote Zarathustra: “The Earth has a skin, and this skin has diseases. One of these diseases is called, for example, ‘humanity.’ ”

Nietzsche’s central insight about the modern state—one that greatly influenced the sociology of Max Weber and the political thinking of Carl Schmitt—is that it faces a crisis of authority. When power is no longer divinely ordained, the right to govern is contested. In “Human, All Too Human,” Nietzsche predicted that, as the democratic state secularized itself, there would be a surge of religious fanaticism resistant to centralized government. On the other side, he anticipated a zealous adherence to the state on the part of nonbelievers. Religious forces might seize control again, engendering new forms of enlightened despotism—“perhaps less enlightened and more fearful than before.” These struggles could go on for a while, Nietzsche writes. In one long paragraph, he prophesies the history of the twentieth century, from fascism to theocracy.

To the opponents of democracy, Nietzsche says, in essence: Just wait. Liberal democracy will devour itself, creating conditions for authoritarian rule. Disorder and instability will sow distrust in politics itself. “Step by step, private companies will absorb the functions of the state,” Nietzsche writes. “Even the most tenacious remnants of the old work of governing (the activity, for example, that is supposed to protect private persons from one another) will finally be taken care of by private entrepreneurs.” The distinction between public and private spheres will disappear. The state will give way to the “liberation of the private person (I take care not to say: of the individual).”

And here we are, in the twenty-first-century world of laissez-faire economics and unregulated Big Tech monopolies. As the political philosopher Urs Marti has pointed out, Nietzsche sometimes sounds less like a proto-Nazi than like a neoliberal or a libertarian. A notebook entry from 1885-86 looks ahead to “a superior kind of human being that thanks to its preponderance of willing, knowing, wealth and influence, makes use of democratic Europe as its most pliable and flexible tool for taking the destinies of the earth in hand, for shaping ‘the human being’ itself as an artist would.” Silicon Valley tycoons strive to become just such übermenschlich innovators. The entrepreneur Peter Thiel, an avid reader of Nietzsche, says things like “I no longer believe that freedom and democracy are compatible.” In this light, Nietzsche’s opposition to nationalism and anti-Semitism looks less virtuous. For tech billionaires, national and racial hatreds are inconveniences; their authoritarianism wears a cosmopolitan face, promising frictionless commerce for all.

Is that what Nietzsche wants? His avoidance of the word “individual,” in favor of “private person,” suggests skepticism. And a crucial aspect of his world view militates against monopolistic power. In 1995, Lawrence Hatab published a fascinating book called “A Nietzschean Defense of Democracy,” which emphasizes the philosopher’s attachment to the Greek agon—competition among worthy adversaries, whether athletic or artistic. Hatab revisits that connection in an essay, in the “Cambridge Companion,” on the will to power. In Nietzsche’s reading, the Greek mentality abhorred the idea of an Alleinherrschaft, a “domination by one.” The Athenian institution of ostracism originated in the need to expel individuals who threatened the balance of power. As Hatab observes, the rite of the agon “rules out violence, because violence is actually an impulse to eliminate conflict by annihilating or incapacitating an opponent.” In “Ecce Homo,” Nietzsche writes, “I attack only a winner.” He goes after the most tyrannical, domineering forces—hence, his critiques of God and Wagner.

The relevance for the modern democratic state is clear. James Madison’s vision of constitutional checks and balances, of divided powers in equilibrium, is agonistic politics in action. When one entity gathers too much power, the system ceases to function. Nietzsche’s political philosophy would appear to hope for such an outcome, but in “Human, All Too Human” he performs a typical backtracking maneuver. Having forecast the death of the state, he adds, “To work toward the diffusion and realization of this idea is admittedly something else.” The enterprise could lead to “destructive experiments.” It is a good thing, then, that, in all likelihood, “the state will still persist for a good while yet.”

Behind Nietzsche’s array of extreme positions is a much less alarming belief: that the only healthy state for humanity is one in which rival perspectives vie with one another, with none gaining the upper hand. The same attitude governs his fundamental epistemological position about the nature of truth. Each competitor in the agon is expected to stake his or her claims on truth; Nietzsche advanced his own opinions with utmost vehemence. The ultimate truth is that no claim should achieve dominion over all others. As Richard Rorty maintained, Nietzsche can be understood as a particularly flamboyant kind of pragmatist. We don’t think of William James as a “dangerous mind,” and yet he, too, said, “Damn the Absolute!”

Whenever I feel bewildered by endless interpretive skirmishes over the philosophical Antichrist, I return to Alexander Nehamas’s “Nietzsche: Life as Literature,” which appeared in 1985 and retains a commanding place on the near-infinite Nietzsche bookshelf. Nehamas, a Greek-American thinker steeped in classical studies, essentially made a virtue of Bertrand Russell’s dismissal of Nietzsche. The contradictions in Nietzsche’s writings cohere, Nehamas writes, if we look at him as a literary figure who worked within a philosophical context, and who crafted a persona that functions as a literary character of novelistic complexity.

The disparity between the living Nietzsche and the written one was indeed drastic. He was a fragile, sensitive, gentle person with elegant manners, constantly striving to mask his inner turmoil and physical distress. He let his personal anguish be reflected in a universal predicament: how can we hold to our convictions in the face of chaos, conflict, decay, and death? The idea of the eternal return—the prospect of having to live one’s life over and over, every detail repeated, every pain alongside every joy—becomes all the more potent when one thinks about having to relive that life, to its terrible end.

Nietzsche remains a heroic figure in intellectual history because his lonely, desperate quest seems to join up with so many other expeditions of the mind and soul. Wherever you travel, in sunny climates or in the shadowlands, Nietzsche has gone before you. Such is the temper of what may be the most openhearted and unproblematic passage in all of his writings—the closing aphorism of “Dawn,” perhaps his most beautiful book:

                 All these bold birds who fly out into the wide, widest open—it is true! At some point they will not be able to fly any farther and will squat down on some pylon or sparse crag—and very grateful for this miserable accommodation to boot! But who would want to conclude from this that there was no longer a vast and prodigious trajectory ahead of them, that they had flown as far and wide as one could fly! All our great mentors and precursors have finally come to a stop, and it is hardly the noblest and most graceful of gestures with which fatigue comes to a stop: it will also happen to you and me! Of what concern, however, is that to you and me! Other birds will fly farther!

Nietzsche’s Eternal Return. By  Alex Ross. The New Yorker,  October 7, 2019.

Has ever the discrepancy between a man’s thought and person been greater than in Friedrich Nietzsche? The high-altitude prophet of the Übermensch, the walrus-mustachioed eulogist of God, the trumpeter of eternal return was, in person, kind, courteous, and impeccably well mannered. At a pension in Nice, he was affectionately known as the “dear, half-blind professor.” Julius Paneth, a Viennese zoologist, described him as “very simple and natural […] he bore no trace of pomposity or prophetic bearing.” When the feminist intellectual Lou Andreas-Salomé first met him, she found him entirely unremarkable: a man of medium height, simply but carefully clothed, with plain, brown hair and a large mustache. He spoke and even laughed softly, bending his shoulders slightly. Still, there was something about the man that set him apart. “One could only with difficulty imagine this figure within a crowd,” she wrote. “He gave the impression of standing aside, of standing alone.”

This was, as Stefan Zweig wrote, the tragedy of Nietzsche’s life: that it was a one-man show, a monodrama “wherein no other actor entered upon the stage.” The deeper and more demanding Nietzsche’s thinking became, the more his readership dwindled in size. The Birth of Tragedy (1872), his first book, sold 625 copies in six years; the three parts of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, published between 1883 and 1885, sold fewer than a hundred copies each. Not until it was too late did his works finally reach a few decisive ears, including Edvard Munch, August Strindberg, and the Danish-Jewish critic Georg Brandes, whose lectures at the University of Copenhagen first introduced Nietzsche’s philosophy to a wider audience. By then, Nietzsche’s descent into madness had already begun. In his final letter to Brandes, he signed himself: “The Crucified.”

As we learn from Sue Prideaux’s masterful new biography, I Am Dynamite!: A Life of Nietzsche, the German thinker’s solitude was partly forced on him by his debilitating health. Insomnia, jaundice, vomiting, hemorrhoids, blindness, crippling headaches, wrecked bowels, chronic exhaustion — I Am Dynamite! sometimes reads like a calamitous medical record. Yet in spite of his deteriorating health and accelerating insanity, Friedrich Nietzsche somehow managed to drag himself and his trunk of books over the mountains of Europe, writing in short bursts of intense self-discipline the philosophical texts for which he is now known. “He ranged like Promotheus over the high places,” Prideaux writes, “but his ascent always had to stop short of the greatest heights, where the bright light of the eternal snows pierced his eyes like bared swords, as he noted down his thoughts toward the next book.”

What sets Prideaux’s biography apart from previous accounts of Nietzsche’s life is its vibrant intimacy. Eschewing philosophical rigorousness for human proximity, Prideaux quite simply gets closer to Nietzsche than anyone before her. The Zarathustrian mask falls away and the vulnerable human is bared. We are permitted to see how his ideas, his style, grew from the feeble timber of his physical being. Nietzsche recognized this essential relationship, of course. In Beyond Good and Evil, he writes that philosophy is “a confession on the part of its author and a kind of involuntary and unconscious memoir.” Nietzsche wanted his readers to know this also, to see through the prejudice of philosophers, his own included. “You had not yet sought yourselves: and you found me,” Zarathustra says to his disciples. “Now I bid you lose me and find yourselves.”

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Nietzsche was born in 1844 in Röcken, 15 miles south of Leipzig in the eastern German state of Saxony. His father, Karl Ludwig Nietzsche, a local pastor and former court tutor, was a meticulous man and gifted pianist admired for his Bach recitals. But he suffered from a mysterious nervous disorder that increasingly affected both his eyesight and his power of speech. He died in 1849, just 35 years old. In Ecce Homo, Nietzsche described him as “delicate, lovable and morbid, like a being destined to pay this world only a passing visit.” He noted, too, that the age of his father’s death was the same age at which he began to suffer himself. As Prideaux explains, interest in the cause of Karl Ludwig’s death has for this reason been considerable, though the exact nature of the degenerative brain disease he suffered from is not known.

Nietzsche was expected to follow in his father’s pastoral footsteps, and during his school years there was no reason to suggest he wouldn’t. He attended Schulpforta — “the foremost classical school in the German Bund” — and there distinguished himself as a student and musician, singing in the school choir and dazzling his peers with his improvisations on the piano. He excelled in Greek and Latin, and in his final year wrote a philological paper in Latin on the Greek poet Theognis of Megara that was considered exceptionally brilliant. When he graduated in 1864, he was said to have been “the most gifted pupil that Pforta has ever had.”

Nietzsche’s work ethic was impressive, given the growing catalog of physical afflictions he had to endure. On at least 20 occasions during his time at Pforta he was admitted to the sick ward where, Prideaux writes, his various headaches and stomach pains were treated with leeches “fastened to his earlobes to suck blood from his head.” He was put to bed in darkened rooms, wore smoked glasses to shield his eyes from the daylight, and was predicted by the school doctor to one day suffer total blindness. “At every age of my life,” Nietzsche later wrote, “suffering, monstrous suffering, was my lot.”

After Pforta there followed two semesters at the University of Bonn, where Nietzsche joined a student fraternity, Franconia, whose members were known to frequent the brothels of Cologne. It was during this time that, as legend stubbornly has it, Nietzsche contracted syphilis, the alleged cause of his mental breakdown. When he was first admitted to an asylum, in 1889, he told the doctors that he’d “infected himself twice,” though as Prideaux observes, he was probably referring to gonorrhea, not syphilis: “Had they looked at his medical records, they would have discovered that he had gonorrhea twice, a fact he admitted to doctors while still in his right mind.”

In 1865, Nietzsche left Bonn for Leipzig University, where he founded the Classical Society and began giving well-attended talks on philology, a dry subject he brought to zesty life. Four years later, the University of Basel in Switzerland offered him the post of Professor of Classical Philology, a remarkable achievement for a 24-year-old. But even as he accepted it, Nietzsche knew it was not a profession to which he was entirely suited. “I would like to be something more than a drillmaster for competent philologists,” he wrote to his friend Carl von Gersdorff. “To permeate my discipline with this new blood, to transmit to my listeners that Schopenhauerian seriousness which is stamped upon the brows of the sublime man, this is my wish, my daring hope.” To Erwin Rohde, a friend from his Leipzig days, he wrote: “I am gradually habituating myself to being a philosopher.”

The single most important event of Nietzsche’s tenure as a professor was his friendship with Richard Wagner, at the time Europe’s most celebrated composer. They had first met in November 1868 at the home of Wagner’s sister, where they had a long conversation about Schopenhauer, whom they both admired. Then in his mid-50s, the German composer was living in Tribschen with his second wife, Cosima, just 50 miles south of Basel. He invited the young philologist to come visit them. “During the course of the next three years,” Prideaux writes, “[Nietzsche] would visit Tribschen twenty-three times.” It was, he later admitted, the happiest time of his life.

But all the impassioned conversations and happy domesticity could not conceal the principal differences between them. Wagner was an antisemite, a Francophobe, and a German nationalist. “I am the most German person,” he wrote in his diary, “I am the German spirit.” Nietzsche, on the other hand, was “a bad German, but a good European,” as he himself put it. His experiences as a medical orderly during the Franco-Prussian War anaesthetized him to the supposed virtues of Prussian military might. Tending to the thousands of wounded scattered across the battlefields of Wörth, Hagenau, and Nancy, Nietzsche was repulsed by what he saw. He feared the bellicose nationalist mood would triumph over culture and intellect. “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles was, I fear, the end of German philosophy,” he wrote in The Twilight of Idols. Indeed, he gave up his Prussian citizenship in order to teach at Basel so he wouldn’t risk being called up for military service. For the rest of his life, he remained stateless.

A nascent trend in the Second German Reich that Nietzsche especially abhorred was antisemitism. It was an essential part of German nationalism in the 19th century and widely espoused by influential historians like Heinrich Treitschke and Friedrich Rühs. (Rühs once suggested that Jews ought to wear a yellow patch on their dress to better identify them.) Ever the individualist, Nietzsche recognized antisemitism as a trope of the herd animal, of the intellectually lazy German for whom he had so much contempt. “[It] would perhaps be a good idea,” he wrote in Beyond Good and Evil, “to eject the anti-Semitic ranters from the country.” In 1889, when he had already gone insane, he wrote to his friend Franz Overbeck: “I am just having all anti-Semites shot…”

The awful irony of Nietzsche’s anti-nationalism and good-Europeanism is that his sister, Elisabeth, ended up marrying Bernhard Förster, an antisemitic crackpot who in 1883 immigrated to Paraguay and founded Nueva Germania, a racially pure German colony. He was, Sue Prideaux writes, “a fanatical proselytizer for open-air hiking, vegetarianism, the health-giving properties of gymnastics, and the abolition of alcohol and vivisection.” (Why are fascists always teetotalers?) Nietzsche thought him monomaniacal and intellectually mediocre. How was he going to start a colony in the jungle if he didn’t eat meat? he teasingly asked his sister. When Elisabeth and Bernhard sent him money one year for Christmas, he cheerfully informed them he’d been so happy he immediately found a cafe and drank “three very large glasses of a sweet local wine and got a bitzeli drunk.” When he learned that Bernhard Förster’s nickname for Elisabeth was “Eli,” he sarcastically remarked to her that Eli means God in Hebrew.

Still, Nietzsche loved his sister dearly. He knew Elisabeth was “an intelligent female and he treated her as such.” When he was still a student, he had attempted to encourage her independence of thought. He showed her the process by which he himself had begun to question his faith. “If we had believed since youth that all salvation came not from Jesus but from another — say, from Mohammed — is it not certain that we would have enjoyed the same blessings?” he asked. He wanted to show her how believers deduce from their own inner experience the infallibility of their faith: “Every true faith is indeed infallible; it performs what the believing person hopes to find in it, but it does not offer the least support for the establishing of an objective truth.” Not that he sugarcoated the alternatives either. “If you want to achieve peace of mind and happiness, then have faith; if you want to be a disciple of truth, then search.”

He wasn’t kidding: Nietzsche’s own search for the truth never once gave him either happiness or peace of mind. During his time as a medical orderly, he had fallen dangerously ill and was diagnosed with both dysentery and diphtheria. “He was treated with silver nitrate, opium, and tannic acid enemas,” Prideaux writes, “the normal treatment of the time, the effect of which was to ruin the patient’s intestines for life.” In the years to come, his health only deteriorated further. He began to rely on friends to help him read, engaged Elisabeth to help keep house for him, and in 1876–’77 took a year’s leave of absence from the University of Basel. In 1879, he finally resigned. He sold his possessions, entrusted his financial affairs to his friend Franz Overbeck, and like Zarathustra himself “went into the mountains” to enjoy his spirit and solitude. “I live as if the centuries were nothing,” he wrote to a friend, “and I pursue my thoughts without thinking of the date and of the newspapers.”

For the 10 years of sane life he had left, the stateless Nietzsche was in a near-constant state of nomadic wandering. He had no luck in love, only very few friends, and virtually no readers. His headaches and vomiting sometimes kept him incapacitated for as many as 30 days straight. He couldn’t eat or sleep, and increasingly relied on powders of chloral hydrate to relieve his insomnia. But incorrect doses of this drug, Prideaux notes, produced “nausea, vomiting, hallucinations, confusion, convulsions, breathing and heart irregularities: all the symptoms, in fact, that Nietzsche was taking it to relieve.”

And yet he only seemed to become more prolific, more ambitious. He boldly took it upon himself to reevaluate all of Western philosophy, to think through the moral and religious prejudice that has kept us from seeking the truth — or, perhaps, kept the truth hidden from us. For Nietzsche believed that Western philosophy from the time of Socrates on had been an enormous misunderstanding, an epic blunder. Centuries of Christian morality had led to the current crisis of decadence and nihilism by teaching us to combat our instincts and exterminate our passions. Like Schopenhauer, Nietzsche believed life was dominated by irrational impulses and animal desires, by a blind, ceaseless will to live. But where Schopenhauer could see only meaninglessness and suffering, and thus resigned himself to pessimism, Nietzsche affirmed the will to live. “We others, we immoralists,” he wrote, “have on the contrary opened wide our hearts to every kind of understanding, comprehension, approval. We do not readily deny, we seek our honor in affirming.”

For Nietzsche, nihilism is not a belief in nothing, but a refusal to believe in what is. Christianity, by redirecting our gaze away from our animal existence toward some illusory divine harmony, was therefore nihilistic, hostile to life:

Christianity has taken the side of everything weak, base, ill-constituted, it has made an ideal out of opposition to the preservative instincts of strong life; it has depraved the reason even of the intellectually strongest natures by teaching men to feel the supreme values of intellectuality as sinful, as misleading, as temptations.

What is still thrilling about Nietzsche’s agon with God and Christianity is the fact that he was not a disinterested party. He knew that God’s death was not a deliverance into serene, rational light but a profoundly disruptive and disorienting experience that would make great demands of humanity. He valued strength, will, courage, and power because he knew the task that lay ahead was a serious one. “Christianity is a system,” he writes in Twilight of the Idols, “a consistently thought out and complete view of things. If one breaks out of it a fundamental idea, the belief in God, one thereby breaks the whole thing to pieces: one has nothing of any consequence left in one’s hands.” As a result of God’s death, all of morality will have to be dismantled, razed to the ground. Nothing less than a revaluation of all values is required.

This is where many of Nietzsche’s readers, I imagine, begin to fidget and shift a little in their seats, looking around for an excuse not to go on reading. For his attempts at filling the void left by God, his affirmation of life and the will to live, his theory of eternal recurrence and deification of the individual free spirit (the Übermensch), can often sound hyperbolic, self-aggrandizing, or simply insane. Nietzsche thought so himself. “He who knows how to breathe the air of my writings knows that it is an air of the heights, a robust air,” he writes in Ecce Homo. “One has to be made for it, otherwise there is no small danger one will catch cold.”

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In his engaging new memoir-essay, Hiking with Nietzsche: On Becoming Who You Are, the American philosopher John Kaag makes an impassioned effort to breathe that air, to scale those forbidding heights and peer into the post-Christian abyss. He takes seriously Nietzsche’s claim that in order understand him “one must be accustomed to living on mountains.”

Kaag’s book opens with an account of a journey he made as a 19-year-old philosophy student to Sils-Maria in Switzerland, where he spent several weeks hiking the same terrain Nietzsche knew so well: Splügen, Piz Corvatsch, Val Fex, the Julier Pass. Kaag stays overnight at the same boardinghouse where the German philosopher summered in the 1880s. He hikes for up to 15 hours a day, a copy of Nietzsche’s writings always at hand. On one occasion, he spends a cold night camping in the mountains, alone in the utter blackness. The temperature plunged so low frostbite left a permanent scar on his earlobe.

“Thirty-one days dilated, compressed, and slipped away,” Kaag recalls. “I stopped eating and sleeping. My hair grew shaggy and my pants loose.” His mother tells him he sounds “a little off” on the phone. Alone with Nietzsche’s writings, he comes close to suicide, lulled into a sense of vertigo by the peaks, gorges, and chasms all around him. He recalls Nietzsche’s words from Beyond Good and Evil: “And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you.” In the end, fortunately, he chickens out, as he puts it. On his last evening in Sils-Maria he breaks down, goes to a grand old hotel nearby, and splurges on a sumptuous six-course dinner.

Almost two decades later, Kaag returns to Sils-Maria with his wife, the Kantian philosopher Carol Hay, and their three-year-old daughter. In the intervening years, Kaag has become a professor of philosophy at the University of Massachusetts Lowell, written a highly regarded book on American transcendental philosophy, and largely left his youthful Zarathustrian mania behind. But when he starts teaching a seminar on Nietzsche, the old demons begin to stir: “[O]n quiet nights, after a day of teaching Nietzsche, the high peaks once again began to beckon.” At his wife’s suggestion, the little family makes the trip to Switzerland together.

Kaag’s account of his return to Sils-Maria and of his reunion with the philosophical idol of his youth is an engrossing one. Now closer to middle age than his teenage years, he realizes that Nietzsche’s writings are actually “uniquely fitted” for adulthood. “Nietzsche’s philosophy is sometimes pooh-poohed as juvenile — the product of a megalomaniac that is perhaps well suited to the self-absorption and naïveté of the teenage years,” he writes. But Nietzsche’s task was “wakefulness itself,” as he put it, and when do we need that most urgently if not when we have begun to settle down? “At nineteen, on the summit of Corvatsch, I had no idea how dull the world could sometimes be,” Kaag writes. “How easy it would be to remain in the valleys, to be satisfied with mediocrity. Or how difficult it would be to stay alert to life. At thirty-six, I am just now beginning to understand.”

Hiking with Nietzsche serves as a straightforward and even practical introduction to the German philosopher’s writings, and makes a convincing case for why they continue to matter. Even readers not necessarily tempted to descend into the Nietzschean abyss will surely find Kaag’s exploration of selfhood, decadence, companionship, and physical duress both invigorating and thought-provoking. Contrary to the how-to-live-your-life genre, and in keeping with Nietzsche’s explosive and discomforting ideas, Kaag manages to ask all the right questions without irritably reaching for any palliative answers or solutions. Reflecting on Nietzsche’s beloved aphorism, become what you are, Kaag remarks:

The enduring nature of being human is to turn into something else, which should not be confused with going somewhere else. This may come as a great disappointment to one who goes in search of the self. What one is, essentially, is this active transformation, nothing more, nothing less. This is not a grand wisdom quest or hero’s journey, and it doesn’t require one to escape to the mountains.

Above all, Kaag’s portrait of Nietzsche, like Sue Prideaux’s, is a deeply moving one. Walking in his footsteps, he shows us the heights to which Nietzsche rose and the depths to which he sank, the sacrifices he made and the suffering he endured. “He continued to want, and now imagine, more than he could ever have,” Kaag writes in what is perhaps the most insightful and devastating observation in this elegant, incisive book.

The importance of these intimate, deeply human portraits of Nietzsche cannot be overstated. The identification of his thought with fascism and Nazism endures. After his storied breakdown in Turin in 1889, Nietzsche remained a mental invalid until his death in 1900. For most of those years, he was left in the care of his sister, Elisabeth Förster-Nietzsche, fresh from her Aryan debacle in Paraguay where, after their colony had predictably been splintered by disagreements and fraud, her husband had taken his life. For the next four decades, Elisabeth tried to shape and control her brother’s posthumous legacy in a way that suited her racist and nationalist sympathies. In her own writings during World War I, she encouraged the cruelest misinterpretations of Nietzsche’s thought, portraying him as a conservative, militant patriot. Later still, Elisabeth happily allowed National Socialists to join her in the Nietzsche archive and aid in preparing his texts for new editions. Among them was the philosopher Alfred Bäumler, who helped orchestrate the book burnings in Berlin’s Opera Square in May 1933. Adolf Hitler, too, was a guest of the Nietzsche archive. In 1933, incredibly, Elisabeth presented him with Nietzsche’s walking stick.

The philosophical sanitation of Nietzsche’s ideas undertaken by Walter Kaufmann from the 1950s on is not yet complete. Deliberate misinterpretations are still with us. We need only look to the Harvard psychologist Steven Pinker, in whose recent book Enlightenment Now Nietzsche is portrayed as a philosophical monster. “Nietzsche argued that it’s good to be a callous, egoistic, megalomaniacal sociopath,” Pinker writes. Cherry-picking quotes from prejudicially scanned writings, he attempts to show that Nietzsche was a proto-Nazi: “The connections between Nietzsche’s ideas and the megadeath movements of the 20th century are obvious enough: a glorification of violence and power, an eagerness to raze the institutions of liberal democracy, a contempt for most of humanity, and a stone-hearted indifference to human life.”

Ironically, like the Nazis before him, Pinker ascribes beliefs to Nietzsche that would have horrified the philosopher. But just as Nietzsche has already debunked the positivistic liberalism still espoused by Pinker, so he knew that people would abuse and misrepresent his ideas. “I am frightened by the thought of what unqualified and unsuitable people may invoke my authority one day,” he wrote. “Yet that is the torment of every great teacher of mankind: he knows that, given the circumstances and the accidents, he can become a disaster as well as a blessing to mankind.” Nietzsche seems always to have had the last word. In that sense, too, he was a truly posthumous man.

The Sufferings of Nietzsche. By Morten Høi Jensen. Los Angeles Review of Books, December 5, 2018. 

Friedrich Nietzsche, Karl Marx and Charles Darwin are the great triumvirate of 19th-century thinkers whose ideas still have huge impact today. Nietzsche was philosophy’s supreme iconoclast; his sayings include “God is dead” and “There are no facts, only interpretations”. Highly relevant, yet his association with concepts such as the Übermensch, master morality, slave morality and, possibly most dangerous, the will to power, have also contributed to him being widely misinterpreted. There are three myths in particular that need dynamiting: that his politics were on the far right, he was a misogynist and he lacked a sense of humour.

Misappropriation has been rife. Richard Spencer, a leader of America’s “alt-right”, claims to have been “red-pilled by Nietzsche”, while Jordan Peterson quotes extensively from him. But let’s start with the Nazis. Growing up in Bismarck’s reich, there were three things Nietzsche hated: the big state, nationalism and antisemitism. “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles, that is the end of German philosophy,” he wrote, and “I will have all antisemites shot.”

His sister Elisabeth held contrasting views. She married a notorious antisemite agitator (Nietzsche refused to go to the wedding), and the couple went off to Paraguay to found a New Germany of “pure-blooded” Aryan colonists. By the time the colony failed in 1889, Nietzsche had lost his reason. Elisabeth returned to Germany, where she took charge of her brother, gathered up all his papers and founded the Nietzsche Archive.

When it came to faking news, Elisabeth was a pioneer. On her brother’s death in 1900, Elisabeth didn’t think his death mask was sufficiently impressive, so she faked a second one. She did the same to his writing, rummaging about in his literary estate, cutting and pasting at will. She published an unreliable biography of him and delayed publication of his autobiography, Ecce Homo, until she had deleted uncomplimentary references to herself.

Nietzsche was always very sparing in what he published, but he loved playing around with book titles. He wrote many more titles than books. One he scrapped was The Will to Power. He scrawled a shopping list on the abandoned title page. But Elisabeth took fragments from here and there, concocted a book called The Will to Power and published it under her brother’s name. It was such a success that a few years later she published a greatly expanded edition.

Elisabeth lived until 1935. This gave her almost 40 years to doctor texts and letters and manipulate the literary estate. The Nietzsche Archive became an institution filled with extreme rightwingers, whose aggressive nationalism chimed with her own.Among them were Oswald Spengler, and Alfred Bäumler, who oversaw book burning in Berlin and prepared Nietzsche’s texts for new editions, including another The Will to Power that again gave the impression the text had been authored by Nietzsche himself. Bäumler was joined as editor in the Nietzsche Archive by Martin Heidegger. The two of them took the extraordinary view that Nietzsche’s published works hardly counted because the real philosophy resided in the Nachlass, the unpublished literary estate that Elisabeth had already manipulated to her own ends. This allowed them to continue jigsawing dislocated fragments to put their own ideas into Nietzsche’s mouth.

Elisabeth greatly admired Mussolini. In 1932 she persuaded the Weimar National theatre to put on a play written by him. Hitler showed up during the performance and presented her with a huge bouquet of flowers. A year later, now chancellor of Germany, he visited the Nietzsche Archive, carrying his customary whip. He remained for an hour and a half. When he emerged the whip had gone. In its place he grasped Nietzsche’s walking stick, presented to him by Elisabeth.

Hitler was infatuated with the idea of himself as the philosopher leader. It is impossible to prove whether he studied Nietzsche; it is widely believed he did not. The surviving books from his library during his time in prison in 1924, when he wrote Mein Kampf, do not include any works by Nietzsche. It must be possible they were part of his book collection at the time and have since been lost but his later library preserves no well-thumbed copies. The notorious film of the 1934 Nuremberg rally was given the deliberately Nietzschean title Triumph of the Will, but when the director, Leni Riefenstahl, asked Hitler whether he liked to read Nietzsche, he answered: “No, I can’t really do much with Nietzsche … he is not my guide.”

The complicated ideas contained in the books were of no use to him, but catch phrases such as “the blond beast”, the Übermensch (neither of which is a racial concept) and “beyond good and evil” could be put to infinite misuse. Yet even as Nazi propagandists and phrasemongers usurped Nietzsche’s words and meaning, some among them realised the absurdity. Ernst Krieck, a prominent Nazi ideologue, sarcastically remarked that apart from the fact that Nietzsche was not a socialist, not a nationalist and opposed to racial thinking, he might have been a leading National Socialist thinker.

Nietzsche also has an undeserved reputation as a misogynist. Born in 1844, he attended one of the best schools in Europe while Elisabeth was sent to Fräulein Paraski’s institution to be taught how to capture a husband, run a household and speak just sufficient French to be considered elegant but not (God forbid) learned. Yet Nietzsche treated Elisabeth as an equal. He gave her reading lists, urged her to think for herself and widen her knowledge by attending public lectures.

In 1874, when he was professor of philology at Basel University, a vote was taken on the admission of women to the university. Nietzsche was one of only four who voted in favour, and the motion was lost.

In 1876, he travelled to Italy to join Malwida von Meysenbug, a feminist who campaigned vigorously for the emancipation of women. Meysenbug had been exiled from Germany for smuggling letters during the revolution of 1848, after which she settled among the political exiles in north London, working as a tutor. Malwida’s reputation was such that when Garibaldi sailed up the Thames in 1864, he summoned her to talk politics over breakfast on his yacht. Malwida was starstruck by Garibaldi’s Pirates of the Caribbean glamour as he lowered an upholstered armchair to winch her comfortably up onto the deck for their breakfast meeting.

Nietzsche and Meysenbug intended to found a school for free spirits in the caves beneath Sorrento.The free spirits were to include women and nothing would be off limits in their study of culture, philosophy, aesthetics, religious scepticism and sexual freedom. The school never materialised but his friendship with Meysenbug widened Nietzsche’s feminist circle to include Meta von Salis-Marschlins, an activist for women’s suffrage, and Resa von Schirnhofer.

By the 1880s, women were allowed into the university lecture theatre as Hörerin, “listeners”. Nietzsche encouraged his sister, Salis-Marschlins and Schirnhofer to apply. In 1887, Salis-Marschlins became the first woman to gain a PhD from a Swiss university. Schirnhofer followed suit. Both gained their doctorates in philosophy.

In 1882, Nietzsche fell completely and drastically in love with Lou Salomé, who would later enchant both Rilke and Freud. During this period, he wrote about the psychological dilemma of women. In The Gay Science, he notes how monstrous it is that young women are told that sex is shameful and sinful, only to be hurled into marriage and propelled by the man they are taught to worship as a god into the terror and duty of sex. How are they expected to cope? “There,” he observes, “one has tied a psychic knot that has no equal.”

I had no idea Nietzsche could be funny until I read his letters. “The gentlest, most reasonable man may, if he wears a large moustache, sit as it were in its shade and feel safe,” he wrote, self-mockingly. “As the accessory of a large moustache he will give the impression of being military, irascible and sometimes violent – and will be treated accordingly.”

Condemned by ill health and abysmal eyesight to convey his philosophy in short, aphoristic bursts, Nietzsche knew the power of raising a bubble of laughter, only to puncture it as you ponder the further meaning: “Is man God’s mistake, or is God man’s mistake?” “Man does not strive for happiness; only the Englishman does that” – a dig at Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill. “Possession usually diminishes the possession.” “Never trust a thought that occurs to you indoors.” He even makes fun of his readers: “The worst readers are those who behave like plundering troops: they take away a few things they can use, dirty and confound the remainder, and revile the whole.”

Nietzsche is an unusual philosopher because he doesn’t tell us what to think. There’s no such thing as Nietzsche-ism. He sums it up in one of his aphorisms: “You repay a teacher badly by becoming merely a pupil.” In other words, read me but think further.

As for the myths that have grown up around him, the last word surely should belong to the man himself. “I am frightened,” he wrote, “by the thought of what unqualified and unsuitable people may invoke my authority one day. Yet that is the torment of every teacher … he knows that, given the circumstances and accidents, he can become a disaster as well as a blessing to mankind.”

Far right, misogynist, humourless? Why Nietzsche is misunderstood. By Sue Prideaux.The Guardian , October 6, 2018.

Also of interest : 

Friedrich Nietzsche knew his controversial philosophy was “dynamite,” but his work wasn’t appreciated until after he descended into madness. His megalomaniac sister Elisabeth, who had a penchant for National Socialism and deceitfulness, took control of his work, exploiting and manipulating it. Antisemite ideology disgusted Nietzsche, yet ironically Elisabeth left him with a false antisemitic reputation that still lingers.

It’s a tragic story, but now that Elisabeth’s interference has been untangled, Nietzsche’s work seems to be more popular than ever, if new books such as Hiking with Nietzsche by John Kaag and the seven-way bidding war for the manuscript of Sue Prideaux’s biography titled I Am Dynamite! are any indication. Prideaux’s investigation illuminates Nietzsche as a brilliant man of polar extremes with a sense of humor and despair, an ability not to take himself too seriously, a love of both Apollonian and Dionysian aspects of life, and many love-hate relationships — with his sister, mother, Richard Wagner, Lou Salomé, and others.

“The Weightiest Questions in the Smallest Number of Words”: Retelling the Nietzsche Story

Skye C. Cleary interviews Sue Prideaux. Los Angeles Review of Books,  October 24, 2018.