Skip to main content

Killing Paradoxes

 

Nietzsche

Philosopher Nietzsche saw a man whipping a horse on a street in Turin, Italy. He couldn’t endure the cruel sight. Rushing towards the animal, the philosopher hugged it before collapsing to the ground. He never regained his sanity after that.

Nietzsche despised weakness and sentimentality. He was a social Darwinist who believed in the right of the fittest to survive. Strength is the ultimate virtue, he said, and weakness is a vice. Goodness is that which wins while the bad yields to pressure and perishes.

This philosopher of strength who counselled people to live dangerously and to erect their cities beside fuming volcanos and to send out their ships to unexplored seas could not bear the sight of a horse being whipped by its owner. That was Nietzsche: a bundle of paradoxes.

He did not even possess basic health. He was a sickly person right from childhood and he possessed all the goody-goodiness of such boys. As a little boy, he detested the “bad boys” of his neighbourhood who robbed birds’ nests, raided neighbours’ orchards, and told lies. His schoolteachers called him “the little minister,” meaning little priest. His parents were pastors. Some people nicknamed the little Nietzsche “a Jesus in the Temple.” He was a good boy – too good, in fact.

He grew up to despise Christianity, however. He thought it was a religion of weakness. An effeminate religion with a god who capitulated. Someone who dies on a cross with a helpless whimper can’t be a god. Christianity’s heaven must be an utterly boring place with all effeminate souls that never dared to cross the lines drawn by mediocre morality. Nietzsche walked out of that heaven and proclaimed the death of god.

And he grew his moustache long. He was “more moustache than man,” in the words of Eric Weiner whose book The Socrates Express is my present reading. I remember another illustrious writer, Will Durant, describing Nietzsche as “the soul of a girl under the armour of a warrior” [in The Story of Philosophy].  

Nietzsche was not what he thought he was and what he pretended to be. He was too good at heart to be the Bismarckian Superman that he idolised in his writings. His heart was more Christian than Saint Francis Assisi’s so much so that the people of Genoa called him ‘the Saint’. 

Nietzsche held Wagner’s music in contempt for being an effeminate romantic rhapsody that softened human conscience. But towards the end of his life, in a lucid moment of his flagging sanity, seeing a picture of the musician who was then dead and gone, Nietzsche muttered, “Him I loved much.”

What Nietzsche’s heart loved, his brain did not. That was the paradox that killed the philosopher “too early – and too late,” as Weiner puts it.  Almost a century back from today, Will Durant had concluded his chapter on Nietzsche with the epitaph, “Seldom has a man paid so great a price for genius.”

I completed reading Weiner’s chapter on Nietzsche just a few minutes back. Nietzsche had always held a charm for me right from my youth. Weiner has added a lot more colours to that charm and it has now become a rainbow. This is my humble tribute to the troubled genius tormented by the paradox that he was even to himself.

Comments

  1. Thank you for this write up on the philosopher Nietzsche which is both informative and enlightening. Written in a very lucid style, though I have never picked him up for reading.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Nietzsche was a perverted genius, I should say. He wrote wonderful poetry which was philosophy. None of his books were successful in the market!

      Delete
  2. Hari OM
    Nietzsche was a contrarian, that's for sure. So much of his work is couched in declaritive form and without a lot of very hard work from the reader, there lacks cohesiveness of argument (or any argument at all as such) or an overall concept concluded. It's as if he has simply allowed his intellect to put up all sorts of questions, followed them, but not entirely... what his work does do is instigate thinking in the reader. As long as that reader can be bothered.

    On reading from his own writing, "One not only wants to be understood when one writes, but also - quite as certainly - not to be understood. It is by no means an objection to a book when someone finds it unintelligible: perhaps this might just have been the intention of its author, - perhaps he did not want to be understood by 'anyone'," (TGSp.381) amongst others, it could be said that there is an elitist quality to his life approach.

    It is considered that he may well have had a slow-growing brain tumour, causing the disturbance involving police then collapse in Turin and subsequent dementia. (No horse involved - apocryphal anecdote.) Genius - yes. Perverted? No. But certainly searching, questioning, challenging, rebellious, paradoxical - and possibly obnoxious! One can certainly not be indifferent to him even on casual reading. ... and it seems the same is perhaps true of TSE which I may have to obtain sooner than later. Stimulating! YAM xx

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. When the poet and the philosopher blends into one, some obscurity and lack of cohesiveness are natural. Nietzsche provoked and he knew how to do that. I admired him as a young learner of philosophy and then marvelled at his strange genius and now, on reading Weiner, I am left with mixed feelings including sympathy, though the story about the horse might be apocryphal.

      Delete
    2. Hari Om
      I can understand your sympathy - in these times, it is more likely he would have had better psychological support and assessment. Mental health (never mind actual brain injury and invasion by disease) is still not widely discussed and society has great difficulty accepting those who express differently. Yxx

      Delete
  3. I've always been intrigued by Nietzsche and his profound thoughts. This was a lovely read.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Pranita a perverted genius

Bulldozer begins its work at Sawan Pranita was a perverted genius. She had Machiavelli’s brain, Octavian’s relentlessness, and Levin’s intellectual calibre. She could have worked wonders if she wanted. She could have created a beautiful world around her. She had the potential. Yet she chose to be a ruthless exterminator. She came to Sawan Public School just to kill it. A religious cult called Radha Soami Satsang Beas [RSSB] had taken over the school from its owner who had never visited the school for over 20 years. This owner, a prominent entrepreneur with a gargantuan ego, had come to the conclusion that the morality of the school’s staff was deviating from the wavelengths determined by him. Moreover, his one foot was inching towards the grave. I was also told that there were some domestic noises which were grating against his patriarchal sensibilities. One holy solution for all these was to hand over the school and its enormous campus (nearly 20 acres of land on the outskirts

Queen of Religion

She looked like Queen Victoria in the latter’s youth but with a snow-white head. She was slim, fair and graceful. She always smiled but the smile had no life. Someone on the campus described it as a “plastic smile.” She was charming by physical appearance. Soon all of us on the Sawan school campus would realise how deceptive appearances were. Queen took over the administration of Sawan school on behalf of her religious cult RSSB [Radha Soami Satsang Beas]. A lot was said about RSSB in the previous post. Its godman Gurinder Singh Dhillon is now 70 years old. I don’t know whether age has mellowed his lust for land and wealth. Even at the age of 64, he was embroiled in a financial scam that led to the fall of two colossal business enterprises, Fortis Healthcare and Religare finance. That was just a couple of years after he had succeeded in making Sawan school vanish without a trace from Delhi which he did for the sake of adding the school’s twenty-odd acres of land to his existing hun

Machiavelli the Reverend

Let us go today , you and I, through certain miasmic streets. Nothing will be quite clear along our way because this journey is through some delusions and illusions. You will meet people wearing holy robes and talking about morality and virtues. Some of them will claim to be god’s men and some will make taller claims. Some of them are just amorphous. Invisible. But omnipotent. You can feel their power around you. On you. Oppressing you. Stifling you. Reverend Machiavelli is one such oppressive power. You will meet Franz Kafka somewhere along the way. Joseph K’s ghost will pass by. Remember Joseph K who was arrested one fine morning for a crime that nobody knew anything about? Neither Joseph nor the men who arrest him know why Joseph K is arrested. The power that keeps Joseph K under arrest is invisible. He cannot get answers to his valid questions from the visible agents of that power. He cannot explain himself to that power. Finally, he is taken to a quarry outside the town wher

Levin the good shepherd

AI-generated image The lost sheep and its redeemer form a pet motif in Christianity. Jesus portrayed himself as a good shepherd many times. He said that the good shepherd will leave his 99 sheep in order to bring the lost sheep back to the fold. When he finds the lost sheep, the shepherd is happier about that one sheep than about the 99, Jesus claimed. He was speaking metaphorically. The lost sheep is the sinner in Jesus’ parable. Sin is a departure from the ‘right’ way. Angels raise a toast in heaven whenever a sinner returns to the ‘right’ path [Luke 15:10]. A lot of Catholic priests I know carry some sort of a Redeemer complex in their souls. They love the sinner so much that they cannot rest until they make the angels of God run for their cups of joy. I have also been fortunate to have one such priest-friend whom I shall call Levin in this post. He has befriended me right from the year 1976 when I was a blundering adolescent and he was just one year older than me. He possesse

Nakulan the Outcast

Nakulan was one of the many tenants of Hevendrea . A professor in the botany department of the North Eastern Hill University, he was a very lovable person. Some sense of inferiority complex that came from his caste status made him scoff the very idea of his lovability. He lived with his wife and three children in one of Heavendrea’s many cottages. When he wanted to have a drink, he would walk over to my hut. We sipped our whiskies and discussed Shillong’s intriguing politics or something of the sort while my cassette player crooned gently in the background. Nakulan was more than ten years my senior by age. He taught a subject which had never aroused my interest at any stage of my life. It made no difference to me whether a leaf was pinnately compound or palmately compound. You don’t need to know about anther and stigma in order to understand a flower. My friend Levin would have ascribed my lack of interest in Nakulan’s subject to my egomania. I always thought that Nakulan lived