2017년 11월 6일 월요일

[니체: Genealogy of Morals] 프롤로그


※ 발췌 (excerpt):

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1

We don't know ourselves, we knowledgeable people--we are personally ignorant about ourselves. And there's good reason for that. We've never looked for ourselves--how could it happen that one day we'd ^discover^ ourselves? With justice it's been said, "Where your treasure is, there shall your heart be also." [주]1 ^Our^ treasure lies where the beehives of our knowledge stand. We are always busy with our knowledge, as born winged creatures and collectors of intellectual honey. In our hearts we are concerned with really only onething--to "bring something home." As far as the rest of life is concerned, what people call "experiences,"--who of us is serious enough for that? Or has enough time? In these matters, I fear, we've been "missing the point." Our hears have simply not been engaged with that--nor, for that matter, have our ears! Instead we've been more like someone divinely distracted and self-absorbed into whose ear the clock has just pealed the twelve strokes of noon with all its force and who all at once wakes up and asks himself "What exactly did that clock strick>"--so now and then we even rub our ears ^afterwards^ and ask, totally surprised and completely embarrassed--"What have we really just experienced?" And more: "Who are we really?" Then, as I've mentioned, we count--after the fact--all the twelve trembling strokes of the clock of our experience, of our lives, of our ^being^--alas! in the process we keep losing count... We remain simply and necessarily strangers to ourselves, we do not understand ourselves, we ^must^ be confused about ourselves. For us this proposition holds for all eternity: "Each man is furthest from himelf"--where we ourselves are concerned, we are not "knowledgeable people" ...


2

My thought about the ^origin^ of our moral prejudices--for this polemical tract is concerned about that origin--had their first brief, provisional expression in that collection of aphorisms which carried the title ^Human, All-too Human: A Book for Free Spirits^, which I started to write in Sorrento, during a winter when I had the chance to pause, just as a traveller stops, and to look over the wide and dangerous land through which my spirit had wandered up to that point. This happened in the winter of 1876-77, but the ideas themselves are older. In the main points, they were already the same ideas which I am taking up again in the present essays:--let's hope that the long interval of time has done them some good, that they have become riper, brighter, stronger, and more complete! But ^the fact that^ today I still stand by these ideas, that in the intervening time they themselves have constantly become more strongly associated with one another, in fact, have grown into each other and intertwined, that reinforces in me the joyful confidence that they may not have originally developed in me as single, random, or sporadic ideas, but up out of a common root, out of a ^fundamental will^ for knowledge ruling from deep within, always speaking with greater clarity, always demanding greater clarity. For that's the only thign appropriate to a philosopher. We have no right to be ^isolated^ in any way: we are not permitted either to make isolated mistakes or to run into truths in isolation. By contrast, our ideas, our values, our affirmations and denials, our ^if^'s and ^whether^'s grow out of us from the same necessity which makes a tree bear its fruit--totally related and interlinked amongst each other, witnesses of one will, one health, one soil, one sun.--As for the question whether these fruits of ours taste good to ^you^--what does that matter to the trees! What concern is that to ^us^, we philosophers!


3

Because of a doubt peculiar to my own nature, which I am reluctant to confess--for it concerns itself with ^morality^, with everything which up to the present has been celebrated on earch as morality--a doubt which came into my life so early, so uninvited, so irresistibley, in such contradiction to my surroundings, my age, precedent, and my origin, that I would almost have the right to call it my "^a priori [before experience]^--because of this, my curiosity as well as my suspicion had to pause early on at the question of where our good and evil really ^originated^. In fact, already as a thirteen-year-old lad, my mind was occupying itself with the problem of the origin of evil. At an age when one has "hald children's play, half God in one's heart," I devoted my first childish literary trifle, my first written philosophical exercise, to this problem--and so far as my "solution" to it at that time is concerned, well, I gave the honour to God, as is reasonable, and made him the ^father^ of evil. Is ^that^ precisely what my "^a priori^" demanded of me, that new immoral, at the very least unmoral "^a priori^" and the "categorical imperative" which spoke out from it, alas, so anti-Kantian and so cryptic, which I have increasingly listened to ever since--and not just listened to? [주]2 Luckily at an early stage I learned to separate theological prejudices from moral ones, and I no longer sought the origin of evil ^behind^ the world. Some education in history and philosophy, along with an inherently refined sense concerning psychological questions in general, quickly changed my problem into something else: Under what conditions did people invent for themselves those value judgments good and evil? ^And what value do they inherently possess?^ Have they hindered or fostered human wellbeing up to now? Are they a sign of some emergency, of impoverishment, of an atrophying life? Or is it the other way around? Do they indicate fullness, power, a will for life, its courage, its confidence, its future? Do these questions I came across and proposed all sorts of answers for myself. I distinguished between ages, peoples, and different ranks of individuals. I kept refining my prblem. Out of the answers arose new quesions, investigations, assumptions, and probabilities, until at last I had my own country, my own soil, a totally secluded, flowering, blooming world, a secret garden, as it were, of which no one could have the slightest inkling. O how ^lucky^ we are, we knowledgeable people, provided only that we know how to stay silent long enough!


4

The initial stimulus to publish something of my hypotheses concerning the origin of morality was given to me by a lucid, tidy, clever, even precocious little book, in which for the first time I clearly ran into a topsy-turvy, perverse type of genealogical hypotheses--a genuinely ^English^ style. It drew me with that power of attraction that everything opposite, everything antipodal, contains. The title of this booklet was ^The Origin of the Moral Feelings^, its author was Dr Paul Rée, and it appeared in the year 1877.[주]3 I have perhaps never read anything which I would have denied, statement by statement, conclusion by conclusion, as I did with this book, but entirely without any annoyance or impatience. In the work I mentioned above, with which I was engage at the time, I made opportune and inopportune references to statements in Dr. Rée's book, not in order to prove them wrong--what have I to do with preparing refutations!--but, as is appropriate to a positive spirit, to put in the place of something unlikely something more likely and, in some circumstances, in the place of some error another error. In that period, as I said, for the first time I brought into the light of day those hypotheses about genealogy to which these essas have been dedicated--but clumsily, as I myself would be the last to deny, still fettered, still without my own language for these concerns of mine, and with all sorts of retreating and vacillating. For particular details, you should compare what I say in ^Human, All-too Human^, p. 51 ^[Section 45]^, about the double nature of the prehistory of good and evil (that is, in the spheres of the nobility and the slaves); ( ... ... )


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