“My dear reader! Inasmuch as, according to our hypothesis, eighteen hundred and forty-three years intervene between the contemporary follower and this conversation, there seems to be sufficient occasion to ask about a follower at second hand, inasmuch as this situation presumably must have recurred frequently. The question seems imperative, likewise the question’s claim on an explanation of the potential difficulties involved in defining the similarity and difference between a follower at second hand and a contemporary follower. Despite this, however, should we not first of all consider whether the question is just as proper as it is close at hand? That is, if the question should prove to be improper, or if one cannot raise such a question without talking like a fool and consequently is without justification in charging with foolishness someone who is sensible enough not to be able to answer it—the difficulties seem to be removed.”
“Undeniably, for if the question cannot be asked, then the answer causes no trouble, and the difficulty has become a remarkably easy matter.”
“But this is not the case, for suppose the difficulty consisted in perceiving that one cannot question in this way. Or have you perhaps already perceived this; was this perhaps what you meant when you said in our last conversation (Chapter IV) that you had understood me and all the consequences of what I said, although I as yet had not completely understood myself?”
“That was not at all my view, no more than it is my [IV 253] view that the question can be dismissed, even less so because it promptly poses a new question as to whether there is not a distinction among the many included in the category of follower at second hand, in other words, whether it is proper to separate such an enormous time span into such unequal parts: the contemporary period—the later period.”
“You are thinking that it ought to be possible to speak of a follower at fifth, at seventh hand, etc. But even if, in order to indulge you, this were discussed, would it follow that a discussion of all these distinctions, provided there is no internal discord, should not be subsumed under one rubric in contrast to the category: the contemporary follower? 2Or would the discussion proceed properly if it went about things as you did, so that it would be simple enough to do what you were crafty enough to do, namely, get the question about a follower at second hand changed into an entirely different question, whereby you found a chance to baffle me with a new question instead of agreeing or disagreeing with my proposal? But since you most likely do not wish to continue this conversation, fearing that it will degenerate into sophistry and bickering, I shall break it off. But from what I intend to enlarge upon, you will see that the comments we have just made to each other have been taken into consideration.”
Here, then, we shall not reflect on the relation of the secondary follower to the contemporary follower, but the difference to be reflected upon is of such a kind that the similarity (in contrast to another group) of those differing among themselves remains, for the difference that is different only within itself remains within the similarity to itself. Therefore, it is not arbitrary to break off wherever one so desires, for the relative difference here is no sorites3 from which the quality is supposed to appear by a coup des mains [sudden stroke], since it is within the specific quality. A sorites would eventuate only if to be contemporary were made dialectical in the bad sense, by showing, for example, that in a certain sense no one at all was contemporary, for no one could be contemporary with all the factors, or by asking when the contemporaneity ceased and when the noncontemporaneity began, whether there was not a confinium [border territory] [IV 254] of haggling in which the talkative understanding could say: to a certain degree etc. etc. All such inhuman profundity leads to nothing or in our time may lead to being considered genuine speculative profundity, since the despised sophism has become the miserable secret of genuine speculation (only the devil knows how it happened), and what antiquity regarded negatively—“to a certain degree” (the mocking toleration that mediates everything without making petty distinctions)—has become the positive, and what antiquity called the positive, the passion for distinctions,4 has become foolishness.
Opposites show up most strongly when placed together, and therefore we choose here the first generation of secondary followers and the latest (the boundary of the given spatium [period], the eighteen hundred and forty-three years), and we shall be as brief as possible, for we are speaking not historically but algebraically,5 and we have no desire to divert or fascinate anyone with the enchantments of multiplicity. On the contrary, in and with the difference we shall remember always to grasp securely the common similarity in the difference vis-à-vis the contemporary (not until the next section shall we see more specifically that the question about the follower at second hand, essentially understood, is an improper question), and we shall also bear in mind that the difference must not mushroom and confuse everything.
6This generation has (relatively) the advantage of being closer to the immediate certainty, of being closer to acquiring exact and reliable information about what happened from men whose reliability can be verified in other ways. This immediate certainty we have already assessed in Chapter IV. To be somewhat closer to it is no doubt deceptive, for the person who is not so close to the immediate certainty that he is immediately certain is absolutely distanced. Nevertheless, we shall make an appraisal of this relative difference (of the first generation of secondary followers compared with the later generations). How high should we appraise it? We can appraise it, however, only in relation to the advantage the contemporary has, but his advantage (immediate certainty in the [IV 255] strict sense) we have already shown in Chapter IV to be dubious (anceps —dangerous), and we shall expand on this in the next section.
Suppose there lived in the generation closest to the contemporary generation a person who combined a tyrant’s power with a tyrant’s passion, and he had the notion of concerning himself with nothing but the establishment of the truth in this matter—would he thereby be a follower? Suppose he seized all the contemporary witnesses who were still alive and those who were closest to them, had them sharply interrogated one by one, had them locked up like those seventy translators7 and starved them in order to force them to speak the truth. Suppose he most cunningly contrived to have them confront one another, simply in order to use every device to secure for himself a reliable report—would he, with the aid of this report, be a follower? Would not the god rather smile at him for wanting to obtain under duress in this manner what cannot be purchased for money but also cannot be taken by force? Even if that fact which we are discussing were a simple historical fact,8 difficulties would not fail to arise if he tried to reach absolute agreement on every small detail—a matter of enormous importance to him because the passion of faith, that is, the passion that is just as intense as faith, had taken a wrong turn toward the purely historical. It is well known that the most honest and truthful people are most likely to become entangled in contradictions when they are subjected to inquisitorial treatment and an inquisitor’s fixed idea; whereas non-contradiction in one’s lies is reserved only for the depraved criminal, because of an exactitude sharpened by an evil conscience. But apart from all this, that fact of which we speak is indeed no simple historical fact—so of what use is all this to him? If he managed to obtain a complicated report in agreement down to the letter and to the minute—then beyond all doubt he would be deceived. He would have attained a certainty even greater than that of the contemporary who saw and heard, for the latter would readily discover that he sometimes did not see and sometimes saw wrongly, and so also with his hearing, and he would continually have to be reminded that he did not see or hear the god directly and immediately but saw a human being in a lowly form who said of himself that he was the god—in other words, he would continually have to be [IV 256] reminded that this fact was based upon a contradiction. Would that person be served by the reliability of his report? Viewed historically, yes, but otherwise not, for all talk about the god’s physical comeliness (since he was in the form of a mere servant—a simple human being like one of us—the object of offense), all talk about his direct and immediate divinity (since divinity is not an immediate qualification, and the teacher must first of all develop the deepest self-reflection in the learner, must develop the consciousness of sin as the condition for understanding), all talk about the immediate wondrousness of his acts (since the wonder is not immediately but is only for faith, inasmuch as the person who does not believe does not see the wonder)—all such talk is nonsense here and everywhere, is an attempt to put off deliberation with chatter.
This generation has relatively the advantage of being closer to the jolt of that fact. This jolt and its vibrations serve to arouse awareness. The significance of such awareness (which can also become offense) has already been appraised in Chapter IV. Assume that it is an advantage to be somewhat closer (compared with later generations)—the advantage is related only to the dubious advantage of the contemporary. The advantage is completely dialectical, just as the awareness is. Whether one is offended or whether one believes, the advantage is to become aware. In other words, awareness is by no means partial to faith, as if faith proceeded as a simple consequence of awareness. The advantage is that one enters into a state in which the decision manifests itself ever more clearly. This is an advantage, and this is the only advantage that means anything—indeed, it means so much that it is terrifying and is in no way an easy comfort. If that fact never falls stupidly and senselessly into the human rut, every succeeding generation will evince the same relation of offense as did the first, because no one comes closer to that fact immediately. No matter how much one is educated up9 to that fact, it does not help. On the contrary, especially if the one doing the educating is already himself well read along these lines, it can help someone to become a well-trained babbler in whose mind there is neither a suggestion of offense nor a place for faith.
10This generation is a long way from the jolt, but, on the other hand, it does have the consequences to hold on to, has the probability proof of the outcome, has directly before it the consequences with which that fact presumably must have embraced everything, has close at hand the probability proof from which there nevertheless is no direct transition to faith, since, as has been shown, faith is by no means partial to probability—to say that about faith would be slander.* If that fact came into the world as the absolute paradox, all that comes later would be of no help, because this remains for all eternity the consequences of a paradox and thus just as definitively [IV 258] improbable as the paradox, unless it is assumed that the consequences (which, after all, are derived) gained retroactive power to transform the paradox, which would be just as acceptable as the assumption that a son received retroactive power to transform his father. Even if one considers the consequences purely logically—that is, in the form of immanence—it still remains true that a consequence can be defined only as identical and homogeneous with its cause, but least of all as having a transforming power. To have the consequences in front of one’s nose, then, is just as dubious an advantage as to have immediate certainty, and someone who takes the consequences immediately and directly is just as deceived as someone who takes immediate certainty for faith.
12The advantage of the consequences seems to be that that fact is supposed to have been naturalized13 little by little. If this is the case (if this is thinkable), then the later generation plainly is in a position of advantage over the contemporary generation (and someone would have to be very stupid to be able to talk about the consequence in this sense and yet romanticize about the good fortune of being contemporary with that fact) and can appropriate that fact quite unabashedly, without noticing the ambiguity of the awareness, from which offense can proceed as well as faith. That fact, however, has no respect for domestication, is too proud to desire a follower who joins on the strength of the successful outcome of the matter, refuses to be naturalized under the protection of a king or a professor—it is and remains the paradox and does not permit attainment by speculation. That fact is only for faith.
[IV 259] Now faith certainly may become a person’s second nature, but a person for whom it becomes second nature must certainly have had a first nature,14 inasmuch as faith became the second. If that fact is to be naturalized, then with respect to the individual it may be said that the individual is born with faith—that is, with his second nature. If we start our explication on this premise, then every kind of nonsense begins to celebrate, for now the lid is off and the process cannot be stopped. Naturally, this nonsense must be fabricated by going further, for there truly was good sense in Socrates’ view, even though we abandoned it in order to discover what was projected earlier, and nonsense of that sort would certainly feel deeply insulted not to be much further ahead than the Socratic view. There is some sense even in the transmigration of souls, but to be born with one’s second nature, a second nature that refers to a given historical fact in time, is truly the non plus ultra [ultimate] in lunacy. Socratically understood, the individual has existed before he came into existence and recollects himself; thus recollection is pre-existence (not recollection of pre-existence). His nature (the one nature, for here there is no question of a first and second nature) is defined in continuity with itself. Here, however, everything faces forward and is historical; thus to be born with faith is just as plausible as to be born twenty-four years old. If someone born with faith could actually be pointed out, that someone would be a rarity more worthy of seeing than that which the barber in Den Stundeslose15 tells of being born in the Neuen-Buden, even though to barbers and busy-bodies that would seem to be the dearest of all little creatures, the supreme triumph of speculation. —Or is the individual perhaps born with both natures simultaneously—not, please note, in such a way that two natures go together to form the common human nature, but with two complete human natures, one of which presupposes something historical in between. In that case, everything we projected in Chapter I is thrown into confusion; we stand not by the Socratic but in a confusion that not even Socrates would be able to terminate. It becomes a forward-oriented confusion that has much in common with the backward-oriented confusion created by Apollonius of Tyana.16 In other words, unlike [IV 260] Socrates, he was not satisfied with recollecting himself as being prior to his coming into existence (the eternity and continuity of consciousness is the profound meaning and the idea in Socratic thought) but was in a hurry to go further—that is, he recollected who he had been before he became himself. If that fact has been naturalized, then birth is no longer birth but is also rebirth, such that he who has never been is reborn—when he is born. —For the individual life, this means that the individual is born with faith; for the human race, this means the same thing, so that the race, after the supervention of that fact, became an altogether different race and nevertheless is defined in continuity with the former.17 In that case, the race ought to take a new name, for faith as we have formulated it certainly is not something inhuman, such as a birth within a birth (rebirth), but it certainly would become a fabulous monstrosity if it were such as we have let the objection want it to be.
The advantage of the consequences is a dubious advantage for another reason, insofar as it is not a simple consequence of that fact. Let us appraise the advantage of the consequences as high as possible; let us assume that this fact has completely transformed the world, has penetrated even the most insignificant trifle with its omnipresence—how did this take place? It certainly did not occur in one single stroke but occurred gradually—and gradually in what way? Presumably by every single generation’s relating all over again to that fact? Therefore, this middle term must be inspected, so that the full strength of the consequences can be of benefit to someone only by a conversion. But cannot a misunderstanding also have consequences; cannot an untruth also be powerful? And has this not occurred in every generation? If all the generations were to entrust all the splendor of the consequences to the most recent generation as a matter of course—then the consequences are indeed a misunderstanding. Is not Venice built upon the sea, even though it was built in such a way that a generation finally came along that did not notice this at all, and would it not be a lamentable misunderstanding if this latest generation was so in error until the pilings began to rot and the city sank? But, humanly speaking, consequences built upon a paradox18 are built upon the abyss,19 and the total content of the consequences, which is handed [IV 261] down to the single individual only under the agreement that it is by virtue of a paradox, is not to be passed on like real estate, since the whole thing is in suspense.
We shall not pursue further what has been developed here but leave it up to each person to practice coming back to the idea from the most diverse sides, to practice using his imagination to uncover the strangest instances of relative differences and relative situations in order to figure it all out. In this way, the quantitative is limited and will have free range within the boundaries. The quantitative makes for the manifoldness of life and is continually weaving its multicolored tapestry. It is like that one goddess of fate who sat spinning, but then it holds true that thought, like the other goddess of fate, sees to clipping the thread20—something (apart from the metaphor) that ought to take place every time the quantitative wants to constitute quality.
The first generation of secondary followers has the advantage of having the difficulty present; for when it is the difficult that I am to appropriate, it is always an advantage, a relief, to have it made difficult for me. If it were to occur to the latest generation, observing the first generation and seeing it almost collapsing under the terror, to say, “This is inconceivable, for the whole thing is not so heavy that one cannot pick it up and run with it”—there no doubt would be someone who would reply, “Please, why do you not run with it; but just be sure that what you are running with is actually what is under discussion. We certainly do not dispute the fact that it is easy enough to run with the wind.”
The latest generation has the advantage of ease, but as soon as it discovers that this ease is the very dubiousness that begets the difficulty, then this difficulty will correspond to the difficulty of the terror, and the terror will grip the last generation just as primitively21 as it gripped the first generation of secondary followers.
22Before considering the question itself, we shall make a few observations for orientation, (a) If that fact is regarded as a simple historical fact, then being contemporary counts for something, and it is an advantage to be contemporary (understood more explicitly as stated in Chapter IV), or to be as close as possible, or to be able to assure oneself of the reliability of the contemporaries, etc. Every historical fact is only a relative fact, and therefore it is entirely appropriate for the relative power, time, to decide the relative fates of people with respect to contemporaneity. More it is not, and only puerility and stupidity can make it the absolute by over-estimation. (b) If that fact is an eternal fact, then every age is equally close to it—but, please note, not in faith, for faith and the historical are entirely commensurate, and thus it is only an accommodation to a less correct use of language for me to use the word “fact,” which is taken from the historical. (c) If that fact is an absolute fact, or, to define it even more exactly, if that fact is what we have set forth, then it is a contradiction for time to be able to apportion the relations of people to it—that is, apportion them in a crucial sense, for whatever can be apportioned essentially by time is eo ipso not the absolute, because that would imply that the absolute itself is a casus23 in life, a status in relation to something else, whereas the absolute, although declinable in all the casibus of life, is continually the same and in its continual relation to something else is continually status absolutus. But the absolute fact is indeed also historical. If we pay no attention to that, then all our hypothetical discussion is demolished, for then we are speaking only of an eternal fact. The absolute fact is a historical fact and as such the object of faith. The historical aspect must indeed be accentuated, but not in such a way that it becomes absolutely decisive for individuals, for then we are back to (a) (although, understood in this [IV 263] way, it is a contradiction, for a simple historical fact is not an absolute fact and does not have the power for any absolute decision). But the historical must not be removed, either, for then we have only an eternal fact.
24Just as the historical becomes the occasion for the contemporary to become a follower—by receiving the condition, please note, from the god himself (for otherwise we speak Socratically)—so the report of the contemporaries becomes the occasion for everyone coming later to become a follower—by receiving the condition, please note, from the god himself.
Now we shall begin. The person who through the condition becomes a follower receives the condition from the god himself. If so (and this is what we developed above, where we showed that immediate contemporaneity is only the occasion, yet, please note, not in such a way that the condition was present as a matter of course in the one for whom it was an occasion), then what place is there for that question about the follower at second hand? For one who has what one has from the god himself obviously has it at first hand, and one who does not have it from the god himself is not a follower.25
Let us assume something different. Let us assume that the contemporary generation of followers received the condition from the god and that now the succeeding generations are to receive the condition from these contemporaries—what would be the result? We shall not divert attention by reflecting upon the historical pusillanimity with which people in a new contradiction most likely would covet the report of those contemporaries—as if everything depended upon that—and thereby create a new confusion (for if they first begin with this, then the chaos is illimitable). No, if the contemporary gives the condition to one who comes later, then the latter will come to believe in him. He receives the condition from him, and thereby the contemporary becomes the object of faith for the one who comes later, because the one from whom the single individual receives the condition is eo ipso (see the foregoing) himself the object of faith and is the god.
Presumably such meaninglessness will be enough to frighten thought away from this assumption. But if the one who comes later also receives the condition from the god, then the Socratic relation will return—but, please note, within the total difference consisting of that fact and the relation of the single individual (the contemporary and the one who came later) to the god. That meaninglessness, however, is unthinkable in a sense different from our stating that that fact and the single individual’s relation to the god are unthinkable. Our hypothetical assumption of that fact and the single individual’s relation to the god contains no self-contradiction, and thus thought can become preoccupied with it as with the strangest [IV 264] thing of all. That meaningless consequence, however, contains a self-contradiction; it is not satisfied with positing something unreasonable, which is our hypothetical assumption, but within this unreasonableness it produces a self-contradiction: that the god is the god for the contemporary, but the contemporary in turn is the god for a third. Our project went beyond Socrates only in that it placed the god in relation to the single individual, but who indeed would dare come to Socrates with such nonsense—that a human being is a god in his relation to another human being? No, with a heroism that in itself takes boldness to understand, 26Socrates understood how one human being is related to another. 27And yet the point is to acquire the same understanding within the formation as assumed—namely, that one human being, insofar as he is a believer, is not indebted to someone else for something but is indebted to the god for everything. That this understanding is not easy will be seen without any difficulty, not easy especially when it comes to preserving this understanding continually (for to understand it once and for all without thinking the concrete objections, that is, fancying that one has understood it, is not difficult); and anyone who begins to exercise himself in this understanding no doubt will frequently enough catch himself in a misunderstanding, and if he wants to become involved with others, he had better take care. But if he has understood it, he will also understand that there is not and cannot be any question of a follower at second hand, for the believer (and only he, after all, is a follower) continually has the autopsy28 of faith; he does not see with the eyes of others and sees only the same as every believer sees—with the eyes of faith.
What, then, can a contemporary do for someone who comes later? (a) He can tell someone who comes later that he himself has believed that fact; this actually is not a communication at all (that there is no immediate contemporaneity and that the fact is based upon a contradiction indicate this) but merely an occasion. Thus, if I say that this and this occurred, I speak historically; but if I say, “I believe and have believed that this happened, although it is foolishness to the understanding and an offense to the human heart,”29 I have in the very same moment done everything to prevent anyone else from making up his mind in immediate continuity with me and to decline all partnership, because every single person must conduct himself exactly the same way. (b) In this form, he can tell the [IV 265] content of the fact, a content that still is only for faith, in quite the same sense as colors are only for sight and sound for hearing. In this form, he is able to do it; in any other form, he is only talking nonsense and perhaps inveigles the one who comes later to make up his mind in continuity with idle chatter.
30In what sense can the trustworthiness of a contemporary be of interest to someone who comes later? Whether he actually had the faith that he testified he had is of no concern to one who comes later; it is of no benefit to him and makes no difference to him in coming to faith himself. Only the person who personally receives the condition from the god (which completely corresponds to the requirement that one relinquish the understanding and on the other hand is the only authority that corresponds to faith), only that person believes. If he believes (that is, fancies that he believes) because many good, honest people here on the hill have believed31 (that is, have said that they have faith, because one person can go no further in checking up on someone else, even if that someone has borne, endured, and suffered everything for the sake of faith; the outsider cannot go beyond what the other says of himself, because untruth has exactly the same range as truth—for human eyes, not for God’s), then he is a fool, and essentially it is incidental whether he believes by virtue of his own view and a perhaps widespread opinion about the faith of good, honest people or whether he believes a Münchhausen.32 If the trustworthiness of the contemporary is to have any interest for him (alas, one can be sure that this is a subject that will cause an enormous sensation and will be the occasion for the writing of many volumes, for this deceptive appearance of earnestness, this deliberating about whether one or another is trustworthy, rather than about whether one has faith oneself, is tailor-made for intellectual laziness and European town talk), his interest must be in regard to something historical. What historical something? The historical that can be an object only for faith and cannot be communicated by one person to another—that is, one person can communicate it to another, but, please note, not in such a way that the other believes it; whereas, if he communicates it in the form of faith, he does his very best to prevent the other from adopting it directly. If the fact of which we speak were a simple historical fact, the historiographer’s scrupulous accuracy would be of great importance. This is not the case here, for faith cannot be distilled from even the finest detail. The heart of the matter is the historical fact that the god has [IV 266] been in human form, and the other historical details are not even as important as they would be if the subject were a human being instead of the god. Lawyers say that a capital crime absorbs all the lesser crimes—so also with faith: its absurdity completely absorbs minor matters. Discrepancies, which usually are disturbing, do not disturb here and do not matter. However, it does matter very much if by means of petty-minded calculation someone wants to offer faith to the highest bidder; it matters so much that he never comes to faith. Even if the contemporary generation had not left anything behind except these words, “We have believed that in such and such a year the god appeared in the humble form of a servant, lived and taught among us, and then died”—this is more than enough. The contemporary generation would have done what is needful, for this little announcement, this world-historical nota bene, is enough to become an occasion for someone who comes later, and the most prolix report can never in all eternity become more for the person who comes later.
If we wish to state in the briefest possible way the relation of a contemporary to someone who comes later—without, however, sacrificing correctness for brevity—then we can say: By means of the contemporary’s report (the occasion), the person who comes later believes by virtue of the condition he himself receives from the god. —The contemporary’s report is the occasion for the one who comes later, just as immediate contemporaneity is the occasion for the contemporary, and if the report is what it ought to be (a believer’s report), it will then occasion the same ambiguity of awareness that he himself had, occasioned by immediate contemporaneity. If the report is not of this nature, then either it is by a historian and does not really deal with the object of faith (just as a contemporary historian who was not a believer narrates one thing and another) or it is by a philosopher and does not deal with the object of faith. The believer, however, passes the report on in such a way that no one can accept it directly and immediately, for the words “I believe it” (despite the understanding and my own inventive talents) are a very disquieting aber [but].
There is no follower at second hand. The first and the latest generation are essentially alike, except that the latter generation has the occasion in the report of the contemporary generation, whereas the contemporary generation has the occasion in its immediate contemporaneity and therefore owes no generation anything. 33But this immediate contemporaneity is merely the occasion, and the strongest expression of this is that the follower, if he understood himself, [IV 267] would have to wish that it would be terminated by the departure of the god from the earth.
But someone may be saying, “How very curious! I have read your discussion to the end, and really not without some interest, and I have been pleased to find no slogans, no invisible writing. But how you do twist and turn. Just as Saft always ends up in the pantry,34 you always mix in some little phrase that is not your own, and that disturbs because of the recollection it prompts. This idea that it is to the follower’s advantage that the god depart is in the New Testament, in the Gospel of John.35 Yet, whether this was deliberate or not, whether or not you wanted to give that comment a particular effect by casting it in this form, as the matter now stands, a contemporary’s advantage, which I originally was inclined to rate very high, seems to have been considerably reduced, since there can be no question of a follower at second hand or, what in other words amounts to the same thing, all are essentially alike.36 Not only this, but, according to what you just said, immediate contemporaneity, considered as an advantage, becomes so dubious that the most that can be said of it is that it seems to become advantageous to terminate it. This means that it is an intermediate state that no doubt has its significance and cannot be omitted without, as you would say, returning to the Socratic, but, nevertheless, it does not have absolute significance for a contemporary. Therefore, he is not divested of the essential by the termination, since, on the contrary, he gains by it, although if it had not been, he would lose everything and return to the Socratic.”
—“Very eloquently spoken, I would say, if modesty did not forbid me, for you speak as I myself would speak. Yes, that is just how it is. Immediate contemporaneity is by no means a decisive advantage, if one thinks it through and is not inquisitive or in a hurry, does not wish—indeed, does [IV 268] not wishfully strain at the leash, like that barber in Greece37 —to risk his life at once by being the first to tell the extraordinary news and is not so foolish as to regard such a death as a martyr’s death. 38Immediate contemporaneity is so far from being an advantage that the contemporary must expressly wish its termination lest he be tempted to run around to see with his physical eyes and to hear with his mortal ears—all of which is wasted effort—a lamentable, yes, a perilous chore. But this, as you no doubt have observed yourself, actually belongs in another exposition, where the question would be what advantage the contemporary believer, after having become a believer, could have from his contemporaneity; here we are considering only the extent to which immediate contemporaneity makes it easier for someone to become a believer. Someone who comes later cannot be tempted in this way, for he has only the contemporary’s report, which, insofar as it is a report, is in the inhibitive form of faith. Therefore, if one who comes later understands himself, he must wish the contemporary’s report to be not too prolix and above all not to be couched in so many books that they could fill the whole world.39 In immediate contemporaneity there is a restlessness that ends only when it is said: It is finished40—without, however, an elimination of the historical by the relaxation, for then everything is Socratic.”
“In this way the equality is established, and the contending parties are recalled to the equality.”
“This is my opinion, too, but you must likewise consider that the god himself is the reconciler. Would he bring about a reconciliation with some human beings such that their reconciliation with him would make their difference from all others blatantly flagrant? That would indeed bring conflict. Would the god allow the power of time to decide whom he would grant his favor, or would it not be worthy of the god to make the reconciliation equally difficult for every human being at every time and in every place, equally difficult because no human being is capable of giving himself the condition (but neither is he to receive it from another human being and thereby produce new dissension), equally difficult, then, but also equally easy—inasmuch as the god gives it. This, you see, is why at the beginning I considered my project (that is, insofar as a hypothesis can be regarded as such) to be a godly project, and I still consider it to be that, without, [IV 269] however, being indifferent to any human objection, since, on the contrary, I once again ask you, if you have any legitimate protest to make, to present it.”
“How festive you suddenly become! Even if the subject did not demand it, simply for the sake of the festivity one might decide to make an objection, unless it is more festive to refrain and your solemn invitation is indirectly intended only to bid silence. Lest the nature of my objection disturb the festivity, I shall draw my objection from the festivity with which, so it seems to me, a later generation comes to distinguish itself from the contemporary generation. I am well aware that the contemporary generation must really sense and suffer profoundly the pain involved in the coming into existence of such a paradox, or, as you put it, in the god’s planting himself in human life. But gradually the new order of things must succeed in pushing its way through victoriously, and finally will come the happy generation that with songs of joy harvests the fruit that was sown in tears in the first generation. But this jubilant, triumphant generation that goes through life with singing and ringing, is it not quite different from the first and the earlier generations?”
“Yes, undeniably it is different, and perhaps so different that it does not even retain the equality that constitutes the condition for our speaking of it, the condition such that the generation’s differences would frustrate my efforts to achieve equality. But is a jubilant, triumphant generation such as this, which, as you say, goes through life singing and ringing—which reminds me, if I remember correctly, of a jaunty, ale-Norse41 translation of a Bible verse by a popular genius42 —is a generation such as this actually supposed to be a believing generation? Truly, now, if faith ever has the notion of advancing en masse in triumph, it will not need to give anyone permission to sing satirical songs, because it would do no good for it to forbid everyone. Even if people were struck dumb, this mad procession would evoke shrill laughter, similar to the mocking sounds of nature on Ceylon,43 for the [IV 270] faith that celebrates triumphantly is the most ludicrous of all. If the contemporary generation of believers did not find time to celebrate triumphantly, then no generation finds it, for the task is identical, and faith is always in conflict, but as long as there is conflict, there is the possibility of defeat. Therefore, with regard to faith, one never celebrates triumphantly ahead of time, that is, never in time, for when is there the time to compose songs of victory or the opportune occasion to sing them! If it does happen, then it is as if an army, drawn up to move into battle, were instead to march back to the city barracks in triumph. Even if no one laughed at this, even if the whole contemporary generation sympathized with this abracadabra, nevertheless, would not the smothered laughter of existence break forth where least expected! 44What the later so-called believer did was even worse than what the contemporary sought in vain from the god (Chapter II) when he did not want the god to have to expose himself to lowliness and contempt, for the so-called believer who came later would himself not even be satisfied with lowly poverty and contempt, with contending foolishness, but no doubt he would be willing to believe if this were done with singing and ringing. Presumably the god would not, could not, say to such a one what he said to that contemporary: So, then, you love only the omnipotent one who does miracles, not the one who abased himself in equality with you.
“But here I shall stop. Even if I were a better dialectician than I am, I would still have my limits. Basically, an unshakable insistence upon the absolute and absolute distinctions45 is precisely what makes a good dialectician. This is something we in our day have completely disregarded by canceling and in canceling the principle of contradiction,46 without perceiving what Aristotle indeed emphasized, that the thesis that the principle of contradiction is canceled is based upon the principle of contradiction, since otherwise the opposite thesis, that it is not canceled, is equally true.47
“I shall make just one more comment with respect to your many allusions, all of which were aimed at my mixing of borrowed phrases in what was said. I do not deny this, nor shall I conceal the fact that I did it deliberately and that in the next section of this pamphlet, if I ever do write it, I intend to call the matter by its proper name and clothe the issue in its historical costume.48 If I ever do write a second section—because a pamphlet writer such as I am has no seriousness, as you presumably will hear about me—why, then, should I now in conclusion pretend seriousness in order to [IV 271] please people by making a rather big promise? In other words, to write a pamphlet is frivolity—but to promise the system, that is seriousness and has made many a man a supremely serious man both in his own eyes and in the eyes of others. Yet it is not difficult to perceive what the historical costume of the next section will be. As is well known, Christianity is the only historical phenomenon that despite the historical—indeed, precisely by means of the historical—has wanted to be the single individual’s point of departure for his eternal consciousness, has wanted to interest him otherwise than merely historically, has wanted to base his happiness on his relation to something historical. No philosophy (for it is only for thought), no mythology49 (for it is only for the imagination), no historical knowledge (which is for memory) has ever had this idea—of which in this connection one can say with all multiple meanings that it did not arise in any human heart.50 To a certain extent, however, I have wanted to forget this, and, employing the unrestricted judgment of a hypothesis, I have assumed that the whole thing was a whimsical idea of my own, one that I did not wish to abandon before I had thought it through. The monks never finished narrating the history of the world because they always began with the creation of the world. If in discussing the relation between Christianity and philosophy we begin by narrating what was said earlier, how shall we ever, not finish, but ever manage to begin, for history just keeps on growing. If we begin with “that great thinker and sage Pontius Pilate, executor Novi Testamenti,” 51 who in his own way merits a good deal of gratitude from Christianity and philosophy, even if he did not invent mediation, and if, before beginning with him, we have to wait for one or two decisive books (perhaps the system) that have already been announced ex cathedra [with authority] several times, how shall we ever manage to begin?”
* Generally speaking, the idea (however more specifically it is to be understood in concreto) of seriously wanting to link a probability proof to the improbable (in order to demonstrate: that it is probable?—but then the concept is changed; or in order to demonstrate: that it is improbable?—but to use probability for that is a contradiction) is so stupid that one could deem its occurrence impossible, but as waggery and jest I deem it hilariously funny and very entertaining to use in such a pinch. —In order to come to the aid of humanity, a magnanimous person wants to use a probability proof to help humanity into the improbable. He is immensely successful; deeply moved, he receives congratulations and expressions of gratitude, not only from dignitaries, who really know how to relish the proof but also from the community—alas, and that magnanimous person has in fact spoiled everything. —Or someone has a conviction, the substance of which is the unreasonable, the improbable. This individual is rather vain. This is the way to go about it. As unobtrusively and amiably as possible, one induces him to come out with his conviction. Suspecting no mischief, he propounds it incisively. When he has finished, one pounces on him in a way as irritating as possible to his vanity. He becomes perplexed, embarrassed, is ashamed of himself—“to think that he would adopt something unreasonable.” Instead of calmly replying, “The honorable gentleman is a fool, it is unreasonable and must be that; despite all objections, which I myself have fully considered in a form far more terrifying than the fomulations anyone else is capable of posing to me, I nevertheless chose the improbable”—he tries to adduce a probability proof. Now one comes to his aid, lets oneself be convinced, and ends up with something like this: “Aha, now I see it! Why, this is the most probable of all!” One embraces him; if the waggery is carried very far, one kisses him and thanks him ob meliorem informationem [IV 258] [for having possessed better information] and on parting from him looks deeply once again into his romantic eyes and parts from him as a friend and foster brother for life and death, as from a kindred soul one has understood for all eternity. —Such waggery is justifiable, for if the man had not been vain, I would have been made to look like a fool in the face of the honest earnestness of his conviction. —What Epicurus says of the individual’s relation to death (even though his observation is scant comfort) holds for the relation between probability and improbability: When I am, it (death) is not, and when it (death) is, I am not.11