It is striking that Nietzsche attracted the notice of psychiatrists by signing the admirable letter of 6 January 1889, in which we might be tempted to see the highest lyrical explosion of his entire opus. Humour has never attained such intensity, nor has it ever run up against stricter boundaries. Nietzsche’s whole enterprise in fact tends to justify the superego by increasing and expanding the ego (pessimism given as a source of good will; death as a form of liberation; sexual love as the ideal realization of the unity of opposites: ‘annihilating oneself to become anew’). The whole issue was to restore to man all the power that he had invested in the name of God. It might be that the ego dissolves at this temperature (‘I is an Other,’ Rimbaud would say, and we see no reason why there wouldn’t also be for Nietzsche a series of ‘others,’ chosen according to the whim of the moment and designated by name). It is true that euphoria puts in an appearance here: it flares in a black star in the enigmatic ‘Astu,’ which is counterpart to ‘Baou!’ in Rimbaud’s poem ‘Devotions,’ and attests to the fact that the bridges of communication have been cut. But bridges of communication with whom, if we are all, all in one, on the same side? ‘Every morality,’ Nietzsche tells us, ‘has been useful in that it first provided the race with absolute stability. But once that stability has been reached, one can begin to aim higher. One of the movements is unconditioned: the levelling-off of humanity, the great human anthills, etc. The other movement, my movement, means on the contrary the accentuation of every contrast and every abyss, the suppression of equality, the creation of all-powerful beings.’ One is delusional only to others. Only to small men did Nietzsche’s ideas seem delusions of grandeur.
6 January 1889
Dear Professor,
In the end I would much rather be a Basel professor than God; but I have not dared push my private egoism so far as to desist for its sake from the creation of the world. You see, one must make sacrifices however and wherever one lives.
But I have reserved myself a small student’s room, situated opposite the Palazzo Carignano (in which I was born as Vittorio Emanuele), which also permits me to hear from the desk the magnificent music below, in the Galleria Subalpina. I pay twenty-five francs, including service, buy my tea, and do all my shopping myself, suffer from torn shoes, and thank heaven every moment for the old world for which men have not been simple and quiet enough.
Since I am sentenced to while away the next eternity with bad jokes, I have my writing here, which really does not leave anything to be desired – very nice and not at all exhausting. The post office is five steps from here, so I mail my letters myself to play the great feuilletonist of the grand monde. Of course, I maintain close relations with Figaro; and in order to get an idea how harmless I can be, listen to my first two bad jokes.
Do not take the Prado case too hard. I am Prado; I am also father Prado; I dare say that I am Lesseps too. I wanted to give my Parisians, whom I love, a new notion: that of a decent criminal. I am also Chambige – also a decent criminal. Second joke: I salute the immortal one; Monsieur Daudet belongs to the quarante. Astu.
What is disagreeable and offends my modesty is that at bottom I am every name in history. With the children I have put into the world, too, I consider with some mistrust whether it is not the case that all who come into the kingdom of God also come out of God. This fall I was blinded as little as possible when I twice witnessed my funeral, first as Conte Robilant (no, that is my son, insofar as I am Carlo Alberto, unfaithful to my nature); but Antonelli I was myself. Dear Professor, this edifice you should see: since I am utterly inexperienced in the things which I create, you are entitled to any criticism; I am grateful without being able to promise that I shall profit. We artists are incorrigible.
Today I saw an operetta; Quirinal-Moorish, and on this occasion also noted with delight that Moscow as well as Rome are now grandiose affairs. You see, I am not denied considerable talent for landscapes too.
Consider, now we have beautiful, beautiful chats; Turin is not far; very serious professional obligations are lacking just now; a glass of Veltliner could be obtained. Négligé of dress, a condition of being decent.
With affectionate love, your
Nietzsche
You may make any use of this letter which will not degrade me in the eyes of those at Basel.
I have had Caiphas put in fetters. Also, last year I was crucified by the German doctors in a very drawn-out manner. Wilhelm, Bismarck, and all anti-Semites abolished.
I go everywhere in my student’s coat, and here and there slap somebody on the shoulder and say, Siamo contenti? Son dio ho fatto questa caricatura.
Tomorrow my son Umberto will come with the lovely Margharita, whom, however, I shall also receive here only in shirt-sleeves. The rest for Frau Cosima – Ariadne – from time to time there is magic.
– translated by Walter Kaufmann