Good and Evil
63rd installment to my philosophical system.
When will mankind move beyond good and evil? The question speaks its own importance, but does so in a manner that makes it seem unassuming, unbecoming even—but it does this deliberately, for deep down this question of morality is perhaps the most staggering and implicating in history.
What is the good and what is the evil? Nothing but a value judgment, I say. The whole of morality is bound in feeling, composed in sentiment, expressed in action, and reflected on in contemplation.
The lengths to which we as a species go under and stay under with respect to our crude barbarisms is tremendous, to say the least. I’ve never been more assured in the fact of mankind’s stupidity than in seeing the lengths we go to in order to justify to ourselves all the morals we commit to, but which we feel the need to justify—as if anyone had to justify anything. The need to justify is itself a value, and so can only be grounded circularly—tautologies are the decadent man’s last line of defense, after all.
Man fears the unknown like a child does the dark, and so, in order to get around this darkness, he strives to start his own fire—his own self-illumination—from hitting together two sturdy propositions he thinks lead to a sound syllogism; a final conclusion which (so he thinks) any rational person will have to agree with. But who’s going to tell our bright-eyed logician that these lines of reasoning reveal only one thing—the total capture and capitulation to sickly values, herd morals, existential ideals not his own?
Whenever a man says he will reason upon a thing, he really means to say he will provide excuses which justify his already held belief. Morals are nothing more than beliefs wrapped up in personal justifications for them. Everywhere a man acts, he exposes the morals of his drives—whether they be conscious or unconscious is not important here. If a man affirms a thing as good or bad, he merely relates an autobiographical fact about his psychology. The most interesting subject in all the world is psychology for this reason—who doesn’t find the inner workings of their psyche fascinating, and who would willingly wish to forgo knowing anything about their mental health?
Indeed, I wish to emphasize the point: philosophy in modernity should really turn to existentialism on account of its physiological basis—the morals which speak not on behalf of reason but on behalf of man. Where morals are, there’s man, and where there’s man philosophy must not be far behind.
The whole of my philosophy may rightly be summarized as the musings of an existential psychologist. I pass judgment on all things in the world, speaking my heart as best I can, and that alone is enough to sustain my very existence. Philosophy, to me, is nothing but the subjective reflections of its authors; in a sense, it’s their biography made objective by making their personal abstractions tangible, comprehensible, moving, and consolatory. All thoughts must be comprehended in the brain, and on account of their content moved by the spirit and understood in the heart. The best philosophers are those who speak personally—that is, of their conditions alone—for in that we see the whole of a man’s morals: his temperament, interests, passions, and future goals.
Again, what philosophy is to me is nothing more than the personal (subjective) considerations of its author made to appear objective in writing—writing which lays out before the reader all the reasons and arguments on behalf of a trifling thought. The desire to hide the autobiographical aspect of all writings is really only a prejudice affirmed out of custom, nothing more. If a man cannot freely give his extemporaneous thoughts on everything under the sun, then he can hardly be called a man at all, for the whole point of writing philosophy is to discover what your own wisdom decided to reveal to you in the moment you were considering it.
At every moment in the writing process, there’s a necessary pause which must be taken in order to arrange and rearrange the thought just had; and in this interval of time, the whole of the mind’s energy is focused sharply to a single point, and in this act perfecting what chance and passing reflections were good enough to develop into in that exact moment. If a man were completely in command of his thoughts, writing would be just as easy as thinking. But because a man cannot think what he wishes at will at all times, he must be patient with himself and wait until the right thought arises on its own accord. More often than not, too, he must reread the sentence he just wrote out in order to get a feel for where his mind was going with that thought. As it so often happens, the mind forgets what it was just thinking because of the constant impressions which existence forever confronts us with at all moments. So long as a man is conscious, he will have nothing to say on account of how much there really is to say in each experience.
Alas, the plight of every writer—unable to say what they feel at all moments because of how overwhelming each passing second really is. Even if one was given their whole life to write a piece, it would likely be insufficient—for, as it often happens with writers, time is but a false consolation on account of its giving them a false sense of security with respect to their productivity. A man is only productive in writing insofar as he is able to gradually accumulate words on the page which he is thoroughly happy to read. A writer should want to make every thought they have something worthy of being read—that is really the key to every good composition. Have it be filled with honest reflections on all things, subject matter be damned, and to hell with consistency too. The mind is inconsistent, and so a writing should likewise be if it is to best reflect nature and the writer’s own heart.
My own writing style is, in fact, the epitome of my values. I’m the greatest psychologist to have ever lived—not on account of my reading Nietzsche or Freud, but on how well I turn my subjectivity into objectivity—that is, how well I reflect the state of my mind as I write the first thing which comes to it. A writer without style is really a human being without character. I can’t even take teachers of composition seriously anymore, especially when they teach their students about “writing principles” using bullet points—to say nothing of those useless writing workshops, in which nothing gets written down and the most trite nonsense is praised highly for its “originality.”
No! I’ve read too many great authors, and written too much personally, to find anything worthy of the label “original” or “special” in any modern writing, even by the most well-read person. Nobody knows how to write psychologically anymore; I mean it—everything written today sounds distant from the author’s heart and reads like a shopping list rather than a scene which depicts something in the world. Few truly know the amount of labor that goes into saying less than you really think—editing is a hard art, perfected only through use, removing all signs of verbosity and ensuring no dishonesty is present anywhere.
In writing, the greatest indication of a person with strong values, a powerful will, and true honesty is how playfully and artfully they write their sentences. If a reader isn’t stunned by the integrity of a sentence, either the author failed at conveying their heart, or the sentence simply flew far above the reader’s head—more often than not, however, it’s the author’s fault, for ideas are common to all, but the way in which those ideas are presented is not. It is this which actually makes an idea either memorable or forgettable—how well it reflects the author’s subjectivity. Without subjectivity there is no honesty. Honesty is among the highest values a person can hold to, not only because it corresponds most with nature but because it allows you to accurately draw your own character.
Call it good, call it evil, call it whatever you want—just let it be honest. The morals of a man are made up of his life, and so, whenever he decides to write an account of his soul, he must do so after the manner of his own soul. Indeed, I say verily unto all you: speaking without first consulting the heart is akin to speaking ill of God, for that’s tantamount to speaking ill of yourself, which, if you respect your own person, you should avoid.
The more a man limits his innate impulses, the greater chance there is of him denying life. So long as a man is made to feel apart from himself—always the result of dishonest values, values not his own—the more willing he is to affirm what is bad for him and deny what is good for him. What is good for man? That which increases his power, of course.
Life has always been a struggle for power between competing powers, and the desires born in man from this war of powers, which lead to the development of his identity, are fought within himself. The spirit within moves from a will of its own, totally unknown to the individual, and in this movement heightens the sense of honesty with respect to what is life-affirming, what is powerful for the individual. The will to affirmation is really what lies behind each form of power. It should be said, too, that there are as many powers as there are desires—for desires are born out of the urge to affirm what spontaneously attracts us and draws us in; if this is denied, then so too is life.
Good is merely the label given to a moral that, if brought into action, affirms our power—that improves some aspect of our character. Evil is precisely the opposite: a drive that is denied life out of a stronger denying force. One can view, simultaneously, good and evil dialectically and existentially.
Whenever the desire to live is lacking, this is the result of a life-denying, herd-like morality—a morality which interprets the breaking of a norm as worse than actually executing the designs of a powerful impulse. Existentially, the person is made subject to a weaker passion—the urge to conform and remain in a state contradictory to one’s drive—and so, in such a person, the will to affirm is weakened by the assumed superiority of a weak moral, ultimately a drive which seeks to deny life itself.
Weak morals make sickly people, and thus it’s no wonder most people today live lives totally at odds with what they envisioned for themselves. People cannot feel the passions which rest beneath their skin because their psychology is so indoctrinated with ideals not their own—totally foreign drives which have no relation to their own powerful designs.
Modernity can best be represented by a lone shipwreck clinging to the driftwood of some decrepit moral—a moral which got them where they are now: a sickly, infested, life-denying monkey floating upon an endless sea of nothing, which very much resembles what is in their heart—nothing. The world today is nothing more than a jungle in a box, cut off on all sides by four walls, left with nothing but your own sickening morality to soothe your anxiety with—a morality which you call faith, heaven even. If it wasn’t so comical, I would pity you, for clearly you are trapped in a life you would rather be free from than actually living through. Sick, poor, demented fool.
Modern man is beaten over the head with a cudgel of depravity. Everything which he is told to affirm is not his own, and everything which he is told to deny is really what affirms his life—what increases his power, what makes him excited to live, and extremely agile with respect to differences in values.
Notice how the freest man—the man who stands firmly without fear of comparison with anyone—is always the one who feels at home within himself, who knows his will intimately.
You can’t consider life amorally, as if you were merely a spectator watching the passings of existence without needing to input anything yourself. That would make you either a nihilist or a relativist—which, no doubt, I’ve shown by now is impossible. It’s really a meaningless statement because every drive which compels action is carried out subjectively. To say you live life without considering yourself in the matter is to say you’re already dead—it’s a type of existential suicide. You continue your life on the basis of its meaninglessness; you literally affirm nothing, and in doing so affirm something.
I suppose denying life is still a kind of life, but it’s not the kind of life I would be happy to live personally. My morals belong to that race of men who conquer and dominate whole nations—my ancestor is El Cid after all. I wish only to affirm that which is strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich—in short, perennial with the Earth.
My philosophy is really my will to life made manifest in how I objectify my own subjectivity. Whatever negates the strong is really weak, and vice versa. There can be no honest discussion between good and evil without first going beyond them. In doing so, you recognize their very subjective nature, and thus you’re easily able to transcend them. And in doing that, you will only that which is powerful.
As I type this, my hands feel as if they are moving across a piano—that’s how powerful my impulse to write truthfully is. It’s perhaps the strongest aspect of my character: a kind of omnipotent resolution with respect to my own character.
Dear God, how hard I try to be a mirror to the world, to reflect life through my own mirror rather than those of others.
The evil is the good, so long as the power which compels a man to do evil is for his good.