With people who know how to revenge themselves and to stand up forrnthemselves in general, how is it done? Why, when they are possessed,rnlet us suppose, by the feeling of revenge, then for the time there isrnnothing else but that feeling left in their whole being. Such arngentleman simply dashes straight for his object like an infuriated bullrnwith its horns down, and nothing but a wall will stop him. (By the way:rnfacing the wall, such gentlemen—that is, the “direct” persons and menrnof action—are genuinely nonplussed. For them a wall is not an evasion,rnas for us people who think and consequently do nothing; it is not anrnexcuse for turning aside, an excuse for which we are always very glad,rnthough we scarcely believe in it ourselves, as a rule. No, they arernnonplussed in all sincerity. The wall has for them somethingrntranquillising, morally soothing, final—maybe even something mysteriousrn... but of the wall later.)rnrnWell, such a direct person I regard as the real normal man, as hisrntender mother nature wished to see him when she graciously brought himrninto being on the earth. I envy such a man till I am green in the face.rnHe is stupid. I am not disputing that, but perhaps the normal manrnshould be stupid, how do you know? Perhaps it is very beautiful, inrnfact. And I am the more persuaded of that suspicion, if one can call itrnso, by the fact that if you take, for instance, the antithesis of thernnormal man, that is, the man of acute consciousness, who has come, ofrncourse, not out of the lap of nature but out of a retort (this isrnalmost mysticism, gentlemen, but I suspect this, too), this retort-madernman is sometimes so nonplussed in the presence of his antithesis thatrnwith all his exaggerated consciousness he genuinely thinks of himselfrnas a mouse and not a man. It may be an acutely conscious mouse, yet itrnis a mouse, while the other is a man, and therefore, et caetera, etrncaetera. And the worst of it is, he himself, his very own self, looksrnon himself as a mouse; no one asks him to do so; and that is anrnimportant point. Now let us look at this mouse in action. Let usrnsuppose, for instance, that it feels insulted, too (and it almostrnalways does feel insulted), and wants to revenge itself, too. There mayrneven be a greater accumulation of spite in it than in _l’homme de larnnature et de la vérité_. The base and nasty desire to vent that spiternon its assailant rankles perhaps even more nastily in it than inrn_l’homme de la nature et de la vérité_. For through his innaternstupidity the latter looks upon his revenge as justice pure and simple;rnwhile in consequence of his acute consciousness the mouse does notrnbelieve in the justice of it. To come at last to the deed itself, tornthe very act of revenge. Apart from the one fundamental nastiness thernluckless mouse succeeds in creating around it so many other nastinessesrnin the form of doubts and questions, adds to the one question so manyrnunsettled questions that there inevitably works up around it a sort ofrnfatal brew, a stinking mess, made up of its doubts, emotions, and ofrnthe contempt spat upon it by the direct men of action who standrnsolemnly about it as judges and arbitrators, laughing at it till theirrnhealthy sides ache. Of course the only thing left for it is to dismissrnall that with a wave of its paw, and, with a smile of assumed contemptrnin which it does not even itself believe, creep ignominiously into itsrnmouse-hole. There in its nasty, stinking, underground home ourrninsulted, crushed and ridiculed mouse promptly becomes absorbed inrncold, malignant and, above all, everlasting spite. For forty yearsrntogether it will remember its injury down to the smallest, mostrnignominious details, and every time will add, of itself, details stillrnmore ignominious, spitefully teasing and tormenting itself with its ownrnimagination. It will itself be ashamed of its imaginings, but yet itrnwill recall it all, it will go over and over every detail, it willrninvent unheard of things against itself, pretending that those thingsrnmight happen, and will forgive nothing. Maybe it will begin to revengernitself, too, but, as it were, piecemeal, in trivial ways, from behindrnthe stove, incognito, without believing either in its own right tornvengeance, or in the success of its revenge, knowing that from all itsrnefforts at revenge it will suffer a hundred times more than he on whomrnit revenges itself, while he, I daresay, will not even scratch himself.rnOn its deathbed it will recall it all over again, with interestrnaccumulated over all the years and ...rnrnBut it is just in that cold, abominable half despair, half belief, inrnthat conscious burying oneself alive for grief in the underworld forrnforty years, in that acutely recognised and yet partly doubtfulrnhopelessness of one’s position, in that hell of unsatisfied desiresrnturned inward, in that fever of oscillations, of resolutions determinedrnfor ever and repented of again a minute later—that the savour of thatrnstrange enjoyment of which I have spoken lies. It is so subtle, sorndifficult of analysis, that persons who are a little limited, or evenrnsimply persons of strong nerves, will not understand a single atom ofrnit. “Possibly,” you will add on your own account with a grin, “peoplernwill not understand it either who have never received a slap in thernface,” and in that way you will politely hint to me that I, too,rnperhaps, have had the experience of a slap in the face in my life, andrnso I speak as one who knows. I bet that you are thinking that. But setrnyour minds at rest, gentlemen, I have not received a slap in the face,rnthough it is absolutely a matter of indifference to me what you mayrnthink about it. Possibly, I even regret, myself, that I have given sornfew slaps in the face during my life. But enough ... not another wordrnon that subject of such extreme interest to you.rnrnI will continue calmly concerning persons with strong nerves who do notrnunderstand a certain refinement of enjoyment. Though in certainrncircumstances these gentlemen bellow their loudest like bulls, thoughrnthis, let us suppose, does them the greatest credit, yet, as I havernsaid already, confronted with the impossible they subside at once. Thernimpossible means the stone wall! What stone wall? Why, of course, thernlaws of nature, the deductions of natural science, mathematics. As soonrnas they prove to you, for instance, that you are descended from arnmonkey, then it is no use scowling, accept it for a fact. When theyrnprove to you that in reality one drop of your own fat must be dearer tornyou than a hundred thousand of your fellow-creatures, and that thisrnconclusion is the final solution of all so-called virtues and dutiesrnand all such prejudices and fancies, then you have just to accept it,rnthere is no help for it, for twice two is a law of mathematics. Justrntry refuting it.rnrn“Upon my word, they will shout at you, it is no use protesting: it is arncase of twice two makes four! Nature does not ask your permission, shernhas nothing to do with your wishes, and whether you like her laws orrndislike them, you are bound to accept her as she is, and consequentlyrnall her conclusions. A wall, you see, is a wall ... and so on, and sornon.”rnrnMerciful Heavens! but what do I care for the laws of nature andrnarithmetic, when, for some reason I dislike those laws and the factrnthat twice two makes four? Of course I cannot break through the wall byrnbattering my head against it if I really have not the strength to knockrnit down, but I am not going to be reconciled to it simply because it isrna stone wall and I have not the strength.rnrnAs though such a stone wall really were a consolation, and really didrncontain some word of conciliation, simply because it is as true asrntwice two makes four. Oh, absurdity of absurdities! How much better itrnis to understand it all, to recognise it all, all the impossibilitiesrnand the stone wall; not to be reconciled to one of thosernimpossibilities and stone walls if it disgusts you to be reconciled tornit; by the way of the most inevitable, logical combinations to reachrnthe most revolting conclusions on the everlasting theme, that even forrnthe stone wall you are yourself somehow to blame, though again it is asrnclear as day you are not to blame in the least, and therefore grindingrnyour teeth in silent impotence to sink into luxurious inertia, broodingrnon the fact that there is no one even for you to feel vindictivernagainst, that you have not, and perhaps never will have, an object forrnyour spite, that it is a sleight of hand, a bit of juggling, arncard-sharper’s trick, that it is simply a mess, no knowing what and nornknowing who, but in spite of all these uncertainties and jugglings,rnstill there is an ache in you, and the more you do not know, the worsernthe ache.
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