Beyond Good and Evil — Chapter I

The *Will to Truth*, that driving force which has led us into countless daring ventures, and the famed *Truthfulness* that philosophers have so long revered—what profound and perplexing questions this Will has brought before us! It is a story with ancient roots, yet it feels as though it has barely begun. Is it any surprise, then, that we grow weary, impatient, and skeptical? That we turn away and begin to question this very Sphinx that has been questioning us?

We begin to ask ourselves: *Who* is it that truly poses these questions? What is this "Will to Truth" within us? For a long time, we lingered on the question of its origin, only to find ourselves halted before an even deeper, more unsettling inquiry: What is the *value* of this Will? Granted that we seek truth, why should we not instead pursue untruth, or uncertainty, or even ignorance? 

The problem of truth’s value—was it something that appeared to us, or did we approach it, unbidden, like a meeting of Oedipus and the Sphinx? Which of us here is Oedipus, the seeker of answers, and which the Sphinx, the keeper of riddles? It feels as though we have stumbled into a crossroads of questions, a tangle of mysteries and interrogations. 

And yet, could it truly be that this question—the value of truth—has never been asked before? That we are the first to glimpse it, to dare to articulate it, to take the risk of confronting it? For indeed, there is risk in raising such a question, perhaps the greatest risk of all. It challenges not only our assumptions but the very foundation of the enterprise of seeking truth itself.

"How could anything originate from its opposite?" This question reflects the deep skepticism of traditional metaphysics. Truth from error? The Will to Truth from a will to deception? Generosity from selfishness? Wisdom’s clear vision from greed? Such origins seem inconceivable to those who uphold the idea that things of the highest value must have unique, pristine origins—untainted by the transient, illusory, and self-serving nature of the world. These values, they claim, must stem from something beyond this "paltry" reality, from the eternal and intransitory, the concealed God, or the "Thing-in-itself."

This reasoning reveals the quintessential bias of metaphysicians throughout history: their unwavering belief in the antitheses of values. This belief is the foundation of their logic and their pursuit of what they ultimately call "Truth." Yet, despite their pledge to question everything (*de omnibus dubitandum*), they fail to doubt precisely where doubt is most necessary: at the threshold of these assumed oppositions.

Can we be certain that these antitheses even exist? Is the dichotomy between "good" and "evil," "truth" and "falsehood," or "selflessness" and "selfishness" not just a convenient construct? Perhaps these popular valuations and oppositions, so cherished by metaphysicians, are nothing more than superficial judgments—provisional perspectives made from limited vantage points, even "frog perspectives," as painters might say, viewing the world from a narrow and lowly position.

Could it be that qualities like pretense, the will to delusion, selfishness, and greed—dismissed as "evil"—actually hold a deeper, more fundamental value for life? Could it be that the revered values of truth, selflessness, and virtue derive their worth from their insidious connection to, or even identity with, these seemingly opposed forces? The possibility is dangerous, unsettling, and perhaps too radical for most to entertain.

This line of inquiry—this exploration of such perilous "perhapses"—requires a new kind of philosopher. A thinker with tastes and inclinations contrary to those that have dominated until now. Philosophers who are unafraid of the dangerous "Perhaps," who are willing to tread where others would not dare.

And, in all seriousness, such philosophers are beginning to emerge. They are those who embrace uncertainty, complexity, and the unsettling connections between values. They are the heralds of a new order of thought, one that challenges the very foundation of traditional metaphysical assumptions.

Having observed philosophers closely and read between their lines, I now conclude that most conscious thinking—including philosophical reasoning—is largely instinctive. This applies even to those who pride themselves on their capacity for reason. Just as we once rethought heredity and "innateness," realizing that the act of birth is only a minor event in the broader hereditary process, so too must we rethink "being-conscious." It is not, in any meaningful way, opposed to the instinctive. On the contrary, much of what appears to be conscious thought is shaped by underlying instincts, subtly directing it into particular pathways.

Behind logic, with its apparent independence and sovereignty, lie hidden valuations. These are not purely rational but are, in fact, rooted in physiological necessities—demands arising from the need to sustain a particular mode of life. For example, the belief that certainty is better than uncertainty or that truth is more valuable than illusion may seem self-evident. Yet these beliefs are not absolute; they are practical valuations essential for beings like us to survive and thrive. They might, ultimately, be shallow assumptions—functional *niaiseries* (follies) required for the preservation of a species like ours.

But what if man is not "the measure of things"? What if these valuations, so deeply ingrained in our thinking, are merely provisional and contingent, reflecting the limited perspective of our particular mode of existence? What if the truths we hold so dear, the logic we revere, and the certainty we pursue are not universal principles but merely tools fashioned by our instincts to navigate and sustain life? These questions challenge the very foundation of how we understand ourselves, our values, and our world.
        
The falseness of an opinion is not, for us, a valid reason to reject it. This idea may sound strange, even unsettling, in our new way of thinking. What matters is not whether an opinion is true or false but how it serves life. Does it promote vitality, preserve life, ensure the survival of the species, or even elevate it? From this perspective, we are inclined to argue that the most essential opinions for humanity are often the falsest ones. 

Consider, for instance, synthetic judgments *a priori*—those logical constructs we rely on but cannot empirically verify. These, along with other "logical fictions," are indispensable. Without comparing reality to an imagined world of absolutes and immutables, without consistently misrepresenting reality through the lens of numbers and abstractions, life as we know it would be unsustainable. To abandon falsehoods would not simply be an act of intellectual honesty—it would be a rejection of life itself, a profound negation of existence.

To recognize untruth as a condition of life is to fundamentally challenge traditional notions of value. It undermines the idea that truth is inherently superior to falsehood and casts doubt on the moral structures built around this assumption. A philosophy daring enough to embrace this recognition steps beyond conventional categories of "good" and "evil." It ventures into a realm where the values of life itself take precedence over the abstract pursuit of truth, redefining what it means to live meaningfully.		
		
Philosophers often invite a mix of distrust and mockery, not merely because they are prone to errors, naivety, or losing their way—qualities that might make them seem childlike—but because they lack the honesty to acknowledge their own methods and motives. They loudly proclaim their commitment to truthfulness while evading scrutiny about the foundations of their ideas. 

They present their opinions as if born of pure, cold, and impartial logic, untouched by personal bias—unlike mystics, who at least candidly credit their insights to inspiration, however fanciful. Yet, beneath the philosophers' rational veneer lies a different story: their so-called "truths" are often no more than prejudices, abstracted and refined, which align conveniently with their own desires or predispositions. They then gather arguments retrospectively to defend these preconceived notions, playing the role of advocates while refusing to admit it.

Few philosophers possess the courage or self-awareness to openly admit this dynamic. Rarer still are those with the good taste or humor to acknowledge it, whether as a warning to others or as an act of cheerful self-ridicule. Instead, they cloak their philosophies in layers of pretense and posturing.

Take Kant, for example, whose stiff and upright Tartuffery (a kind of moral hypocrisy) lures us into the labyrinthine dialectics that culminate in his "categorical imperative." His earnest moralizing and subtle misdirections amuse those of us who delight in uncovering the clever ruses of old ethical preachers. Or consider Spinoza, whose philosophy is armored in mathematical formalism—a mail and mask meant to strike awe and ward off critique. This intellectual façade, ostensibly to present a flawless and invincible system (his "love of wisdom," literally rendered), betrays an underlying timidity and vulnerability. His tightly constructed system is less an open exploration than a defensive maneuver, the work of a recluse shielding himself from scrutiny behind an imposing but ultimately fragile façade.

These examples reveal the deeply human, often insecure, motives behind the grand claims of philosophical systems. Beneath their lofty ideals, philosophers remain as entangled in personal fears and desires as anyone else, no matter how elegantly they disguise it.		
		
It has gradually dawned on me that every great philosophy to date has been, at its core, a confession—an involuntary and unconscious autobiography of its originator. The true essence of any philosophy lies in its moral or immoral purpose, which serves as the vital seed from which the entire system grows. To unravel the abstruse metaphysical claims of any philosopher, one would do well to ask: *What morality does this philosophy aim to justify?* 

I do not believe that a pure "impulse to knowledge" lies at the heart of philosophy. Instead, another, deeper impulse has always commandeered knowledge—often mistaken or incomplete knowledge—as its instrument. If one examines humanity’s fundamental drives with the intent of uncovering their roles in shaping philosophical thought, one finds that these impulses—be they inspiring forces or mischievous demons—have all, at some point, dabbled in philosophy. Each impulse longs to crown itself as the ultimate purpose of existence, the rightful master over all others. For every drive is inherently domineering and seeks, by its nature, to philosophize.

This tendency, however, is less apparent in scholars and scientific specialists. Among them, there might indeed exist something closer to a genuine "impulse to knowledge." This could be likened to a small, well-tuned machine—mechanical, impartial, and industrious—that operates largely independent of the other impulses. The scholar’s actual interests often lie elsewhere: in family, financial pursuits, or political engagements. What defines him is not the specific field he enters—whether philology, mycology, or chemistry—but the methodical working of his intellectual clockwork.

In contrast, for the philosopher, nothing is impersonal. Philosophy is deeply tied to who the philosopher is, reflecting the interplay and hierarchy of their innermost drives. Above all, their morality—explicit or implicit—reveals the philosopher's nature and the order in which their deepest impulses are arranged. The philosopher is not merely engaging in abstract reasoning; they are, consciously or not, baring their soul. Through their moral framework, they tell us not only about the world but also, most decisively, about themselves.		
		
Philosophers can indeed be malicious, and few examples illustrate this better than Epicurus's biting remark about Plato and his followers. He dubbed them *Dionysiokolakes*, a term which ostensibly means "flatterers of Dionysius," suggesting they were sycophants and enablers of tyranny. However, the insult carries a deeper sting, as *Dionysiokolax* was also a colloquial term for an actor. By calling them this, Epicurus was accusing Plato and his disciples of being mere performers—insincere, theatrical, and lacking authenticity.

This critique reveals Epicurus’s irritation with the grand, stage-like style of Plato’s philosophical presentations, a style that Plato and his followers excelled at, but which Epicurus himself did not employ. Epicurus, the unassuming schoolteacher from Samos, preferred the seclusion of his modest garden in Athens, where he penned hundreds of books. One might wonder whether his prolific writing stemmed from a quiet rage or even an envious ambition directed at Plato’s grandiosity. Was Epicurus driven, at least in part, by the desire to rival Plato’s legacy? Who can say for certain?

It took Greece a century to begin to understand the true nature of Epicurus, the so-called "garden-god." Yet even then, one must ask: did Greece ever truly grasp who he was? His quiet, unadorned philosophy stood in stark contrast to the dramatic flair of Plato, leaving his legacy shrouded in a mix of admiration, misunderstanding, and persistent questioning.		
		
There comes a moment in every philosophy when the philosopher’s deeply held *conviction*—their personal bias, their driving force—steps forward and reveals itself. This is the point at which their carefully constructed system unveils its true foundation, often less rational than it pretends to be. It is the philosopher’s hidden motive, the unspoken cornerstone of their thought.

To borrow from the ancient mystery phrase: *Adventavit asinus, Pulcher et fortissimus*—"The donkey has arrived, beautiful and strong." The donkey, a symbol of stubbornness, simplicity, and persistence, represents the underlying, often unexamined assumption that carries the entire weight of the philosophy. It may be dressed in grand language and intricate arguments, but at its core, it stands as a conviction—steadfast, perhaps noble, but no less animalistic in its resoluteness.

You wish to live "according to Nature"? Oh, noble Stoics, what a grand deceit of language! Consider what Nature truly is: boundlessly extravagant, indifferent, without purpose or morality, barren one moment and fruitful the next, utterly unpredictable. Imagine indifference as a force—how could anyone live "according to" such an indifferent power? Is not the very act of living a rejection of this Nature? To live is to value, to prefer, to choose one thing over another, to impose limits, to strive to be different from the chaos of Nature. Living itself is an act of resistance against Nature's indifference.

And if your imperative, "live according to Nature," simply means "live according to life," then how could you possibly do otherwise? Why turn what you already are into a principle? But in truth, you Stoics are not actually reading Nature’s laws with reverence, as you claim. What you truly desire is something entirely opposite. You want to impose your ideals onto Nature itself, to reshape it in the image of your Stoicism, to transform it into a vast, eternal reflection of your own values. Your pride drives you to make Nature into a Stoic creation, a canvas upon which you project your morality and discipline. 

Your supposed "love of truth" has forced you, through sheer persistence and hypnotic self-delusion, to see Nature not as it is, but as you wish it to be: Stoic, orderly, moral. You have tyrannized over yourselves for so long—Stoicism, after all, is a form of self-tyranny—that you have the audacity to believe Nature will submit to your discipline as well. Yet, are you not a part of Nature yourselves? How can you dominate that of which you are inherently a part?

This, of course, is no new phenomenon. What the Stoics did in antiquity is what every philosophy does when it begins to believe too much in itself. It creates the world in its own image, unable to do otherwise. Philosophy, at its core, is this tyrannical impulse—a deeply spiritual *Will to Power*, the drive to create the world, to impose a first cause (*causa prima*), to bend existence to its own vision. Philosophy is not just an interpretation of the world; it is an act of domination, a claim to reshape reality itself.		
		
The keen intensity, even craftiness, with which the question of "the real and the apparent world" is being explored across Europe is striking. For those who hear only a "Will to Truth" driving this exploration, and nothing else, I’d suggest their ears are not particularly sharp. In a few rare cases, it might indeed be the pure Will to Truth—a kind of daring, adventurous courage, or a metaphysician’s forlorn hope—that leads this inquiry. This is the ambition that opts for a handful of *certainty* over a cartload of beautiful possibilities, or that trusts a definitive *nothing* more than an uncertain *something*. But this is Nihilism—proof of a soul so weary and despondent that it clings to certainty like a drowning man to driftwood, no matter how courageous its stance may appear.

For the stronger and more vigorous thinkers, however, something else is at play. When they speak dismissively of "appearance" and "perspective," or degrade the credibility of their own bodily experience to the level of archaic beliefs like "the earth stands still," one might wonder: are they not, in fact, trying to recover something from an earlier and seemingly firmer foundation? Perhaps they are seeking ideas that once inspired vitality and joy—concepts like the "immortal soul" or "the old God"—as an antidote to the lifelessness of "modern ideas."

This dismissal of modernity reflects not just skepticism but an underlying disdain. It reveals dissatisfaction with the patchwork philosophies of today, a refined disgust for the crude, chaotic jumble of "realities" that so-called Positivism peddles—a motley assortment of ideas that, despite their claims, are neither new nor true. These skeptical anti-realists and "knowledge-microscopists" share this distrust of modern reality, and rightly so. Their instincts, which repel them from the shallow constructions of contemporary thought, remain unchallenged. Their rejection is not a longing to return to the past, but a desire to escape the present altogether. 

With just a bit more strength, energy, courage, and artistry, these thinkers could achieve something far more radical. Instead of retreating backward, they could break free entirely, charting paths that are neither nostalgic nor reactionary but genuinely liberating. Their impulse is not about going "back"—it is about getting *away*. What matters is the direction of their yearning: not for a return to bygone certainties, but for the courage to leave the stagnant present behind. With that spirit, they could truly be off—not back, but forward, into the unknown.		
		
It seems there’s a persistent effort today to downplay or redirect attention away from the true impact Kant had on German philosophy, particularly the immense value he placed on his own work. At the heart of Kant’s pride was his *Table of Categories*, which he declared to be "the most difficult thing that could ever be undertaken on behalf of metaphysics." Let’s pause and consider what this really means. Kant believed he had unearthed a new human capability: the faculty of *synthetic judgment a priori*. Even if he deceived himself about the nature of this discovery, his pride in it—and the contagious enthusiasm it sparked in younger thinkers—drove the rapid growth of German philosophy. The intellectual race to identify ever more "new faculties" became a defining feature of the era.

But let’s reflect critically for a moment—an overdue exercise. Kant famously asked, "How are synthetic judgments a priori possible?" And his answer? Essentially, "By means of a means (faculty)." Unfortunately, he did not state this simply but instead buried it in layers of convoluted, imposing prose, complete with the flourishes of German profundity. The result? The comic absurdity of such an answer was lost amidst the reverence it inspired. People were enraptured by this supposed "discovery," celebrating it as if it were a revelation.

The euphoria peaked when Kant uncovered another "faculty"—a moral one. At the time, Germans were still deeply rooted in morality and not yet entangled in the "Politics of hard fact." This was the honeymoon of German philosophy, where Romanticism, that mischievous fairy, played its tunes, blurring the lines between "finding" and "inventing." In this fertile, youthful period of the German spirit, philosophers like Schelling introduced notions like *intellectual intuition*, which satisfied the deeply pious inclinations of many Germans. 

To treat this phase with solemn seriousness—or worse, moral indignation—would miss the point. It was an era of exuberance, experimentation, and philosophical playfulness, cloaked in the guise of aged wisdom. Yet, as all dreams do, it faded. The world grew older, and eventually people rubbed their foreheads in bewilderment, realizing they had been dreaming. Kant, first among them, had effectively said: "By means of a means (faculty)." 

But is that an answer? Is it an explanation? Or is it merely the same question in disguise? This is no more satisfying than Molière’s doctor’s response in *The Imaginary Invalid* when asked how opium induces sleep: "By means of a faculty," the *virtus dormitiva*—the "sleep-inducing virtue." Like the doctor’s circular logic, Kant’s response explains nothing but the language of the question itself. It is an elegant tautology, masquerading as profundity.		
		
Quia est in eo virtus dormitiva,
Cujus est natura sensus assoupire.		
		
Such responses belong more to comedy than philosophy. It is time we move past Kant’s question, “How are synthetic judgments *a priori* possible?” and instead ask, “Why is belief in such judgments necessary?” The more pressing issue is understanding why creatures like us must believe in these judgments for our own preservation—even if, fundamentally, they are false. 

Put more plainly, and without Kantian delicacy: synthetic judgments *a priori* should not "be possible" at all. We have no inherent right to them. When we utter them, we are making false statements. Yet, the belief in their truth is indispensable. This belief, rooted in plausibility and reinforced by our limited, perspective-driven view of life, is essential to our functioning. It acts as a kind of survival mechanism, allowing us to navigate existence with coherence and meaning, even if the foundation is a convenient untruth.

And now, let us recall the immense, almost hypnotic influence of "German philosophy"—a term that deserves its inverted commas, its *goosefeet*. Its impact across Europe cannot be understated, but it owes much of its allure to a certain *virtus dormitiva*. German philosophy became a balm for the “noble idlers,” the mystics, the artists, the quasi-Christians, and the politically obscurantist minds of every nation. It offered them an antidote to the overpowering sensualism inherited from the previous century—a kind of philosophical sedative, a soothing “lulling of the senses” (*sensus assoupire*).

Through this lens, we can see that German philosophy did not merely ask questions about truth or reason. It offered a reprieve from the overwhelming, unrefined energies of a post-Enlightenment world. Its appeal lay not in its ability to awaken but in its capacity to soothe, to intellectualize, and to subdue the restless human spirit in favor of lofty abstractions that reassured more than they revealed.		
		
Materialistic atomism is now one of the most thoroughly refuted theories in the history of ideas. Among scholars today, there is likely no one so unscholarly as to treat it with serious respect, except for the sake of practical convenience—an abbreviated way to talk about things. This is thanks, in large part, to the Pole Boscovich, alongside Copernicus, two figures who have achieved unparalleled triumphs over the evidence of the senses. 

Copernicus taught us to disbelieve what seems obvious to all: that the earth stands still. Boscovich went further, dismantling our belief in the "last thing" that seemed to stand fast: the substance of matter itself, the particle, the atom. With Boscovich, even the residual idea of "earth-matter" or indivisible particles has been undone. It stands as the greatest victory over sensory perception humanity has achieved.

But we cannot stop there. The battle must extend to the "atomistic requirements" that persist unnoticed in the shadows, just as we challenge the lingering "metaphysical requirements" that cling to our thought. Most urgently, we must turn our attention to a far more entrenched and perilous form of atomism: what I will call *soul-atomism*. This is the belief that the soul is indivisible, eternal, indestructible—a monad, an *atomon*. Such a belief must be cast out of science entirely.

However, this does not mean we must discard the idea of the soul itself. Unlike the heavy-handed naturalists, who can hardly approach the subject of the soul without denying its existence altogether, we can refine and reformulate it. Concepts like the "mortal soul," the "soul of subjective multiplicity," or the "soul as a social structure of instincts and passions" demand scientific legitimacy. These ideas open new pathways, allowing the soul to be understood in ways that are far richer and more nuanced than the simplistic, eternal monad.

In this shift, the new psychologist embarks on a bold and lonely journey. He cuts down the superstitions and luxuriant overgrowth that have surrounded the soul for centuries, pushing into uncharted intellectual deserts. While the older psychologists may have enjoyed a more comfortable and cheerful time—content with their inherited assumptions—the new psychologist is tasked with inventing anew. And in this act of invention, who knows? He may even discover something unprecedented.		
		
Psychologists should pause before enshrining the instinct of self-preservation as the central drive of an organic being. The essence of life is not merely about preserving itself—it is about *expending strength*. Life, at its core, is *Will to Power*. The instinct for self-preservation is secondary, a frequent byproduct of the more fundamental drive to assert and extend power.

This distinction matters greatly. To make self-preservation the primary principle is to risk falling into the trap of unnecessary teleology—assigning purpose where none is needed. The instinct of self-preservation, for example, owes much of its prominence to Spinoza’s inconsistency in this regard. But we must not perpetuate such errors.

Methodology demands an economy of principles. Rather than cluttering our understanding with redundant or superfluous ideas, like the centrality of self-preservation, we should aim for clarity and parsimony. Recognizing *Will to Power* as the true engine of life provides a more cohesive and dynamic framework, free from the limitations of teleological oversimplifications.		
		
It may just now be dawning on a handful of minds that natural philosophy is not truly a *world-explanation* but rather a *world-exposition* and *world-arrangement*—a framework we impose for understanding, not a revelation of ultimate truths. Yet, because it relies on the belief in sensory evidence, it is long regarded and revered as more than this: as an explanation. Natural philosophy dazzles with its "eyes" and "fingers"—its capacity for apparent palpability and certainty. This appeals strongly to an age steeped in fundamentally plebeian tastes, one instinctively adhering to the eternal canon of sensualism: that only what is clear, what is seen and felt, can be called "true" or "explained." Every question must be dragged to this level of palpable clarity.

In contrast, the Platonic mode of thought, an aristocratic mode, resists this sensory evidence. Plato and his followers, perhaps gifted with stronger, more refined senses than our contemporaries, found their triumph not in submitting to the senses but in mastering them. They wove pale, cold conceptual frameworks—what Plato called a "network"—over the chaotic whirl of sensory experience, which he referred to as "the mob of the senses." This interpretation of the world, through abstraction and conceptual mastery, offered a kind of enjoyment and elevation profoundly different from the gratification of today’s physicists, Darwinists, and anti-teleologists.

These modern thinkers—workers of physiology and mechanics—labor under the principle of the "smallest possible effort," which often results in "the greatest possible blunder." Their imperative seems to be: "Where there is nothing more to see or grasp, there is nothing more for men to do." It is a mantra suited to a future hardy race of machinists and bridge-builders, with nothing but rough, tangible work to perform.

This modern imperative, grounded in utility and immediate application, stands in stark contrast to the Platonic pursuit of mastery over the senses and elevation through abstraction. It reflects not a failure but an adaptation to a new kind of laborious, practical existence, one that may indeed define the builders of the future.

To study physiology with a clear conscience, one must first reject the notion, rooted in idealistic philosophy, that the sense-organs are themselves mere phenomena. Such a perspective makes them incapable of being causes, which they clearly are in physiological processes. Thus, sensualism must be embraced—at least as a regulative hypothesis, if not a heuristic principle for inquiry.

But what of the claim that the external world is merely the "work" of our sense organs? If this were true, then our body, as a part of that external world, would also be the "work" of our sense organs. Moreover, our sense organs, being part of our body, would themselves be the "work" of those very organs. This reasoning leads us into a classic *reductio ad absurdum*, a spiral of self-causation (*causa sui*), which is a fundamentally absurd concept.

Consequently, the conclusion must be that the external world cannot be merely the "work" of our sense organs. The sense organs mediate our interaction with the external world, but they do not create it. This distinction is critical to maintaining a coherent physiological perspective, free from the convolutions of idealistic interpretations that undermine causality and the very basis of empirical study.		
		
There are still those who naively believe in "immediate certainties"—statements like "I think," or, as Schopenhauer's superstition holds, "I will." They imagine that cognition grasps its object directly, purely, without distortion by either subject or object. Yet, such ideas rest on deep misconceptions. "Immediate certainty," like "absolute knowledge" or "the thing in itself," is a *contradictio in adjecto*—a contradiction in terms. We need to free ourselves from the misleading traps laid by words.

The common understanding equates cognition with complete knowledge of things. But the philosopher must analyze such claims critically. For example, in the statement "I think," what assumptions does one actually make? That there is an "I" that thinks; that thinking must involve a subject; that thinking is an action performed by an agent conceived as a cause; that an "ego" exists; and that "thinking" as an activity is already understood. But how do we know what "thinking" is? By what criteria could we distinguish it from "willing" or "feeling"? To claim "I think" as immediate certainty, one must first compare this state to other states of oneself, draw conclusions, and rely on further "knowledge." Thus, "I think" is far from immediate; it rests on a chain of retrospective judgments and assumptions.

For the philosopher, the assertion "I think" opens a series of challenging metaphysical questions: Where does the concept of "thinking" come from? Why do we assume cause and effect? On what grounds do we believe in an "ego," let alone an "ego" as the cause of thought? If someone appeals to "intuitive perception" as the source of these answers—claiming, "I think, and this at least is certain"—a philosopher might respond with skepticism: "It is improbable that you are not mistaken, but even if you are correct, why should it necessarily be the truth?" 

Such reflections reveal that what appears as immediate certainty is anything but. It is laden with assumptions and subject to scrutiny, raising deeper questions about the foundations of knowledge and truth.		
		
Logicians often cling to a superstition that I never tire of challenging: the assumption that thoughts arise at the behest of the "I"—that the subject "I" necessarily precedes and conditions the predicate "think." This belief is a distortion of reality. In truth, a thought comes when *it* wants, not when *I* want. To claim that the famous "ego" is the source of thought is, at best, an assumption—not an immediate certainty.

Even the phrasing "one thinks" is problematic, as the "one" implies an interpretation rather than describing the actual process. It follows a familiar grammatical pattern: thinking is considered an activity, activities require agents, and thus there must be a "doer" behind the thinking. This logic parallels the older atomistic theories, which posited material particles—atoms—out of which all forces supposedly operated. However, just as more rigorous thinkers eventually dispensed with the need for these "earth-residua" in physics, perhaps we too can eventually move beyond the notion of a thinking "one" or "ego" when considering thought processes.

This shift would require a significant revision in our linguistic and philosophical habits. It would mean freeing ourselves from the reflexive tendency to attribute agency and subjectivity to processes that may not inherently require them. In time, even from a logician's perspective, we might learn to think without leaning on the crutch of the "I" or "one" that we so readily impose on the act of thinking.

A theory's appeal often lies in its ability to be challenged and refuted. This characteristic seems to captivate more nuanced thinkers, who are drawn to engage with and dissect it. The persistence of the "free will" theory, despite being refuted countless times, can perhaps be attributed to this very charm. Its enduring existence isn't necessarily a testament to its truth but rather to its capacity to invite opposition. There's always someone who sees an opportunity to prove themselves by refuting it yet again. This perpetual cycle of critique and defense keeps the idea alive, not because it withstands scrutiny, but because it remains an enticing intellectual battleground.

Philosophers often treat the concept of the will as if it were straightforward and entirely known—Schopenhauer, for example, even posited that it is the one thing we know fully and without ambiguity. Yet this idea seems to be more a reflection of common prejudice than a rigorous philosophical insight. The notion of the will as a singular, simple entity disguises its inherent complexity, a complexity hidden beneath the misleading simplicity of the term itself.

Willing, in truth, involves a multiplicity of components. First, there are sensations: the sensation of the state "away from which" we aim to move, the state "towards which" we strive, and the sensations accompanying this directional shift. These sensations also include the muscular habits that often activate in tandem with our decisions, even if no physical motion follows.

Second, the act of will is inseparable from thought. Every act of willing includes a dominant thought or judgment, and removing this thought from the act would dissolve the will itself.

Third, willing is infused with emotion—specifically, the feeling of command. The so-called "freedom of the will" is deeply tied to this sense of mastery, the emotional experience of issuing an order and expecting obedience. This experience includes a focused, unwavering attention to a singular goal and the certainty that the command will be executed.

The peculiar nature of the will lies in its dual role: the individual acts simultaneously as commander and obeyer. The commanding self experiences emotions of power and triumph, while the obeying self feels constraint, pressure, and resistance. These roles merge within the illusion of a unified "I," creating a deceptive belief that willing is equivalent to action. This synthesis, fueled by the habitual expectation that commands will lead to outcomes, fosters the false conviction that the will alone is the cause of its effects.

The concept of "freedom of will" emerges from this complex interplay, serving as an expression of the commander's delight in issuing orders and identifying with the success of their execution. The individual attributes the triumph over obstacles to the will, amplifying their sense of power.

Moreover, this dynamic mirrors the structure of a well-functioning society: just as a governing class identifies with the achievements of the state, the commanding self absorbs the successes of the body’s "underwills"—the subordinate forces and instincts within the individual. The body, Nietzsche suggests, is a "social structure" of many "souls" working in unison.

In this light, the will is not merely a mechanical force but a phenomenon steeped in relationships of command and obedience, echoing the broader patterns of hierarchy and governance that characterize life itself. Thus, the study of the will belongs within the moral sphere, as it reflects the structures of dominance and subordination inherent in all aspects of existence.

Philosophical ideas are not independent creations or random occurrences but grow within interconnected systems, much like the species of animals that inhabit a continent and form part of a unified ecosystem. Despite the apparent individuality of philosophers, their ideas often fit into a recurring, predetermined framework—a fundamental scheme of possible philosophies.

This happens because philosophers are guided by an "invisible spell" that compels them to follow specific patterns of thought. Their efforts to distinguish themselves critically or systematically are shaped by deeper, shared structures—an innate methodology and relationships between ideas. Philosophical inquiry, then, becomes less about discovery and more about re-recognition, a return to an ancient, shared intellectual "household of the soul" where these ideas originated.

The similarities among Indian, Greek, and German philosophies illustrate this intellectual atavism. This resemblance arises from shared grammar and linguistic structures, which unconsciously shape and limit philosophical frameworks. Language, through its grammatical functions, predisposes certain world interpretations while excluding others. These linguistic affinities create the conditions for similar philosophical systems to emerge.

In contrast, thinkers from linguistic traditions with less-developed concepts of the "subject," such as the Ural-Altaic languages, may approach the world differently. These differences in grammar reflect broader physiological and cultural conditions, further shaping philosophical orientations.

This analysis challenges the idea that ideas simply arise from sensory experience, as proposed by Locke. Such a view overlooks the deep, unconscious structures—linguistic, physiological, and cultural—that influence and constrain thought. Philosophical systems, rather than being purely individual creations, are shaped by the complex interplay of these underlying forces.		
		
The idea of **causa sui**—being one's own cause—is the most profound self-contradiction ever conceived, a violation of logic born from humanity's extravagant pride. This concept is deeply tied to the notion of "freedom of will" in its metaphysical, ultimate sense. Many still cling to the idea that one can bear full responsibility for their actions, absolving God, the world, ancestors, chance, and society. To believe this is akin to the absurd act of pulling oneself into existence by sheer will, out of nothingness—a feat as ridiculous as a self-lifting Munchausen by his own hair.

If someone recognizes the absurdity of "free will" in this ultimate sense and discards it, they should also take the next step: reject the opposing concept of "non-free will." This idea, too, misuses the notions of cause and effect, treating them as physical forces—pushing and pressing in a mechanical, simplistic manner. Such materialization of cause and effect, often seen in natural philosophy, is a distortion.

Instead, "cause" and "effect" should be understood as conceptual tools, human inventions for communication and understanding, not as explanations of reality. In the realm of "being-in-itself," there are no such things as causal connections, necessity, laws, or constraints. These are purely human constructs, myths imposed on the world. When we project this symbolic system—freedom, purpose, law—onto existence, we mythologize, acting as we always have.

The concept of "non-free will" is no less a myth than that of free will. In practical life, the real distinction lies not between free and unfree wills, but between strong and weak wills. A thinker who consistently views cause and effect as compulsion, necessity, or oppression often reveals their own personal limitations. Such feelings suggest an underlying deficiency or insecurity.

Broadly, people approach the question of will in profoundly personal ways, driven by either pride or self-contempt. Some refuse to relinquish their belief in responsibility, merit, and personal agency, often tied to their sense of self-worth. Others, plagued by self-doubt or a desire to escape accountability, seek refuge in fatalism or determinism. Among the latter, there is a tendency to side with criminals or marginalized figures, disguising their self-contempt as compassion or "the religion of human suffering." This fatalism, dressed in sympathetic or moralistic garb, is often little more than an expression of weak will disguised as virtue.		
		
Forgive me for indulging in the habit of a seasoned philologist, poking at flawed interpretations. The idea of "Nature's conformity to law," which physicists celebrate with such pride, is no objective reality, no immutable "text." Rather, it is a human interpretation, a distortion steeped in the spirit of modern egalitarianism. It's a cleverly concealed concession to democratic instincts: the belief that "everywhere there is equality before the law." Nature, supposedly, mirrors our social ideals—no privileged forces, no autocratic authority. It’s a subtle rebellion, another refined form of atheism cloaked in scientific reverence: "No god, no master!"—and so, "Cheers for natural law!" But let’s be honest, this is interpretation, not truth.

Now, imagine someone else, with a different intent and lens, interpreting the same "Nature" and phenomena. This interpreter might highlight not equality, but the unyielding, ruthless assertion of power. They might argue that what you call "laws of nature" are better understood as the unrestrained, moment-by-moment consequences of the "Will to Power." In their view, even terms like "tyranny" would feel inadequate, too human, too soft to describe the relentless force at work. Yet, paradoxically, they might reach the same conclusion as you—that the world follows a "necessary" and "predictable" course. Not because of the existence of laws, but precisely because there are no laws—only the inexorable realization of power in every instance.

And yes, of course, you might counter that this, too, is just interpretation. Fair enough—so much the better! If anything, it underscores the point: what you see in Nature reflects not its intrinsic essence but your own lens, shaped by values, motives, and desires.		
		
Psychology, up to now, has been constrained by moral prejudices and timidity, never venturing into the deeper, more unsettling waters. If we are to judge from what has been written and left unsaid, it appears that no one has yet conceived of psychology as a study of the morphology and development of the **Will to Power**, as it truly could be. Moral prejudices have deeply infiltrated even the most intellectually independent realms, distorting and obstructing understanding. A genuine physio-psychology faces resistance from the investigator's own instincts, for the heart itself opposes such inquiry. Even proposing the mutual dependency of "good" and "bad" impulses—or tracing "good" impulses back to "bad" origins—disturbs even the most robust conscience. 

To go further and view emotions like hatred, envy, greed, and the desire for dominance as essential, life-sustaining forces—necessary elements in life's grand economy—feels nauseating, almost unbearable. Yet this idea is hardly the most shocking or difficult concept in this vast, uncharted realm of dangerous knowledge. Indeed, there are countless reasons why anyone who can avoid this path would do so. But for those who find themselves drawn here, there is no turning back. 

Grasp the helm tightly, set your teeth, and open your eyes wide: this is a voyage that sails beyond morality, obliterating even remnants of one's own moral compass in the process. What we sacrifice along the way may include our own sense of righteousness—but what of it? No explorers have ever encountered a more profound landscape of insight than those who dare this journey. And if a psychologist willingly makes this sacrifice, it is not an abandonment of intellect but its ultimate expression. 

Such explorers are justified in demanding that psychology reclaim its rightful position as the queen of the sciences—a discipline that guides us to the most fundamental of questions and for which all other sciences exist merely to serve and support. Psychology, in this form, is once again the key to life’s deepest mysteries.