Dias de Nietzsche em Turim
"NIETZSCHE'S DAYS IN TURIN"
CARLO ALBERTO STREET
Blows here a light and capricious breeze...
that gives wings to the heaviest thoughts.
My old Jacob Burckhardt passed through this city...
saw a representation of "Traviata"...
MAP OF TURIN ANCIENT AND MODERN in the Alfieri Theater.
My mustaches are my filters...
and the sidewalks of this city are the paradise for my feet.
Only the thoughts that we have while walking are worth something.
Here is the city that I needed at this moment.
Congratulations, my dear friend.
You advised me from your heart.
This city is made for me.
It is evident in a tangible way...
and it has been like this since the first time that I saw it...
even taking into consideration my horrible state in the first days.
Before the weather was miserably rainy, cold, unstable...
nerve oppressing with half an hour of suffocating air at intervals.
What a worthy city.
Strict. Nothing of a great city, nothing modern, as I feared.
On the contrary, it is a residence of the 1 7th century...
when everything was only one ruling taste, the court and the nobility.
Each stone conserves the mark of the aristocratic calm.
There is no poverty in the surroundings of the city.
A taste uniformity that extends itself to the color exists.
The whole city is yellow or ocher red.
A classic place for the feet as well as the eyes.
What safety. What pavements.
Talk less of trains and trolleys, whose organization here is prodigious.
It seems that here life is more economical than...
LIBRARY in the other Italian cities I know.
Besides, I have not been deceived by anyone.
They think I am a German official...
although this winter on the official foreigners' list...
I was registered as a Pole.
What gardens. What severe and solemn squares.
The style of the palaces is unpretentious...
the streets are clean and austere...
everything worthier than I had expected.
The most beautiful cafeterias that I have ever seen.
With such a variable atmosphere...
the arches are necessary and so spacious...
that they don't oppress us.
At night, on the bridge of the Powder River: splendid.
Beyond good and evil.
It is not pure malice...
if in this writing I praise Bizet at the expense of Wagner.
Amid several games...
I present a subject with which one should not play.
Turning the back on Wagner was to me a destiny...
enjoying something again, a victory.
Nobody grew up so dangerously close to Wagnerism...
nobody resisted it harder...
nobody got so happy by getting rid of it.
A long story.
Do they want a designation for it?
If I were a moralist, who knows how it would be called?
Perhaps surpassing oneself.
But the philosophers don't love the moralists...
and they also don't love beautiful words.
What does a philosopher first and last demand from himself?
Surpassing himself in time...
to become unworldly.
Therefore, against what should he fight the toughest battle?
Against that which makes him the son of his time.
Very well. As much as Wagner, I am the son of his time...
in other words, a decadent. But I understood that...
and against it I defended myself.
The philosopher in me defended himself.
I separated myself from Wagner, when he headed for a German god...
the German church and the German empire.
Romanticism, just like Christianity, is a physiological decay...
a station on the way to nihilism.
I believe that I am not a musician exactly not to be a Romanticist.
But, without music...
Iife would be for me a mistake.
Since I arrived in Turin, I haven't missed a day's work.
I am incomparably better than in Engadine.
Turin is equally the only place...
where my feeding corresponds perfectly...
to my more personal imperatives.
I also have a new autumn overcoat, very elegant.
Day after day, the days are of an indescribable brightness.
I have never seen such autumn anywhere.
The grapes and the other fruits are better.
I can't describe them in words.
The city is calm with its 300,000 inhabitants.
Yesterday, do you believe?
I heard Bizet's masterpiece for the twentieth time.
I stayed to the end with soft devotion.
Again I could not flee. This triumph over my patience frightens me.
How such work improves.
We turned into masterpieces ourselves.
Really, whenever I heard "Carmen"...
I got the impression I was more of a philosopher...
a better philosopher than I believe I usually am.
Becoming so indulgent, so happy, so Indian, sedentary.
Seated for five hours. First stage of sanctity.
This music to me is perfect.
It approaches lightly, subtly, with politeness.
It is kind, it doesn't transpire.
What is good is light.
All that is divine moves with delicate feet:
the first sentence of my aesthetics.
This music is malicious, refined, fatalistic...
however it remains popular.
Such is the opposite of polyp in music, the infinite melody.
Piramidale, tutto Torino carmenizzatto!
I am in a good mood...
immersed in work from morning till night...
a small pamphlet on the music...
occupies my fingers.
I digest it Iike a semigod.
I sleep in spite of the noise of the coaches.
I asked mother to give Mr. Brandes my picture, the best she had.
Mr. Brandes, of the University of Copenhagen, is Iecturing on my books.
Actually, I ask you, my dear Mr. Georg Brandes...
where did you find this courage to speak in public of an unknown?
Only the day after tomorrow belongs to me.
Some men are born posthumous.
Mole Antonelliana, I baptized it "Ecce Homo".
The lyrical-poet supreme idea was given to me by Heinrich Heine.
He possessed that divine malice...
without which I am unable to imagine what is perfect.
I esteem the value of men for necessarily conceiving god...
as inseparable from the satyr.
Every philosophy up to now has been a misunderstanding of the body.
I say: the body is the thinker.
Teacher Karl Knortz, writes me from New York...
saying he will review my books in an American magazine.
That is a sign of recognition.
I need to make a complete outfit at a good tailor.
But this tailor here criticized me for my clothes.
He told me that he didn't believe that my suit had been made to measure.
He didn't believe such bad tailors existed.
I laughed, but seriously.
For ten years, I hadn't covered my body with clothes that pleased me.
Hear me, because I am such and such.
Above all, don't confuse me. Damned anti-Semite, damned Schmeitzer.
I return to you now, Mr. Fritsch...
the 3 issues of the "Correspondence" newspaper that you sent me...
thanking you for the trust that allowed me a glimpse...
into the filthy principles in the foundation of this strange movement.
From now on I ask you to send no more such publications.
I fear I may finally Iose my patience.
The constant absurd falsifications and accommodations of vague concepts...
as Germanic, Semitic, Aryan, Christian, German...
all these may finally end up annoying me...
drawing me away from the ironic indulgence with which until now...
I have considered the virtuous whims and the pharisaism of today Germans.
And finally, Mr. Fritsch, what do you think I feel...
when I hear the name of Zaratustra from the mouth of anti-Semites?
Mr. Fritsch, you make me vomit.
I vomit when the name of Zaratustra comes out of your mouth.
DRUGSTORE - OPEN
A place where the races are mixed, source of a big culture.
The good European, that is, the extra European...
that is what interests me.
The Indians, red skins, Delawares and Mohicans...
pariahs, artists, the German Jews...
those from below...
these will be the liberators of our hate, our national hate.
The thought of the eternal return...
the highest form of affirmation that one can reach...
I had it when I walked in the forests close to the Silvaplana lake...
and I stopped close to an imposing stone block shaped like a pyramid...
a short distance from Surlei.
Then this thought came to me.
I was a mere speaker, a mere medium of powerful forces.
All of a sudden, with ineffable certainty and subtlety...
something became visible to me.
Audible, it moved me...
and it upset me deeply.
I heard, I didn't seek.
I took and I didn't ask who had given this present.
A thought glittered like lightning, without hesitation.
whose tremendous tension loosened in torrents of tears.
Involuntarily, my step sometimes hurried, other times crawled...
totally not its usual self...
with the clearest conscience of numerous delicate tremors...
and chills that got to the toes...
an abyss of happiness.
Everything happened in an involuntary way...
but as in a whirl of sensation of freedom...
of unconditionality, power, divinity.
The very things approached and they offered themselves as symbols.
All of them came caressing to encounter my words...
and they flattered me, because they wanted to ride on my back.
That is how...
the words and the chests of words of every being opened to me.
Every being wanted to come and be word...
all that came to be wanted to learn from me how to speak.
Ah, he said, and if one day or one night...
a demon sneaked out in your most solitary solitude and said:
This life, as you live it now and as you lived it...
you will have to live it once again, even countless times...
and there won't be anything new in it.
Each pain and each pleasure and each thought and sigh...
everything that is unspeakably small and big in your life...
must return to you.
Everything in the same order and sequence...
and in the same way this spider and this moonlight among the trees...
and in the same way this moment and myself.
The eternal hourglass of existence will always be turned again...
and you with it, little dust from dust.
Would you not rush to the ground and grind your teeth...
and curse the demon if he spoke to you like this?
Or you once lived an uncommon moment...
in which you answered him:
You are a god, and I never heard anything more divine.
If this thought acquired power over you, as you are...
it would transform you and perhaps triturate you.
Before everything and each thing, the question:
do I still want this one more time and even countless times?
It would weigh like the heaviest of weights on your acts.
Ah, ah! Was this the life?
Very well then! Again!
I understand the philosopher as being a terrible explosive body...
before which everything is in danger.
I am not, for instance, an ogre, a moral monster.
I am even an opposite nature...
to the type of man that up to now has been worshipped as virtuous.
Between us, I think it's exactly what forms part of my pride.
I am a disciple of the philosopher Dionysus.
I would rather be a satyr than be a saint.
If I wage a war against Christianity...
it is allowed because I never tried contrariety and obstacles.
The most serious Christians always show goodwill to me.
Myself, an opponent of rigueur of Christianity, I am far away from...
bearing a grudge against an individual for the fact he is a Christian.
Fatality of millennia.
Jesus didn't deny the world, nor despised it...
making it an entrance for a better world, further on.
He simply ignored it, without denying or approving it.
It was by the hands of his disciples and apostles...
that the no to life was injected into this world.
Buddhism is a hundred times more realistic than Christianity.
It has in itself the inheritance of knowing how to formulate problems...
in an objective and cold way.
It appears after centuries of philosophical activity.
It doesn't fight against sin, it fight against suffering.
It has already left the self-deception of moral concepts.
It places itself, to speak my language...
beyond good and evil.
On this perfect day, in which everything ripens...
and not only the vine gilds, a sunbeam fell upon my life.
I looked back, I looked forward...
I had never seen so many and so good things at once.
It was not in vain that I buried today my forty-fourth year...
I could bury it. What in it was life is saved...
it is immortal.
"The Antichrist", "The Dithyrambs", "The Twilight of the Idols"...
my rehearsal of philosophizing with a hammer...
all these are presents of this and, in fact, its last quarter.
How wouldn't I be grateful to my whole life?
And for this reason I tell myself about my life.
My health as a whole is good.
I have been for two months in Turin and I've only been ill four times.
In this adorable city, there are twelve theaters...
a philharmonic academy, a school of music...
and a plethora of teachers of all instruments.
Moral: Turin is almost a musical center.
There are also big trilingual bookstores.
Landscape of the Alps.
The autumn, a great season.
I found a philosopher from Turin, the teacher Pasquale D'Ercole...
who paid me a lovely visit.
He knew of my existence in a Turin bookstore, the Loscher.
I know my fate.
One day my name will be remembered for a terrible thing...
for a crisis that had never happened on Earth before...
for the deepest collision of consciences...
for a decision plotted against everything until then believed...
I am not a man, I am a dynamite.
But my truth is terrible...
because up to now the lie was called the truth.
The transformation of all values...
is my formula for the supreme self-gnosis of mankind...
that makes itself in me genius and flesh.
The fortune of my existence...
its singularity perhaps, is in its fatality.
I would say it in the form of enigma: like my father I am dead...
Iike my mother l still live and age.
The development of the art is linked to two artistic impulses:
the apollinian and the dionysian.
I borrowed these name from the Greek gods' world.
Apollo, god of the serenity...
is the Greek name for the ability to dream.
It is the principle of the light that makes the world...
emerge from the original chaos.
It is the one that orders, having tamed the blind forces of nature...
submits them to a rule.
It is the symbol of every appearance, of all the plastic arts.
It gives shape to things, delimiting them with precise contour...
fixing their distinctive character and determining their function...
their individual sense.
It models the movement of every vital element...
printing each one a rhythm, the form of time...
and, this way, it imposes to the becoming a law, a measure.
Dionysus, foreign and wandering god.
Dionysus is the Greek name for ecstasy, for intoxication...
state that destroys, cuts into pieces...
abolishes the finite and the individual.
Dionysus is the god of chaos, of enormity, of deformity...
of the sexual fury and of the flow of life...
he is the god of music, the universal art mother of all arts.
Born from hunger and pain...
pursued and lacerated by the hostile gods...
Dionysus is reborn every spring...
and there it creates and it spreads happiness.
Animated by Dionysus...
man shows himself as a member of a superior community.
He unlearned how to walk and how to speak...
and is about to, by dancing, fly into the air.
His gesture is enchanting.
Just as now the animals speak, and the Earth gives milk and honey...
from inside the man rings something supernatural.
He feels himself god.
He walks in ecstasy and enraptured...
as he has seen the gods walk in his dreams.
Man is no longer an artist, he has become a work of art.
Why are you so scared by the idea of being your mother's lover?
Why? How many men, in dreams, have made love to their mothers...
and perhaps live dreading such a dream?
Nevertheless, one has to search for the truth.
I'm afraid Tiresias really can see into the truth.
Tell me, did he travel alone or in a great entourage, your husband Laio?
No, he had five men with him...
four soldiers and a servant. He had just one coach.
-And who brought all these news? -The servant...
...the only one who saved himself. -Is he still here? In the house?
When he came back and saw you as king in Laio's place, he begged...
This one! Don't you know him?!
So? Did you or did you not take this boy up the hill?
Yes, I took him.
It would be better if I had died then and there.
And who did give you that boy?
Was he or was he not your son?
He wasn't mine. Others gave him to me.
Others? Who were these others?
-For God's sake, ask me no more. -Speak, open wound!
I have just read a book...
"The Religious Legislators: Manu, Moses and Mohammed"...
where for the first time I came across the code of Manu.
It is a priestly code, based on the Vedas.
It is not a pessimistic code, although it's priestly.
All the moral legislations that we possess are caricatures of him.
The Egyptism and Plato seem instructed by a Brahman.
The Chinese also produced their Confucius and their Lao-tse...
under the inspiration of this code.
The Jews are also simple middlemen, they didn't invent anything.
Art and nothing but art.
Art makes life possible.
It is the great enticer of life, the great stimulant of life.
Art as the only force of superior resistance...
against every form of denial of life.
As access road to states where the suffering is wanted...
Where the suffering is a form of great delicacy.
Who rejuvenated my eyes?
Did my own disgust create wings for me...
and give me the ability to see into the future?
Truly, I had to fly to great heights to again find...
the source of pleasure. I found it, my brothers.
Here in the highest, sprout for me the source of pleasure.
Gush almost too impetuously, oh, source of pleasure.
Philosophy, as up to now I understood and lived it...
is also the voluntary search on the loathsome sides of existence.
Of the long experience that gave me such an adventure...
through the ice and the desert, l learned how to face in another way...
everything that was philosophized until now:
the hidden history of philosophy...
the psychology of its great names came to light for me.
How much truth does it bear, how much truth does a spirit dare?
This became for me authentic meter of value.
An experimental philosophy, just as I live...
hasten experimentally even the possibilities of the radical nihilism.
Not meaning to say that it stops in a negation...
in the No, in the No Will.
Instead of this, it wants to cross to the other side...
until the dionysiac says yes to the world, just as it is...
without discount, exception, selection.
The supreme state that the philosopher can reach...
is to be dionysiacly before the existence.
My formula for that is the love of destiny.
-Hand me thy handkerchief. -I have it not about me.
-What? -No, indeed, my Lord.
That is a fault! That handkerchief did an Egyptian to my mother.
-I give the world to think... -Honest to God, I've never seen it.
You've lost? It's gone? Speak, it's out of the way?
-It is not lost, but what if it were? -How?
-I say, it's not lost. -That sheet, let me see it.
I came sad, but I will not now. This is a trick to put me through my silt.
Pray you'll let Cassio be received again?
-Hand me thy handkerchief. -I pray, talk me of Cassio.
-The handkerchief! -Never at all it's time on your love.
-Share dangers with you. -The handkerchief!
Calm, calm. You never meet a more sufficient man.
In the Subalpina Gallery, I can see if I leave my room.
The most beautiful and elegant place of this genre that I know.
Every night, they play there "The Barber of Seville".
Marvelously. There the consumption price is a little higher.
If there is anything at which I am skilled it is turning perspectives.
I will say a word about my art of style.
To communicate a state, an internal tension of pathos through signs...
including the time of those signs, here is the sense of all style.
And considering that the multiplicity of internal states...
is in me extraordinary...
there is in me many possibilities of style.
Good is every style that really communicates an internal state...
that doesn't make mistakes with the signs...
in the time of the signs, in the gestures.
All the laws of the period are arts of gestures.
Dear friend Georg Brandes.
After you had discovered me, it was not difficult to find me.
The difficulty now is getting lost.
All those people that have affinity with me...
even the fruitseller that chooses for me the best bunches of grapes...
are perfectly worthy people, a little fat.
Even the waiters that serve the tables are fat.
Prince Carignano has just died.
We will have a great funeral.
"TRISTAN AND ISOLDE"
deep down, me, your old creature...
I am now an extraordinarily famous animal.
Not in Germany, because the Germans are very stupid and vulgar...
for the height of my spirit and with me they always made gaffes.
Not only with me, but with others too.
Among my admirers, I have chosen natures.
Only noble and influential people, in Paris, Stockholm...
Vienna and New York.
Ah, if you knew the terms with which the personages of the first order...
express devotion to me!
Including the most fascinating women, among them a lady...
Among my admirers, several geniuses exist.
There is not any name that is pronounced...
with so much distinction and reverence as mine.
See, that is a masterpiece:
without a name, without a social class, without wealth...
I am treated here as a small prince by all.
Even by my fruitseller, who doesn't rest...
until she finds me the sweetest bunch of grapes.
My dear friend Strindberg...
a great funeral takes place outside...
the burial of prince Carignano.
The whole Italy is in Turin.
It really was her son...
but no one better than Jocasta, your wife, could know that.
-She gave him to you? -Yes, she gave him to me.
-And what orders did she give you? -To kill him.
Why such an atrocity?
Because she feared terrible prophecies.
-Which prophecies? -That she would kill her parents.
And why did you allow that old man to save him?
Out of pity.
I bring the war. Not of people against people.
I wage the war on all those absurd fortuities:
people, class, race, profession, education and culture.
A war in the land of the spirit, with the weapons of the spirit.
To Mrs. Cosima Wagner...
To the Aryan princess, my Iover.
That I am a man is a disadvantage.
But I have already Iived among men...
and I know all...
that men can taste...
from the Iowest to the highest things.
I was Buddha among the Indians...
and Dionysus in Greece.
AIexander and Caesar are my incarnations...
as Lord Bacon, Shakespeare's poet.
Last I was Voltaire and Napoleon.
Perhaps also Richard Wagner.
But this time I come as victorious Dionysus...
that will make of the Earth a party day.
I won't have a Iong time.
The skies are happy that I am here.
I was also placed on the cross.
so much honor. Come in.
It's an honor.
Welcome in my palace.
Here it is the mask of Dionysus...
my fire idol.
Highness, here it is.
Welcome to my palace.
It's an honor. Thank you so much.
It was an honor.
Thank you, highness.
It was an honor, an honor.
Caesar. Prince Taurinorum.
Caesar. Prince Taurinorum.
He's gone crazy! Go and see what is happening.
He's out of his mind.
Dear Mr. Teacher...
old friend, Jacob Burckhardt...
deep down, I'd rather be a Basel teacher than be god...
but I didn't dare to take so far my personal selfishness...
to the point of leaving, by that, the creation of the world.
See, it is necessary to make sacrifices.
However a small student room was reserved for me...
that is in front of the Carignano palace...
in which I was born Victorio Emanuele...
and besides it allows me to hear from the workdesk...
the magnificent music in the Subalpina Gallery.
I pay 25 francs for the service, I prepare my tea...
and I sum up all the bills alone.
I suffer with the shoes that are worn-out...
and I thank, at every moment, heavens for the old world.
Don't take the Prado case very seriously.
I am Prado, I am also the father of Prado.
I dare to say that I am Lesseps.
I would like to give to my Parisian ones, whom I love...
a new notion, that of an honest criminal.
I am also Chambridge, he is also a honest criminal.
What is unpleasant and constrains my modesty...
is that, deep down, each name in the history is me.
Twice this autumn...
I saw myself dressed the least possible in my funeral.
First as Count of Robilant. No, no, this is my son...
while I am Carlo Alberto. But Antonelli was myself.
We artists are incorrigible.
I heard an operetta today.
I go anywhere dressed as a student? Here, there.
I tap anyone on the back and say: are you happy?
I am god, I made this caricature.
Tomorrow comes my son Umberto with lovely Marguerita...
that here, however, I will only receive informally.
The rest is for Mrs. Cosima... Aryan...
Last year I was crucified in a very painful way by the German doctors.
Destroyed Wilhelm, Bismarck and all the anti-Semites.
With cordial affection, your Nietzsche.
DC Sniper 23 Days of Fear
D A R Y L 1985
Daddy Day Care
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Devils Own The
Dial M for Murder 1954
Diamonds Are Forever
Diana Krall Live in Paris
Diarios De Motocicleta
Diary of a Chambermaid
Diary of a Country Priest (1951 Bresson Robert)
Dias de Nietzsche em Turim
Dickie Roberts Former Child Star
Die Another Day (2002) CD1
Die Another Day (2002) CD2
Die Hard 1988 Extended Version CD1
Die Hard 1988 Extended Version CD2
Die Hard With a Vengeance
Die Nibelungen - Die Kriemhilds Rache CD1
Die Nibelungen - Die Kriemhilds Rache CD2
Diez de hollywood Los 1951
Dil Ka Kya Kasoor
Dil Ka Rishta
Dirty Dancing - Havana Nights
Dirty Tiger Crazy Frog 1978
Discovery Air Jaws Sharks of South Africa
Discovery Channel - Raising The Mammoth
Disorderly Orderly The
Django spara per primo
Do The Right Thing CD1
Do The Right Thing CD2
Dobry vojak Svejk
Dodeskaden (Akira Kurosawa)
Dodgeball - A True Underdog Story
Dog Nail Clipper
Dog Soldiers (2002)
Dogs Of War The 1981
Doing Hard Time CD1
Doing Hard Time CD2
Dois Perdidos Numa Noite Suja 2002
Dokument Fanny och Alexander CD1
Dokument Fanny och Alexander CD2
Dolce Vita La 1960 CD1
Dolce Vita La 1960 CD2
Dolores Claiborne (1995)
Don Giovanni CD1
Don Giovanni CD2
Dong (The Hole) 1998
Donggam (2000) - Ditto
Dont Be A Menace To South Central While Drinking Your Juice In The Hood
Dont Bother to Knock
Dont look now
Dont say a word
Door in the Floor The 2004
Doors The CD1
Doors The CD2
Double Vision (Shuang Tong)
Down By Law 1986
Down With Love
Down and Out in Beverly Hills
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde
Dracula - Dead and Loving It
Dracula Has Risen From The Grave 1968
Dragon Head CD1
Dragon Head CD2
Dragonheart - Collectors Edition
Dragons Forever (Jackie Chan)
DreamKeeper 2003 CD1
DreamKeeper 2003 CD2
Dream Master The
Dream Of A Warrior (Cheonsamong)
Dreamlife of Angels The
Dressed to Kill 1980
Driving Miss Daisy
Driving miss Wealthy (2004)
Drop Dead Gorgeous 1999
Drowning Mona CD1
Drowning Mona CD2
Drums Along the Mohawk
Drunken Master (Yuen Woo-Ping 1978)
Du rififi chez les hommes (Jules Dassin 1955) CD1
Du rififi chez les hommes (Jules Dassin 1955) CD2
Duck Soup (1933 Marx Brothers)
Dude Wheres My Car
Duel in the Sun CD1
Duel in the Sun CD2
Duel to the Death
Dumb And Dumberer When Harry Met Lloyd 2003
Dumb and Dumber
Dune 2000 - 1 of 3
Dune 2000 - 2 of 3
Dune 2000 - 3 of 3
Dungeons And Dragons
Dunken Monkey 2002
Dust in the Wind (Hsiao-hsien Hou 1986)
Dying td CD1
Dying td CD2
The Dawns Here Are Quiet The CD2