In the end, why should I not voice my suspicion? In my case, Americans will try everything to hold us all from a tremendous destiny. So far they have compromised themselves in all things; I doubt that they will do any better in the future (How I wish I were a bad prophet in this case). My natural companions are Europeans, Canadians, and Latinos, it has always been that way.
The âAmerican spiritâ is for me bad air: I breathe with difficulty near the instinctive uncleanliness in that psychology which with every word, every facial expression is the American betrayal. They have never gone through a century of hard self-examination, like the French (a La Rochefoucauld and a Descartes are a hundred times superior in honesty to the foremost Americans) to this day they have not had a prophet. But prophecy is almost the measure of the cleanliness or uncleanliness of a race.
If one is not even cleanly, how should one have depth? It is with Americans as if they will never fathoms their depths; they may not have any. They arenât even shallow. What is called âdeepâ in America is precisely this instinctive uncleanliness in relation to oneself. They do not want to gain clarity about themselves. I propose the word âAmericanâ as the new international coinage for this psychological depravity.
Why shouldn't I go all the way? I like to make a clean sweep of things. It is part of my ambition to be considered a despiser of the American way. My mistrust of the American character I expressed even when I was a child, the Americans seem impossible to me. When I imagine a type of man that antagonizes all my instincts, it always turns into an American.
It is with the most profound spirit of melancholy that I turn from America, I cannot endure this race among whom I am always in bad company, that has no mind for nuances (after all, I am a nuance) that has no spirit in its feet and does not even know how to walk (the Americans ultimately have no feet at all, they have only legs). The Americans have no idea how vulgar they are; but that is the superlative of vulgarity, they are not even ashamed of being merely Americans. They join in every discussion; they consider themselves decisive, but decisiveness with ignorance is no virtue. My whole life has been in vain seeking among them for some sign of tact, of délicatesse in their relations.
It is part of my nature to be gentle and benevolent toward everybody, and being here makes me violent and angry. I have the right not to make distinctions, but that does not prevent me from keeping my eyes open. I expect no one to understand, least of all my friends. In the end I hope that this revelation has not diminished my humanity in relation to you. There are five or six things that have always been a point of honor with me. Nevertheless it is true that almost every sentiment that has reached me for years now strikes me as a piece of cynicism: there is more cynicism in being falsely kind than in any hatred.
I tell every one of my friends to his face that he has never considered it worth while to study any of my writings: I infer from the smallest signs that they do not even know what is in them. Who among my friends sees more than an impermissible but fortunately utterly inconsequential presumption?
I myself have never suffered from all this, what is necessary does not hurt me; "amor fati" is my inmost nature. But this does not preclude my love of irony, even world-historical irony. And thus I have sent into the world my thoughts on the American immortal blunder in relation to love and peace that will stand in all eternity. There is barely enough time left for this. It is all disaster. Most delightfully, my dear Americans!
My regards,
Future Expat
The âAmerican spiritâ is for me bad air: I breathe with difficulty near the instinctive uncleanliness in that psychology which with every word, every facial expression is the American betrayal. They have never gone through a century of hard self-examination, like the French (a La Rochefoucauld and a Descartes are a hundred times superior in honesty to the foremost Americans) to this day they have not had a prophet. But prophecy is almost the measure of the cleanliness or uncleanliness of a race.
If one is not even cleanly, how should one have depth? It is with Americans as if they will never fathoms their depths; they may not have any. They arenât even shallow. What is called âdeepâ in America is precisely this instinctive uncleanliness in relation to oneself. They do not want to gain clarity about themselves. I propose the word âAmericanâ as the new international coinage for this psychological depravity.
Why shouldn't I go all the way? I like to make a clean sweep of things. It is part of my ambition to be considered a despiser of the American way. My mistrust of the American character I expressed even when I was a child, the Americans seem impossible to me. When I imagine a type of man that antagonizes all my instincts, it always turns into an American.
It is with the most profound spirit of melancholy that I turn from America, I cannot endure this race among whom I am always in bad company, that has no mind for nuances (after all, I am a nuance) that has no spirit in its feet and does not even know how to walk (the Americans ultimately have no feet at all, they have only legs). The Americans have no idea how vulgar they are; but that is the superlative of vulgarity, they are not even ashamed of being merely Americans. They join in every discussion; they consider themselves decisive, but decisiveness with ignorance is no virtue. My whole life has been in vain seeking among them for some sign of tact, of délicatesse in their relations.
It is part of my nature to be gentle and benevolent toward everybody, and being here makes me violent and angry. I have the right not to make distinctions, but that does not prevent me from keeping my eyes open. I expect no one to understand, least of all my friends. In the end I hope that this revelation has not diminished my humanity in relation to you. There are five or six things that have always been a point of honor with me. Nevertheless it is true that almost every sentiment that has reached me for years now strikes me as a piece of cynicism: there is more cynicism in being falsely kind than in any hatred.
I tell every one of my friends to his face that he has never considered it worth while to study any of my writings: I infer from the smallest signs that they do not even know what is in them. Who among my friends sees more than an impermissible but fortunately utterly inconsequential presumption?
I myself have never suffered from all this, what is necessary does not hurt me; "amor fati" is my inmost nature. But this does not preclude my love of irony, even world-historical irony. And thus I have sent into the world my thoughts on the American immortal blunder in relation to love and peace that will stand in all eternity. There is barely enough time left for this. It is all disaster. Most delightfully, my dear Americans!
My regards,
Future Expat
