ed in
human nature is the fable of the wind, the sun, and the traveler. The
sexes embody the discrepancy. The woman loves the man the more
admiringly the stormier he shows himself, and the world deifies its
rulers the more for being willful and unaccountable. But the woman in
turn subjugates the man by the mystery of gentleness in beauty, and the
saint has always charmed the world by something similar. Mankind is
susceptible and suggestible in opposite directions, and the rivalry of
influences is unsleeping. The saintly and the worldly ideal pursue
their feud in literature as much as in real life.

For Nietzsche the saint represents little but sneakingness and
slavishness. He is the sophisticated invalid, the degenerate par
excellence, the man of insufficient vitality. His prevalence would put
the human type in danger.

"The sick are the greatest danger for the well. The weaker, not the
stronger, are the strong's undoing. It is not FEAR of our fellow-man,
which we should wish to see diminished; for fear rouses those who are
strong to become terrible in turn themselves, and preserves the
hard-earned and successful type of humanity. What is to be dreaded by
us more than any other doom is not fear, but rather the great disgust,
not fear, but rather the great pity--disgust and pity for our human
fellows.... The MORBID are our greatest peril--not the 'bad' men, not
the predatory beings. Those born wrong, the miscarried, the broken--
they it is, the WEAKEST who are undermining the vitality of the race,
poisoning our trust in life, and putting humanity in question. Every
look of them is a sigh--'Would I were something other! I am sick and
tired of what I am.' In this swamp-soil of self-contempt, every
poisonous weed flourishes, and all so small, so secret, so dishonest,
and so sweetly rotten. Here swarm the worms of sensitiveness and
resentment, here the air smells odious with secrecy, with what is not
to be acknowledged; here is woven endlessly the net of the meanest of
conspiracies, the conspiracy of those who suffer against those who
succeed and are victorious; here the very aspect of the victorious is
hated--as if health, success, strength, pride, and the sense of power
were in themselves things vicious, for which one ought eventually to
make bitter expiation. Oh, how these people would themselves like to
inflict the expiation, how they thirst to be the hangmen! And all the
while their duplicity never con