On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense (1873)
By Friedrich Nietzsche


Once upon a time, in some out of the way corner of that universe which is dispersed into numberless twinkling solar systems, there was
a star upon which clever beasts invented knowing. That was the most arrogant and mendacious minute of "world history," but
nevertheless, it was only a minute. After nature had drawn a few breaths, the star cooled and congealed, and the clever beasts had to
die. _One might invent such a fable, and yet he still would not have adequately illustrated how miserable, how shadowy and transient,

how aimless and arbitrary the human intellect looks within nature. There were eternities during which it did not exist. And when it is all
over with the human intellect, nothing will have happened. For this intellect has no additional mission which would lead it beyond human
life. Rather, it is human, and only its possessor and begetter takes it so solemnly-as though the world's axis turned within it. But if we
could communicate with the gnat, we would learn that he likewise flies through the air with the same solemnity, that he feels the flying

center of the universe within himself. There is nothing so reprehensible and unimportant in nature that it would not immediately swell up
like a balloon at the slightest puff of this power of knowing. And just as every porter wants to have an admirer, so even the proudest of
men, the philosopher, supposes that he sees on all sides the eyes of the universe telescopically focused upon his action and thought.
It is remarkable that this was brought about by the intellect, which was certainly allotted to these most unfortunate, delicate, and
ephemeral beings merely as a device for detaining them a minute within existence.For without this addition they would have every

reason to flee this existence as quickly as Lessing's son. The pride connected with knowing and sensing lies like a blinding fog over the
eyes and senses of men, thus deceiving them concerning the value of existence. For this pride contains within itself the most flattering
estimation of the value of knowing. Deception is the most general effect of such pride, but even its most particular effects contain within
themselves something of the same deceitful character.

As a means for the preserving of the individual, the intellect unfolds its principle powers in dissimulation, which is the means by which
weaker, less robust individuals preserve themselves-since they have been denied the chance to wage the battle for existence with horns
or with the sharp teeth of beasts of prey, This art of dissimulation reaches its peak in man. Deception, flattering, lying, deluding, talking
behind the back, putting up a false front, living in borrowed splendor, wearing a mask, hiding behind convention, playing a role for others

and for oneself-in short, a continuous fluttering around the solitary flame of vanity-is so much the rule and the law among men that there
is almost nothing which is less comprehensible than how an honest and pure drive for truth could have arisen among them. They are
deeply immersed in illusions and in dream images; their eyes merely glide over the surface of things and see "forms." Their senses
nowhere lead to truth; on the contrary, they are content to receive stimuli and, as it were, to engage in a groping game on the backs of
things. Moreover, man permits himself to be deceived in his dreams every night of his life. His moral sentiment does not even make an

attempt to prevent this, whereas there are supposed to be men who have stopped snoring through sheer will power. What does man
actually know about himself? Is he, indeed, ever able to perceive himself completely, as if laid out in a lighted display case? Does
nature not conceal most things from him-even concerning his own body-in order to confine and lock him within a proud, deceptive
consciousness, aloof from the coils of the bowels, the rapid flow of the blood stream, and the intricate quivering of the fibers! She threw

away the key. And woe to that fatal curiosity which might one day have the power to peer out and down through a crack in the chamber
of consciousness and then suspect that man is sustained in the indifference of his ignorance by that which is pitiless, greedy,
insatiable, and murderous-as if hanging in dreams on the back of a tiger. Given this situation, where in the world could the drive for truth
have come from?

Insofar as the individual wants to maintain himself against other individuals, he will under natural circumstances employ the intellect
mainly for dissimulation. But at the same time, from boredom and necessity, man wishes to exist socially and with the herd; therefore,
he needs to make peace and strives accordingly to banish from his world at least the most flagrant bellum omni contra omnes . This
peace treaty brings in its wake something which appears to be the first step toward acquiring that puzzling truth drive: to wit, that which
shall count as "truth" from now on is established. That is to say, a uniformly valid and binding designation is invented for things, and this

legislation of language likewise establishes the first laws of truth. For the contrast between truth and lie arises here for the first time. The
liar is a person who uses the valid designations, the words, in order to make something which is unreal appear to be real. He says, for
example, "I am rich," when the proper designation for his condition would be "poor." He misuses fixed conventions by means of arbitrary
substitutions or even reversals of names. If he does this in a selfish and moreover harmful manner, society will cease to trust him and

will thereby exclude him. What men avoid by excluding the liar is not so much being defrauded as it is being harmed by means of fraud.
Thus, even at this stage, what they hate is basically not deception itself, but rather the unpleasant, hated consequences of certain sorts
of deception. It is in a similarly restricted sense that man now wants nothing but truth: he desires the pleasant, life-preserving
consequences of truth. He is indifferent toward pure knowledge which has no consequences; toward those truths which are possibly

harmful and destructive he is even hostilely inclined. And besides, what about these linguistic conventions themselves? Are they
perhaps products of knowledge, that is, of the sense of truth? Are designations congruent with things? Is language the adequate
expression of all realities?
It is only by means of forgetfulness that man can ever reach the point of fancying himself to possess a "truth" of the grade just
indicated. If he will not be satisfied with truth in the form of tautology, that is to say, if he will not be content with empty husks, then he

will always exchange truths for illusions. What is a word? It is the copy in sound of a nerve stimulus. But the further inference from the
nerve stimulus to a cause outside of us is already the result of a false and unjustifiable application of the principle of sufficient reason. If
truth alone had been the deciding factor in the genesis of language, and if the standpoint of certainty had been decisive for designations,
then how could we still dare to say "the stone is hard," as if "hard" were something otherwise familiar to us, and not merely a totally

subjective stimulation! We separate things according to gender, designating the tree as masculine and the plant as feminine. What
arbitrary assignments! How far this oversteps the canons of certainty! We speak of a "snake": this designation touches only upon its
ability to twist itself and could therefore also fit a worm. What arbitrary differentiations! What one-sided preferences, first for this, then for
that property of a thing! The various languages placed side by side show that with words it is never a question of truth, never a question

of adequate expression; otherwise, there would not be so many languages. The "thing in itself" (which is precisely what the pure truth,
apart from any of its consequences, would be) is likewise something quite incomprehensible to the creator of language and something
not in the least worth striving for. This creator only designates the relations of things to men, and for expressing these relations he lays
hold of the boldest metaphors. To begin with, a nerve stimulus is transferred into an image: first metaphor. The image, in turn, is
imitated in a sound: second metaphor. And each time there is a complete overleaping of one sphere, right into the middle of an entirely

new and different one. One can imagine a man who is totally deaf and has never had a sensation of sound and music. Perhaps such a
person will gaze with astonishment at Chladni's sound figures; perhaps he will discover their causes in the vibrations of the string and
will now swear that he must know what men mean by "sound." It is this way with all of us concerning language; we believe that we know
something about the things themselves when we speak of trees, colors, snow, and flowers; and yet we possess nothing but metaphors
for things--metaphors which correspond in no way to the original entities. In the same way that the sound appears as a sand figure, so

the mysterious X of the thing in itself first appears as a nerve stimulus, then as an image, and finally as a sound. Thus the genesis of
language does not proceed logically in any case, and all the material within and with which the man of truth, the scientist, and the
philosopher later work and build, if not derived from never-never land, is a least not derived from the essence of things.
In particular, let us further consider the formation of concepts. Every word instantly becomes a concept precisely insofar as it is not

supposed to serve as a reminder of the unique and entirely individual original experience to which it owes its origin; but rather, a word
becomes a concept insofar as it simultaneously has to fit countless more or less similar cases--which means, purely and simply, cases
which are never equal and thus altogether unequal. Every concept arises from the equation of unequal things. Just as it is certain that
one leaf is never totally the same as another, so it is certain that the concept "leaf" is formed by arbitrarily discarding these individual

differences and by forgetting the distinguishing aspects. This awakens the idea that, in addition to the leaves, there exists in nature the
"leaf": the original model according to which all the leaves were perhaps woven, sketched, measured, colored, curled, and painted--but
by incompetent hands, so that no specimen has turned out to be a correct, trustworthy, and faithful likeness of the original model. We
call a person "honest," and then we ask "why has he behaved so honestly today?" Our usual answer is, "on account of his honesty."
Honesty! This in turn means that the leaf is the cause of the leaves. We know nothing whatsoever about an essential quality called

"honesty"; but we do know of countless individualized and consequently unequal actions which we equate by omitting the aspects in
which they are unequal and which we now designate as "honest" actions. Finally we formulate from them a qualities occulta which has
the name "honesty." We obtain the concept, as we do the form, by overlooking what is individual and actual; whereas nature is
acquainted with no forms and no concepts, and likewise with no species, but only with an X which remains inaccessible and undefinable

for us. For even our contrast between individual and species is something anthropomorphic and does not originate in the essence of
things; although we should not presume to claim that this contrast does not correspond o the essence of things: that would of course
be a dogmatic assertion and, as such, would be just as indemonstrable as its opposite.
What then is truth? A movable host of metaphors, metonymies, and; anthropomorphisms: in short, a sum of human relations which

have been poetically and rhetorically intensified, transferred, and embellished, and which, after long usage, seem to a people to be fixed,
canonical, and binding. Truths are illusions which we have forgotten are illusions- they are metaphors that have become worn out and
have been drained of sensuous force, coins which have lost their embossing and are now considered as metal and no longer as coins.
We still do not yet know where the drive for truth comes from. For so far we have heard only of the duty which society imposes in order
to exist: to be truthful means to employ the usual metaphors. Thus, to express it morally, this is the duty to lie according to a fixed

convention, to lie with the herd and in a manner binding upon everyone. Now man of course forgets that this is the way things stand for
him. Thus he lies in the manner indicated, unconsciously and in accordance with habits which are centuries' old; and precisely by
means of this unconsciousness and forgetfulness he arrives at his sense of truth. From the sense that one is obliged to designate one
thing as "red," another as "cold," and a third as "mute," there arises a moral impulse in regard to truth. The venerability, reliability, and

utility of truth is something which a person demonstrates for himself from the contrast with the liar, whom no one trusts and everyone
excludes. As a "rational"being, he now places his behavior under the control of abstractions. He will no longer tolerate being carried
away by sudden impressions, by intuitions. First he universalizes all these impressions into less colorful, cooler concepts, so that he
can entrust the guidance of his life and conduct to them. Everything which distinguishes man from the animals depends upon this ability

to volatilize perceptual metaphors in a schema, and thus to dissolve an image into a concept. For something is possible in the realm of
these schemata which could never be achieved with the vivid first impressions: the construction of a pyramidal order according to castes
and degrees, the creation of a new world of laws, privileges, subordinations, and clearly marked boundaries-a new world, one which now
confronts that other vivid world of first impressions as more solid, more universal, better known, and more human than the immediately
perceived world, and thus as the regulative and imperative world. Whereas each perceptual metaphor is individual and without equals

and is therefore able to elude all classification, the great edifice of concepts displays the rigid regularity of a Roman columbarium and
exhales in logic that strength and coolness which is characteristic of mathematics. Anyone who has felt this cool breath [of logic] will
hardly believe that even the concept-which is as bony, foursquare, and transposable as a die-is nevertheless merely the residue of a
metapho r, and that the illusion which is involved in the artistic transference of a nerve stimulus into images is, if not the mother, then the

grandmother of every single concept. But in this conceptual crap game "truth" means using every die in the designated manner,
counting its spots accurately, fashioning the right categories, and never violating the order of caste and class rank. Just as the Romans
and Etruscans cut up the heavens with rigid mathematical lines and confined a god within each of the spaces thereby delimited, as
within a templum , so every people has a similarly mathematically divided conceptual heaven above themselves and henceforth thinks

that truth demands that each conceptual god be sought only within his own sphere. Here one may certainly admire man as a mighty
genius of construction, who succeeds in piling an infinitely complicated dome of concepts upon an unstable foundation, and, as it were,
on running water. Of course, in order to be supported by such a foundation, his construction must be like one constructed of spiders'
webs: delicate enough to be carried along by the waves, strong enough not to be blown apart by every wind. As a genius of construction
man raises himself far above the bee in the following way: whereas the bee builds with wax that he gathers from nature, man builds with

the far more delicate conceptual material which he first has to manufacture from himself. In this he is greatly to be admired, but not on
account of his drive for truth or for pure knowledge of things. When someone hides something behind a bush and looks for it again in the
same place and finds it there as well, there is not much to praise in such seeking and finding. Yet this is how matters stand regarding
seeking and finding "truth" within the realm of reason. If I make up the definition of a mammal, and then, after inspecting a camel,

declare "look, a mammal' I have indeed brought a truth to light in this way, but it is a truth of limited value. That is to say, it is a
thoroughly anthropomorphic truth which contains not a single point which would be "true in itself" or really and universally valid apart
from man. At bottom, what the investigator of such truths is seeking is only the metamorphosis of the world into man. He strives to
understand the world as something analogous to man, and at best he achieves by his struggles the feeling of assimilation. Similar to

the way in which astrologers considered the stars to be in man 's service and connected with his happiness and sorrow, such an
investigator considers the entire universe in connection with man: the entire universe as the infinitely fractured echo of one original
sound-man; the entire universe as the infinitely multiplied copy of one original picture-man. His method is to treat man as the measure
of all things, but in doing so he again proceeds from the error of believing that he hasthese things [which he intends to measure]
immediately before him as mere objects. He forgets that the original perceptual metaphors are metaphors and takes them to be the

things themselves.
Only by forgetting this primitive world of metaphor can one live with any repose, security, and consistency: only by means of the
petrification and coagulation of a mass of images which originally streamed from the primal faculty of human imagination like a fiery
liquid, only in the invincible faith ththis sun, thiswindow, this table is a truth in itself, in short, only by forgetting that he himself is an
artistically creati subject, does man live with any repose, security, and consistency. If but for an instant he could escape from the

prison walls of this faith, his"self consciousness" would be immediately destroyed. It is even a difficult thing for him to admit to himself
that the insect or the bird perceives an entirely different world from the one that man does, and that the question of which of these
perceptions of the world is the more correct one is quite meaningless, for this would have to have been decided previously in accordance
with the criterion of thecorrect perception, which means, in accordance with a criterion which is not available . But in any case it seems

to me that "the correct perception"-which would mean "the adequate expression of an object in the subject"-is a contradictory
impossibility. For between two absolutely different spheres, as between subject and object, there is no causality, no correctness, and
no expression; there is, at most, an aestheti relation: I mean, a suggestive transference, a stammering translation into a completely
foreign tongue-for which I there is required, in any case, a freely inventive intermediate sphere and mediating force. "Appearance" is a

word that contains many temptations, which is why I avoid it as much as possible. For it is not true that the essence of things
"appears" in the empirical world. A painter without hands who wished to express in song the picture before his mind would, by means of
this substitution of spheres, still reveal more about the essence of things than does the empirical world. Even the relationship of a nerve
stimulus to the generated image is not a necessary one. But when the same image has been generated millions of times and has been
handed down for many generations and finally appears on the same occasion every time for all mankind, then it acquires at last the

same meaning for men it would have if it were the sole necessary image and if the relationship of the original nerve stimulus to the
generated image were a strictly causal one. In the same manner, an eternally repeated dream would certainly be felt and judged to be
reality. But the hardening and congealing of a metaphor guarantees absolutely nothing concerning its necessity and exclusive
justification.

Every person who is familiar with such considerations has no doubt felt a deep mistrust of all idealism of this sort: just as often as he
has quite early convinced himself of the eternal consistency, omnipresence, and fallibility of the laws of nature. He has concluded that
so far as we can penetrate here-from the telescopic heights to the microscopic depths-everything is secure, complete, infinite, regular,
and without any gaps. Science will be able to dig successfully in this shaft forever, and the things that are discovered will harmonize

with and not contradict each other. How little does this resemble a product of the imagination, for if it were such, there should be some
place where the illusion and reality can be divined. Against this, the following must be said: if each us had a different kind of sense
perception-if we could only perceive things now as a bird, now as a worm, now as a plant, or if one of us saw a stimulus as red, another
as blue, while a third even heard the same stimulus as a sound-then no one would speak of such a regularity of nature, rather, nature
would be grasped only as a creation which is subjective in the highest degree. After all, what is a law of nature as such for us? We are

not acquainted with it in itself, but only with its effects, which means in its relation to other laws of nature-which, in turn, are known to us
only as sums of relations. Therefore all these relations always refer again to others and are thoroughly incomprehensible to us in their
essence. All that we actually know about these laws of nature is what we ourselves bring to them-time and space, and therefore
relationships of succession and number. But everything marvelous about the laws of nature, everything that quite astonishes us therein

and seems to demand explanation, everything that might lead us to distrust idealism: all this is completely and solely contained within
the mathematical strictness and inviolability of our representations of time and space. But we produce these representations in and from
ourselves with the same necessity with which the spider spins. If we are forced to comprehend all things only under these forms, then it
ceases to be amazing that in all things we actually comprehend nothing but these forms. For they must all bear within themselves the

laws of number, and it is precisely number which is most astonishing in things. All that conformity to law, which impresses us so much
in the movement of the stars and in chemical processes, coincides at bottom with those properties which we bring to things. Thus it is
we who impress ourselves in this way. In conjunction with this, it of course follows that the artistic process of metaphor formation with
which every sensation begins in us already presupposes these forms and thus occurs within them. The only way in which the possibility
of subsequently constructing a new conceptual edifice from metaphors themselves can be explained is by the firm persistence of these

original forms That is to say, this conceptual edifice is an imitation of temporal, spatial, and numerical relationships in the domain of
metaphor.
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We have seen how it is originally language which works on the construction of concepts, a labor taken over in later ages by science.

Just as the bee simultaneously constructs cells and fills them with honey, so science works unceasingly on this great columbarium of
concepts, the graveyard of perceptions. It is always building new, higher stories and shoring up, cleaning, and renovating the old cells;
above all, it takes pains to fill up this monstrously towering framework and to arrange therein the entire empirical world, which is to say,
the anthropomorphic world. Whereas the man of action binds his life to reason and its concepts so that he will not be swept away and
lost, the scientific investigator builds his hut right next to the tower of science so that he will be able to work on it and to find shelter for

himself beneath those bulwarks which presently exist. And he requires shelter, for there are frightful powers which continuously break in
upon him, powers which oppose scientific "truth" with completely different kinds of "truths" which bear on their shields the most varied
sorts of emblems.
The drive toward the formation of metaphors is the fundamental human drive, which one cannot for a single instant dispense with in

thought, for one would thereby dispense with man himself. This drive is not truly vanquished and scarcely subdued by the fact that a
regular and rigid new world is constructed as its prison from its own ephemeral products, the concepts. It seeks a new realm and
another channel for its activity, and it finds thismyth and in art generally. This drive continually confuses the conceptual categories
and cells by bringing forward new transferences, metaphors, and metonymies. It continually manifests an ardent desire to refashion the

world which presents itself to waking man, so that it will be as colorful, irregular, lacking in results and coherence, charming, and
eternally new as the world of dreams. Indeed, it is only by means of the rigid and regular web of concepts that the waking man clearly
sees that he is awake; and it is precisely because of this that he sometimes thinks that he must be dreaming when this web of
concepts is torn by art. Pascal is right in maintaining that if the same dream came to us every night we would be just as occupied with
it as we are with the things that we see every day. "If a workman were sure to dream for twelve straight hours every night that he was

king," said Pascal, "I believe that he would be just as happy as a king who dreamt for twelve hours every night that he was a workman.
In fact, because of the way that myth takes it for granted that miracles are always happening, the waking life of a mythically inspired
people-the ancient Greeks, for instance- more closely resembles a dream than it does the waking world of a scientifically disenchanted
thinker. When every tree can suddenly speak as a nymph, when a god in the shape of a bull can drag away maidens, when even the
goddess Athena herself is suddenly seen in the company of Peisastratus driving through the market place of Athens with a beautiful

team of horses-and this is what the honest Athenian believed- then, as in a dream, anything is possible at each moment, and all of
nature swarms around man as if it were nothing but a masquerade of the gods, who were merely amusing themselves by deceiving men
in all these shapes.
But man has an invincible inclination to allow himself to be deceived D and is, as it were, enchanted with happiness when the rhapsodist

tells i him epic fables as if they were true, or when the actor in the theater acts more royally than any real king. So long as it is able to
deceive without injuring, that master of deception, the intellect, is free; it is released from its former slavery and celebrates its
Saturnalia. It is never more luxuriant, richer, prouder, more clever and more daring. With creative pleasure it throws metaphors into
confusion and displaces the boundary stones of abstractions, so that, for example, it designates the stream as "the moving path which

carries man where he would otherwise walk." The intellect has now thrown the token of bondage from itself. At other times it endeavors,
with gloomy officiousness, to show the way and to demonstrate the tools to a poor individual who covets existence; it is like a servant
who goes in search of booty and prey for his master. But now it has become the master and it dares to wipe from its face the
expression of indigence. In comparison with its previous conduct, everything that it now does bears the mark of dissimulation, just as
that previous conduct did of distortion. The free intellect copies human life, but it considers this life to be something good and seems to

be quite satisfied with it. That immense framework and planking of concepts to which the needy man clings his whole life long in order
to preserve himself is nothing but a scaffolding and toy for the most audacious feats of the liberated intellect. And when it smashes this
framework to pieces, throws it into confusion, and puts it back together in an ironic fashion, pairing the most alien things and separating
the closest, it is demonstrating that it has no need of these makeshifts of indigence and that it will now be guided by intuitions rather

than by concepts. There is no regular path which leads from these intuitions into the land of ghostly schemata, the land of abstractions.
There exists no word for these intuitions; when man sees them he grows dumb, or else he speaks only in forbidden metaphors and in
unheard-of combinations of concepts. He does this so that by shattering and mocking the old conceptual barriers he may at least
correspond creatively to the impression of the powerful present intuition.

There are ages in which the rational man and the intuitive man stand side by side, the one in fear of intuition, the other with scorn for
abstraction. The latter is just as irrational as the former is inartistic. They both desire to rule over life: the former, by knowing how to
meet his principle needs by means of foresight, prudence, and regularity; the latter, by disregarding these needs and, as an "overjoyed
hero," counting as real only that life which has been disguised as illusion and beauty. Whenever, as was perhaps the case in ancient
Greece, the intuitive man handles his weapons more authoritatively and victoriously than his opponent, then, under favorable

circumstances, a culture can take shape and art's mastery over life can be established. All the manifestations of such a life will be
accompanied by this dissimulation, this disavowal of indigence, this glitter of metaphorical intuitions, and, in general, this immediacy of
deception: neither the house, nor the gait, nor the clothes, nor the clay jugs give evidence of having been invented because of a pressing
need. It seems as if they were all intended to express an exalted happiness, an OIympian cloudlessness, and, as it were, a playing with

seriousness. The man who is guided by concepts and abstractions only succeeds by such means in warding off misfortune, without
ever gaining any happiness for himself from these abstractions. And while he aims for the greatest possible freedom from pain, the
intuitive man, standing in the midst of a culture, already reaps from his intuition a harvest of continually inflowing illumination, cheer, and
redemption-in addition to obtaining a defense against misfortune. To be sure, he suffers more intensely, when he suffers; he even suffers

more frequently, since he does not understand how to learn from experience and keeps falling over and over again into the same ditch.
He is then just as irrational in sorrow as he is in happiness: he cries aloud and will not be consoled. How differently the stoical man who
learns from experience and governs himself by concepts is affected by the same misfortunes! This man, who at other times seeks
nothing but sincerity, truth, freedom from deception, and protection against ensnaring surprise attacks, now executes a masterpiece of
deception: he executes his masterpiece of deception in misfortune, as the other type of man executes his in times of happiness. He

wears no quivering and changeable human face, but, as it were, a mask with dignified, symmetrical features. He does not cry; he does
not even alter his voice. When a real storm cloud thunders above him, he wraps himself in his cloak, and with slow steps he walks from
beneath it.

































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