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Whoever, like myself, prompted by some enigmatical desire, has long endeavoured to go to the bottom of the question of pessimism and free it from the half-Christian, half-German narrowness and stupidity in which it has finally presented itself to this century, namely, in the form of Schopenhauer’s philosophy; whoever, with an Asiatic and super-Asiatic eye, has actually looked inside, and into the most world-renouncing of all possible modes of thought⁠—beyond good and evil, and no longer like Buddha and Schopenhauer, under the dominion and delusion of morality⁠—whoever has done this, has perhaps just thereby, without really desiring it, opened his eyes to behold the opposite ideal: the ideal of the most world-approving, exuberant, and vivacious man, who has not only learnt to compromise and arrange with that which was and is, but wishes to have it again as it was and is , for all eternity, insatiably calling out da capo , not only to himself, but to the whole piece and play; and not only the play, but actually to him who requires the play⁠—and makes it necessary; because he always requires himself anew⁠—and makes himself necessary.⁠—What? And this would not be⁠—