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At whatever standpoint of philosophy one may place oneself nowadays, seen from every position, the erroneousness of the world in which we think we live is the surest and most certain thing our eyes can light upon: we find proof after proof thereof, which would fain allure us into surmises concerning a deceptive principle in the “nature of things.” He, however, who makes thinking itself, and consequently “the spirit,” responsible for the falseness of the world⁠—an honourable exit, which every conscious or unconscious advocatus dei avails himself of⁠—he who regards this world, including space, time, form, and movement, as falsely deduced , would have at least good reason in the end to become distrustful also of all thinking; has it not hitherto been playing upon us the worst of scurvy tricks? and what guarantee would it give that it would not continue to do what it has always been doing? In all seriousness, the innocence of thinkers has something touching and respect-inspiring in it, which even nowadays permits them to wait upon consciousness with the request that it will give them honest answers: for example, whether it be “real” or not, and why it keeps the outer world so resolutely at a distance, and other questions of the same description. The belief in “immediate certainties” is a moral naivete which does honour to us philosophers; but⁠—we have now to cease being “ merely moral” men! Apart from morality, such belief is a folly which does little honour to us! If in middle-class life an ever-ready distrust is regarded as the sign of a “bad character,” and consequently as an imprudence, here among us, beyond the middle-class world and its Yeas and Nays, what should prevent our being imprudent and saying: the philosopher has at length a right to “bad character,” as the being who has hitherto been most befooled on earth⁠—he is now under obligation to distrustfulness, to the wickedest squinting out of every abyss of suspicion.⁠—Forgive me the joke of this gloomy grimace and turn of expression; for I myself have long