Friday 13 August 2021

Remy de Gourmont, “Nietzsche and Love” (1904/13)

Draft translation. “Nietzsche et l’amour,” Promenades littéraires, second ed. (Paris: Mercure de France, 1922) pp. 89–95, dated 1904. Gourmont critiques the shallowness and meanness of Nietzsche’s view of women; though his own perspective could by no means be called feminist. Rather, the text expresses a certain psycho-sexual attitude I like to think of as “Gourmontism” (by analogy with Sadism, Masochism, Retifism, etc.): that is, sexual attraction to intelligent women.

PDF of this translation at academia.edu.

 

Nietzsche had little experience of love. One might even say that he never had more than friendly relations with a woman. He wrote on love and on woman nonetheless, like every good philosopher. One day, at Sorrento, he confided Malwida von Meysenbug with a handwritten notebook containing the aphorisms on woman later published in the first part of Human, All-too-human. Malwida took the notebook, read it, and returned it to Nietzsche, smiling. He demanded an explanation for the smile. “Do not publish this,” said Mrs. von Meysenbug. Nietzsche seemed ruffled. He added the notebook to the rest of the manuscript and sent the lot to his publisher.

Malwida’s advice was sound. Nietzsche’s aphorisms on woman make up the least interesting part of his work. Here I will only discuss the chapter concerning them in Human, All-too-human. There are other thoughts on women in Beyond Good and Evil, which we may examine later on.

Chapter seven of Human, All-too-human, entitled “Wife and Child,” begins with a judicious and novel idea: “The perfect woman is a higher type of humanity than the perfect man, and also something much rarer. The natural history of animals furnishes grounds in support of this theory” [1]. What first strikes one about this thought is its closing phrase, where there is a magnificent intuition of scientific truth. Indeed, in the majority of animal species, as I myself have demonstrated in a special book [2], the woman is the superior type. Among insects in particular, and among the most intelligent, the female alone fulfils almost all social functions which, among mankind and among birds, are shared between the two sexes. She is at once the builder of the nest, the Amazon who defends it against enemies, the huntress who provides game to her progeniture: she is everything. The male is almost nothing: he appears for an instant, fulfils his natural duty, then disappears.

Something of this activity remains to the female among superior species. If not the activity itself, then the principle: if she does not build the house, it is built for her sake. But lacking a mate, she would build it herself. Man plays an immense part in the life of woman; but he is a passenger, while woman’s natural role is durable. Man only represents himself; woman represents all posterity. In every case where a woman is nothing but a woman, but fully a woman, she is infinitely superior to man. Society is founded upon woman; she is its cornerstone. It is for precisely this reason that she falters every time she abandons her task as woman to imitate men.

I am far from Nietzsche’s position when he says that the perfect woman is rarer than the perfect man. It is difficult, I will not deny, to know what a perfect man might be. For man, there are many sorts of perfection or, rather, of superiority. For woman, perfection is unique: she is perfect when she is profoundly woman, from head to toe and to the bottom of her heart, and when she fulfils all the duties of woman joyfully, from lovemaking to childbearing.

The rest is grimace.

This opening aphorism of Nietzsche’s would seem to indicate in him, despite everything, a certain knowledge of woman, at least at a theoretical level; this is an illusion. Woman, even in the most advanced civilization, is always far more natural than man; far closer to life; in a word, more physical. One cannot speak of her seriously unless moved by a physical sympathy for her. Those incapable of that must abstain. To talk of woman as an abstraction is absurd. Man is no more an abstraction than she; but he can live in abstraction, which is impossible for woman. Nietzsche recognizes this in aphorisms 416 and 419: “Can women be at all just, when they are so accustomed to love and to be immediately biased for or against? For that reason they are also less interested in things and more in persons […]” [3]. Yet he takes this to be an inferiority. No doubt, when it comes to metaphysical ratiocination, to philosophy; but not when it is a question of practical life. For ideas exist only inasmuch as there are men to think them and vivify them; they must be incarnated to acquire vitality and force. The ladies are not wrong. But was it not Nietzsche himself who said that a philosophical system is nothing but the expression of a particular psychology? If a woman had loved Nietzsche’s philosophy (as some do today), she would have dropped the books at once and run to the philosopher. Men, though, would do otherwise. Do those who admire a writer wish to see him, to hear his voice, to shake his hand? Women are more frank and more natural: that is all. We curse their cunning. They are only cunning once man forces them to defend themselves against him. Many men are tricked; still more women. They know as much, and, less bestial than men, are less given to fly into a rage.

Nietzsche understands women do poorly that he, the great creator of ideas, of new connections, is reduced to redrafting commonplaces in a Nietzschean form. He tells us: “Those girls who mean to trust exclusively to their youthful charms for their provision in life, and whose cunning is further prompted by worldly mothers, have just the same aims as courtesans, only they are wiser and less honest” [4]. But we have read this maxim of false moralism so many times that it makes us smile, except when it exasperates. At other times, he very neatly summarizes Schopenhauer’s opinions in a few lines (aphorisms 411 and 414). This is amusing; but is it new? “Inexperienced girls flatter themselves with the notion that it is in their power to make a man happy; later on they learn that it is equivalent to underrating a man to suppose that he needs only a girl to make him happy” [5].

What man of whatever caste and of whatever country could concede this assertion? “Women’s modesty usually increases with their beauty” [6]. This is a signature. When one writes such a thing in a series of pensées on women, it is almost as much as to say: “These are reflections on a subject utterly unknown to me.” If anything, beyond education, might increase the modesty that comes naturally to women (up to a certain point), is it not, obviously, the feeling of physical imperfection?

Nietzsche has no idea about marriage, but a very personal ideal. In the following there is a confession of an almost excessive sincerity: “Marriage regarded in its highest aspect, as the spiritual friendship of two persons of opposite sexes, […] such marriage, which only makes use of the sensual, so to speak, as a rare and occasional means to a higher purpose […]” [7]. I cannot cite the whole thing: Nietzsche almost expresses the view that one cannot love physically a woman one esteems intellectually. This is utter immorality: the naïve immorality of a man whose senses are muted; whose sensibility is entirely cerebral.

In closing, he even rehashes the illusion of a purely metaphysical and contemplative marriage; and he was thinking of himself, without a doubt, when he wrote: “Thus I, too, agree with the opinion that in matters of the highest philosophy all married men are to be suspected” [8].

What is suspect, in truth, is the opinions concerning women and love of a man, as great a philosopher as he may be, who knew neither love nor women.

 

Notes

(All but note 2 are the translator’s.)

1. 377.

2. Le Physique de l’amour. [See Ezra Pound’s translation (New York: Boni and Liveright, 1922).]

3. 416.

4. 404.

5. 407.

6. 398. “The opposite of this aphorism also holds good,” says J. M. Kennedy in an editorial note to Zimmern’s translation of Human, All-too-human (Edinburgh: Foulis, 1910).

7. 424.

8. 436.

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