What the pessimist has always missed: the rule of Beauty (not the Good) over everything ugly and despicable is evidenced by the tears it provokes, which are far stronger than those of pain—for they contain so much more! The existence of the world depends on the first eye to ever swell.
Life overwhelms—not through monotonies or boredom, nor even truly in despair and misery, suffering and anguish, but above all in its incredible propensity for joy (which shall not be confused with happiness!); its illimitable capacity to pull one forth into an overbearing gratitude (which shall not to be confused with humility! Can the humble really be grateful?).
One feels they have been truly gifted and yet—since there is always a “yet,” but perhaps this is at one with joy?—true joy consists of a leftover melancholy of which one feels even less worthy; the careful grandeur of something past; of everything to have ever passed. Is this what awaits the end of life or is this what life rebels against? Is melancholy the sickness of joy? The impossibility of feeling any longer? A joy which has to get rid of itself?
Jubilance mounts and therefore must dispel. It is a true accrual, since the penting up of the resentful is merely a false fanaticism; the negative illness of precisely those who are incapable of negating; those who cannot know joy, and who most certainly will never be initiated in its secret melancholy. The most “radical,” who spatter after humanity through mere opposition, are the most meek and are precisely the ones who will never know the joy of destruction. Destruction saves strength by depositing it, and so can never exalt the weak. Nature reserves violence for the benevolent, not the wicked. The latter can only waste cruelty, along with the concomitant titles of “freedom,” “justice,” etc.
History is in essence that which its own name does not merely fail to designate but utterly contradicts. It is anything but the “past.” Its leftovers are of a living spirit which will outlast us, lest we outlast it. There was never a human so unworthy of passing any judgement on history than the one who breathes today, knowing not why or for what they even breathe.
Let those who have joy recognize their inheritance. Let them smile at what cannot be seen and walk with deaf ears.
