And have your masks and your ruses, that ye may be mistaken for what you are, or somewhat feared!  And pray, don’t forget the garden, the garden with golden trellis-work!  And have people around you who are as a garden—­or as music on the waters at eventide, when already the day becomes a memory.  Choose the good solitude, the free, wanton, lightsome solitude, which also gives you the right still to remain good in any sense whatsoever!  How poisonous, how crafty, how bad, does every long war make one, which cannot be waged openly by means of force!  How personal does a long fear make one, a long watching of enemies, of possible enemies!  These pariahs of society, these long-pursued, badly-persecuted ones—­also the compulsory recluses, the Spinozas or Giordano Brunos—­always become in the end, even under the most intellectual masquerade, and perhaps without being themselves aware of it, refined vengeance-seekers and poison-Brewers (just lay bare the foundation of Spinoza’s ethics and theology!), not to speak of the stupidity of moral indignation, which is the unfailing sign in a philosopher that the sense of philosophical humour has left him.  The martyrdom of the philosopher, his “sacrifice for the sake of truth,” forces into the light whatever of the agitator and actor lurks in him; and if one has hitherto contemplated him only with artistic curiosity, with regard to many a philosopher it is easy to understand the dangerous desire to see him also in his deterioration (deteriorated into a “martyr,” into a stage-and-tribune-bawler).  Only, that it is necessary with such a desire to be clear what spectacle one will see in any case—­merely a satyric play, merely an epilogue farce, merely the continued proof that the long, real tragedy is at an end, supposing that every philosophy has been a long tragedy in its origin.

26.  Every select man strives instinctively for a citadel and a privacy, where he is free from the crowd, the many, the majority—­ where he may forget “men who are the rule,” as their exception;—­ exclusive only of the case in which he is pushed straight to such men by a still stronger instinct, as a discerner in the great and exceptional sense.  Whoever, in intercourse with men, does not occasionally glisten in all the green and grey colours of distress, owing to disgust, satiety, sympathy, gloominess, and solitariness, is assuredly not a man of elevated tastes; supposing, however, that he does not voluntarily take all this burden and disgust upon himself, that he persistently avoids it, and remains, as I said, quietly and proudly hidden in his citadel, one thing is then certain:  he was not made, he was not predestined for knowledge.  For as such, he would one day have to say to himself:  “The devil take my good taste! but ‘the rule’ is more interesting than the exception—­than myself, the exception!” And he would go down, and above all, he would go “inside.”