35. On Meeting the Deranged Nietzsche

From notebook 321, dated 1896

I have just seen Nietzsche. He was lying on the sofa like a thinker who is tired and continues to think about a long-standing problem while lying down. I could not look him in the eye, although he often opened it and looked to his right, as one often does while thinking. His appearance is that of a completely healthy person. No pallor, no white hair. The mighty moustache like on the Zarathustra picture. Oh, that mighty forehead, betraying both thinker and artist. Fresh blush over the whole face. The peace of the wise man spreading around him. One believes that behind this forehead the whole mighty world of thought is slumbering. I had the thought: he is fully conscious, sees and hears everything that is going on around him. He just can't express it. I was overcome by the feeling of otherworldly greatness that I saw before me. The mother spoke as if to a child, as if to a child whom the mother loves very much. Kind words they were. “You are my good child.” When the mother touched the blanket, there was a soft humming sound. He looked up frequently, always to the right at the same time. Perfect calm. His head was lying on the back of the sofa. His mother pushed the table away and touched the hands he held over his body. He's tired, said his mother, he slept almost the whole morning. He also needs rest, because when you touch him you hear a humming sound, like: “Leave me alone.” The mother moves the table back to the sofa. ‘When I see him lying there, without seeing the eye, I would hardly think he is sick.’