Recommendation on a Nietzsche Commentator

If you've read Nietzsche for a while and have yet to read a significant commentary on his thought, this is for you.

Many years passed between my first encounter with Nietzsche’s writings and the moment I allowed myself to open a commentary. Few thinkers elicit such an intensely personal response that even glimpsing someone else’s interpretation feels intrusive.

At first, I read other philosophers on Nietzsche—Heidegger, Foucault, Strauss. They predictably exaggerated the significance of the elements that served as a necessary prelude to their own projects. This isn’t a flaw, per se—perhaps it’s the most inevitable way to read Nietzsche. But it doesn’t necessarily aid in understanding him. Later, I turned to more systematic commentators, such as Jung and Kaufmann. Their diligence was evident, as was their sincere effort to comprehend Nietzsche, but their spirits never seemed to soar alongside his for long. Then I encountered the academic discourse on Nietzsche—mostly uninspiring. Scholars often seemed either uninterested in Nietzsche himself or interested only insofar as he could illustrate a broader point they were making. The only exception was the legendary Safranski, but his greatest strength—his deep fascination with Nietzsche’s biography—was also his greatest limitation.

Then, I picked up a book that a teacher had recommended to me at the tender age of eighteen: Laurence Lampert’s interpretation of Nietzsche. My reading of Nietzsche was never the same again. A devoted, perhaps overly devoted, interpreter, Lampert leaves no Nietzschean clue unexamined. Reading him is almost like reading the thought process behind Nietzsche’s books—an underlying ‘method’ that so many have denied Nietzsche, mistaking his work for an arbitrary collection of contradictions. Lampert, however, lays it all out methodically.

But rather than turning this into a generic recommendation post, let’s get into the substance. As part of a study group I’m in, I’m currently reading Beyond Good and Evil—my favorite Nietzsche book. I haven’t yet read this one alongside Lampert’s commentary, so I’d like to share with you one section from the book, followed by Lampert’s interpretation, to give you a taste of what he achieves.

Here’s Fragment 29 from the second chapter (“On the Free Spirit”), in the translation by Israel Eldad:

"To stand on one’s own—this is something only the rarest individuals achieve; it is a privilege of the strong. And whoever attempts it, even with full right, yet without necessity, proves that he is likely not only strong but also recklessly bold. He enters a labyrinth. He multiplies a thousandfold the dangers that life itself already entails; and one of the least of these dangers is that no one sees how and where he is lost, and how he is torn to pieces in solitude by some Minotaur of conscience. Suppose such a person perishes—this happens far beyond human understanding, without evoking pity or participation in his suffering. And the way back? There is none! Not even to human mercy."

Now, I encourage you to take a moment to reflect on this passage before reading on. This exercise isn’t under ideal conditions—you lack the full context of the chapter or book—but it suffices, since most readers of Nietzsche rarely pay attention to those contexts and tend to read him piecemeal.

Lampert derives from the broader context of the chapter and the preceding passage that Nietzsche is describing the philosopher’s free spirit, likening it to the flow of the Ganges River—a connection Lampert draws from Sanskrit words Nietzsche embeds in the text. This passage, however, serves as a warning to those who attempt to adopt the philosopher’s freedom without necessity. Lampert points out that the only word in this passage that appears in a modified form is "necessity"—suggesting that perhaps the speaker himself was compelled to take this path and is warning those who are not under the same compulsion.

The one who seeks to adopt the philosopher’s freedom is like someone entering a labyrinth, amplifying the inherent dangers of life. At this point, Lampert introduces a hypothesis that initially stretches beyond the text’s surface but will later find its grounding. Entering a labyrinth with a Minotaur is to assume the role of Theseus. Theseus had to be in the labyrinth to rescue young Athenians from being sacrificed to the Minotaur. However, to enter the labyrinth without necessity is akin to entering it without the sword that Ariadne gave to Theseus. If one perishes in the labyrinth, it happens far from the compassionate gaze of humanity. But not only that—one also loses the ability to return to human compassion itself: "Not even to human mercy."

To lose the way back means to lack the second gift Ariadne gave to Theseus—the thread that allowed him to return to humanity after slaying the Minotaur. Implicitly, by writing such a book, Nietzsche positions himself as one who has returned to humanity. This is a very particular kind of philosopher, and as Nietzsche suggests in this chapter, it would be a mistake to assume he is the common type. Nietzsche found his way back to a kind of compassion for humanity, but it is utterly different from the modern compassion he vehemently opposes—the egalitarian, complacent pity that he sees as corrosive to human greatness. Nietzsche’s compassion is quieter, appearing in different contexts throughout the book, culminating—no surprise—in the figure of Ariadne, alongside the labyrinth (Fragment 295). But she does not appear with Theseus; instead, she appears with Dionysus, the god who, in Greek myth, replaced Theseus as her companion.

At the book’s end, Nietzsche places these words in the mouth of Dionysus, spoken to Ariadne: "Under certain circumstances, I love mankind." What does Dionysus’s love for Ariadne reveal about love for humanity? According to Lampert, the book’s mythic conclusion encapsulates its argument: the philosophy of the future aims to elevate humanity out of compassion or love, though it does so through means that, on the surface, may not appear to be compassionate or love-driven. The hero of the labyrinth has slain the Minotaur of conscience and now writes books for humanity. The next passage (Fragment 30) reads like a report from deep within the labyrinth, written by one who survived the Minotaur and discovered a new form of compassion for humanity.

And that, my friends, is just one of the ways Lampert illuminates Nietzsche.