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The Will to Truth, which is to tempt us to many a hazardous enterprise, the famous Truthfulness of which all philosophers have hitherto spoken with respect, what questions has this Will to Truth not laid before us! What strange, perplexing, questionable questions! It is already a long story; yet it seems as if it were hardly commenced. Is it any wonder if we at last grow distrustful, lose patience, and turn impatiently away? That this Sphinx teaches us at last to ask questions ourselves? Who is it really that puts questions to us here? What really is this “Will to Truth” in us? In fact we made a long halt at the question as to the origin of this Will—until at last we came to an absolute standstill before a yet more fundamental question. We inquired about the value of this Will. Granted that we want the truth: why not rather untruth? And uncertainty? Even ignorance? The problem of the value of truth presented itself before us—or was it we who presented ourselves before the problem? Which of us is the Oedipus here? Which the Sphinx? It would seem to be a rendezvous of questions and notes of interrogation. And could it be believed that it at last seems to us as if the problem had never been propounded before, as if we were the first to discern it, get a sight of it, and risk raising it? For there is risk in raising it, perhaps there is no greater risk.The Will to Truth, which still tempts us to take so many risks, that famous truthfulness of which all philosophers so far have spoken with respect: what questions has this will to truth already laid before us! What strange, perplexing, questionable questions! That is a long story even now, — and yet it seems as if it has scarcely begun? Is it any wonder if we at last grow distrustful, lose patience, and turn impatiently away? That on our part we should at last learn from this Sphinx to ask questions? Who is it really that puts questions to us here? what in us really wants this “truth”? — Indeed we came to a long halt at the question about the cause of this will — until before a yet more fundamental question we finally came to an absolute standstill. We asked about the value of this will. Granted we did want the truth: why not rather untruth? And uncertainty? Even ignorance? The problem of the value of truth presented itself before us — or was it we who presented ourselves before the problem? Which of us is the Oedipus here? Who the Sphinx? It is a rendezvous, it seems, of questions and question marks. — And though it scarcely seems credible, it finally also seems to us as if the problem had never even been offered for consideration before — as if we were to see it for the first time, get a sight of it, dared it? For there is risk in raising it, and perhaps there is no greater risk than that.
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