I have just heard from Italy that the point of view of my second _Thought out of Season_ has been very honourably mentioned in a survey of German literature contributed by the Viennese scholar, Dr. von Zackauer, at the invitation of the _Archivio storico_ of Florence. He concludes his paper with it. These last weeks at Turin, where I shall stay till June 5, have turned out better than any I have known for years, above all more philosophic. Almost every day for one or two hours I have reached such a pitch of energy as to be able to view my whole conception from top to bottom; so that the immense multiplicity of problems lies spread out beneath me, as though in relief and clear in its outlines. This requires a maximum of strength, for which I had almost given up hope. It all hangs together; years ago it was already on the right course; one builds one's philosophy like a beaver, one is forced to and does not know it: but one has to _see_ all this, as I have now seen it, in order to believe it. I am so relieved, so strengthened, in such good humour--I hang a little farcical tail on to the most serious things. What is the reason of all this? Have I not the good _north winds_ to thank for it, the north winds which do not always come from the Alps?--they come now and then even from _Copenhagen_! With greetings, Your gratefully devoted, NIETZSCHE. 13. NIETZSCHE to BRANDES. _Turin_, May 23, 1888. MY DEAR SIR, I should not like to leave Turin without telling you once more what a great share you have had in my first _successful_ spring. The history of my springs, for the last fifteen years at least, has been, I must tell you, a tale of horror, a fatality of decadence and infirmity. Places made no difference; it was as though no prescription, no diet, no climate could change the essentially depressing character of this time of year. But behold, Turin! And the first good news, _your_ news, my dear Sir, which proved to me that I am alive.... For I am sometimes apt to forget that I am alive. An accident, a question reminded me the other day that one of life's leading ideas is positively quenched in me, the idea of the _future_. No, wish, not the smallest cloudlet of a wish before me! A bare expanse! Why should not a day from my seventieth year be exactly like my day to-day? Have I lived too long in proximity to death to be able any longer to open my eyes to fair possibilities. --But certain it is that I now limit myself to thinking from day to day--that I settle to-day what is to be done to-morrow--and not for a single day beyond it! This may be irrational, unpractical, perhaps also unchristian--that preacher on the Mount forbade this very "taking thought for the morrow"--but it seems to me in the highest degree philosophical. I gained more respect for myself than I had before:--I understood that I had unlearnt how to wish, without even wanting to do so.