I. Nietzsche’s Historical Islam?

Our famously philosophizing rambler was mainly ignorant, creatively rather than stupefyingly so, of the historiographical argument voiced in Part One: the new religion spread in the first centuries following the Revelation to Mohammed primarily through speaking to new adherents, rather than coercing them. Instead, Nietzsche read Julius Wellhausen, historian of ancient religions, and provider of perhaps the most comprehensive histories of early Islam available in German in this period. Besides the author’s account of pre-Islamic culture in the Arabic world, published 1887, in which the author depicts Islam ‘as the culmination of the religious development of Arabic heathendom’, Nietzsche also devoured Wellhausen’s singular and furore-generating histories of ancient Judaism, prior to penning The Antichrist, which has also be translated as The Anti-Christian, in 1888.¹ Wellhausen’s were only some of the flurry of ‘orientalist’ and Islam-focussed texts appearing in German, or in German translation, from the 1860s, which Nietzsche couldn’t get enough of. These included Gifford Palgrave’s Journeys Through Arabia, and several works by the era’s star orientalist, Max Müller. Nietzsche had read and excerpted Max Müller’s Essays on eastern religions in 1870-1871, finding confirmation that at least a ‘part of the Buddhist canon’ should be considered ‘nihilist’.² Much points towards Müller’s writings on Indian philosophy as an entry point for Nietzsche’s later obsession with what he calls The Legal Code of Manu, and with what Indologists call the Manusmṛti — a metrical, Sanskrit text, written between 200 BCE-200 CE.³ From this base, Nietzsche’s immediate guide to the Code of Manu was what modern scholar Andreas Urs Sommer decrees a ‘highly dubious source’ in religious science terms, Louis Jacolliot’s 1876 book Les législateurs religieux. Manou. Moïse. Mahomet.⁴ Inspired by Jacolliot’s polemical juxtaposition of Manu with the Prophet, Nietzsche sought to bind Manu and Islam together, in a dense fragment from spring 1888, spaced carefully on the page but only published posthumously, which attempts a meta-philosophy of ‘Aryan’ and ‘Semitic’ religion:

What a yea-saying Aryan religion, spawned by the ruling classes, looks like:

Manu’s lawbook .

What a yea-saying Semitic religion, spawned by the ruling classes, looks like:

Muhammed’s lawbook. The Old Testament, in its older parts

What a nay-saying Semitic religion, spawned by the oppressed classes, looks like:

according to Indian-Aryan concepts: The New Testament  —  a Chandala religion

What a nay-saying Aryan religion, which has grown under the ruling estates, looks like

: Buddhism.⁵

Bizarrely, fantastically, some progressive Muslims are now turning to Nietzsche’s conception of Islam as a religion created by an exceptional (late ‘heathen’, Arabian, Medina-based) ruling class, which showed much metaphorical spunk. They view this as a pluralistic bastion against a singularizing, revivalist tendency among their co-religionists. The latter readily say ‘no  —  Islam was and is and can never be this way’; thus shutting down the conversation on how it could still serve as a life-affirming, modern religion. Nietzsche integrates his sketch linking Manu’s and Muhammed’s ‘law books’ into his best-known position on Islam, chapter 60 of The Anti-Christian. Ready for print by November 1888, the severe and permanent breakdown in Nietzsche’s mental health in January 1889 meant that the book didn’t appear until 1894, edited by his sister, and in a doctored form. Following the appearance of Colli and Montinari’s authoritative edition from the 1960s on, we can now be sure what Nietzsche wanted to say about the youngest major monotheism. Sounding like the rant a brilliant orator might deliver from Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park, Nietzsche pounds Christianity with a barrage of heavy, insulting charges and praises Islam for how it manifested in ‘Moorish’ culture:

Christianity has conned us out of the harvest of the culture of antiquity and later it conned us out of the harvest of Islamic culture. The wonderful, Moorish culture world of Spain, fundamentally more familiar to us and speaking to our senses and taste more than Rome and Greece do, was trodden into the ground —  I won’t say by what kind of feet — and why? Because it had noble instincts, men’s instincts to thank for its emergence, because it said yes to life, even through the rare and refined delicacies of Moorish life.

Condemning the Crusades that decimated this lifeworld, and the German nobility for their part in the Crusaders’ plundering, our orator suggests causes for this cultural degenerateness, and enjoins the reader to take sides in this culture clash:

Christianity, alcohol  —  the two large means of corruption … Per se, a choice shouldn’t even exist concerning Islam and Christianity, just as little as a choice should exist between an Arab and a Jew.⁶ The decision is given, no one is free to still choose something in this case. Either one is a Chandala or one is not … “War with Rome down to the knife! Peace, friendship with Islam!” —  this is how that great free spirit Frederick II [1194-1259 CE], the genius amongst the German Kaisers, experienced and acted [in the situation] .⁷

Dividing all historical agents into either ‘Chandala’ or ‘the noble-minded [die Vornehmen]’ is a specifically 1888 move in Nietzsche’s philosophy. He appropriates the former term from Hinduism, where it means a member of the lowest caste (and specifically those who dispose of corpses), and makes it stand for ‘the lower [classes of the] people, the outcasts, and “sinners”’ the world over.⁸ Insisting that those who participated in Islam’s beginnings and enabled it to flourish are not Chandala is Nietzsche’s way of separating Islam categorically from latter-day, decadent Christianity. This taking-of-sides is picked up by Roy Jackson, author of seemingly the only full study on the subject in recent years, who maintains that ‘Islam can learn a good deal from Nietzsche’s critique of the “dead God” of Christianity’.⁹ By contending that Nietzsche doesn’t disown religious lives as such, but rather merely life-denying forms of the religious impulse, Jackson can set out the ‘two most fundamental options’ Islam is facing, either

to follow the same trajectory of Christianity in Europe and turning [sic.] its God into the ‘dead God’ that Nietzsche is so critical of, or to learn from Nietzsche’s religiosity and embrace a ‘living God’ that does not perceive secularisation as an enemy.¹⁰

Jackson’s intellectual manoeuvrings are hardly watertight. As Peter Groff reminds us, although Nietzsche’s modes and means of thinking are so radical that they go beyond atheism, this going beyond does not constitute a return to theism.¹¹ But what matters here is not whether all the substrata of Jackson’s argument convince — they don’t; and Nietzsche’s own picture of a ‘yes-saying’ religion fits poorly to the religiosity on Pollockshields’ streets today — but rather the political and cultural battles, inter-Islam, that motivate Jackson to turn to Nietzsche in the first place. These are battles about the right way to re-encounter the religion’s ‘“key paradigms”: the Qur’an, the Prophet Muhammad, the city-state of Medina, and the four Rightly-Guided Caliphs [632-661 CE]’.¹² For Jackson and his camp, this re-encounter must be ‘critical-historical’, so that believers can excavate honestly what Islam has been and could become, in semi-secular modernity. Groff and Jackson pit this approach against the way recent revivalist (Islamist) thinkers like Mawlana Mawdudi (1903-79 C.E.) have, transhistorically, refused to re-encounter these same paradigms, insisting instead that they are beyond critique, ‘pristine and all-encompassing’.¹³

Above all Jackson turns to Nietzsche in Beyond Good and Evil, not wanting to rid philosophical discourse of ‘the soul’ itself, but to redefine it as ‘mortal’, ‘as the multiplicity of the subject’, as a ‘societal construction of drives and affects’.¹⁴ This empowers Jackson to be multiple, and refusing of unilateralist accounts, in considering the souls who built the religious life and society of the ‘key paradigms’ period. Soon we arrive at a place utterly other to the mental maps most non-Muslims have of it: the first Islamic city-state was, on Jackson’s reading, ‘profoundly pluralistic’, recognised that ‘the secular and the religious’ should be separate realms, and was enlivened by the Prophet: less ‘a religio-political ruler (as assumed by contemporary revivalists), but rather a “charismatic arbiter of disputes”’.¹⁵

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II. Souls and ‘Muslimness’ in Pierre Klossowski’s Maddening Art  

Timothy Winter’s creating an Islamic take on Nietzsche builds on Pierre Klossowski’s reading of the same, and follows the trail of coded and yet decodable traces of Muslimness the French artist left behind him. These coagulate to a maximum density in The Baphomet, a 1965 novel that won the cachet-granting Prix des Critiques, but which has infuriated many readers and other critics since. The book is so weird that after lobbing it hard against a wall, its fascination may still exert itself, and have you picking up its scattered pages, and beginning reading it again. Not for nothing does Klossowski choose to locate the novel amongst a historical community that reactionary Catholic but also influential conspiracist voices have, over the centuries, recurringly suggested was Islamophile or even crypto-Islamic: the Knights Templar.¹⁶ The author throws such hints at the readers’ feet, then waits to see how they will react. Introducing Nietzsche as a character, and conflating him deliberately with the Islamophile Friedrich II is another bait Klossowski is setting up for us. The benefit of this book, and of Winter’s hermeneutic riff off it, is that spending time with these can shake up omnipresent rationalist prejudices against Islam. Klossowski’s aesthetics enact that which Islamic Studies scholar Thomas Bauer calls ‘constitutive of Sunnism’, namely ‘the process of making ambiguous’.¹⁷    

Through the prologue, set in 1307 in a Knights Templar Order, immediately before the violent accusations of heresy and the crackdown on that organisation unleashed by King Philip IV of France, Klossowski just about maintains narrative tension. The plot’s far-fetched, but at least there is one. Valentine de Saint-Vit, Lady of Palençay, who has lost land by feudal order to the Templars, has been tipped off about King Philip’s plans, and decides to send her gorgeous fourteen-year old nephew, Ogier de Beauséant, into the Brothers at the Commandery. She hopes they’ll fall sexually for his charms so that she’ll get the evidence of ‘heresy’ she needs to discredit the ‘soldier-monks’ and thus get her land back. The sex, coats of mail and flagellation ‘games’ that ensue are no games for the graphically abused Ogier, whose inner voice we’re denied access to: our perspective on the action is that of the entitled and pederastic men. When this narrative culminates in the ritualistic killing of Ogier, who is stripped naked and hung, and left dangling from a rope, ‘in the void’ above the costumed knights, you’re left feeling that you’ve witnessed something that you shouldn’t have. It’s like reading a well-written report on a well-directed snuff movie.

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That which Klossowski thinks justifies such a presentation only emerges slowly from the conversations between the ‘breaths’, or disembodied souls in Christian parlance, who debate one another in the novel’s main section. These breaths were, on death, ‘exhaled from the bodies that had contained them in life’, in the novel’s case from Ogier’s, and from many other bodies associated with the Templar Order, until the time when they will be ‘inhaled’ again, into new bodies, although not necessarily as new souls: with sometimes several entering a single human. Or will remain guarded for countless centuries, until ‘the Last Judgment and the Resurrection of the flesh’, which this theology states will allow them to rejoin their original bodies.¹⁸  

Here we’ve left historical time, and indeed quotidian causality, and have entered what Winter, citing Louis Massignon (1883-1962 CE), might call ‘Islamic time […] a “milky way of instants”’.¹⁹ We could also term the dimension in which Klossowski locates the heart of the novel suprahistorical rather than transhistorical: it doesn’t deny linear, historical time, and the reality of what plays out there, but nor is it subordinate to this form of revelation. Klossowski choosing this cosmic time frame is providing a novelistic answer to Nietzsche’s take on the philosophy of souls. He articulates what he wants his book to enact in a letter to Jean Decottignies, subsequently reprinted as an appendix in the English edition of The Baphomet. Typically oblique, and in the tone of a guy who has important things to say but is refusing to say them, Klossowski nonetheless let’s slip clues about his theological preoccupations:

The Baphomet (gnosis or fable, or Oriental tale), should in no way be seen as a demonstration of the substratum of truth in the semblance of doctrine that is Nietzsche’s Eternal Return, nor as a fiction constructed on this personal experience of Nietzsche. On the other hand, my book purports to take into consideration the theological consequences thereof [i.e., of the Eternal Return] (i.e., a soul’s travels through different identities), as these coincide with the metempsychosis of Carpocrates [founder of a Gnostic sect, early 2^nd century C.E.]²⁰

Nietzsche establishment scholars today have mostly little truck with associations linking the Eternal Return with metempsychosis, or reincarnation as we would call it – if we talk about it at all. You do not, however, have to sign up to believing in reincarnation to question the over-determination, in the philosophy of souls, which still obsesses about the mortality question, and particularly about moments of death. Seen Islamically, these are no more than fleeting sparks, in a supernovic infinity of instants. If the soul is, qua Nietzsche, the subject’s multiplicity, i.e., if that subject is always a plurality and never a unity, why should the notion of a single soul in a single body make more rational sense than several souls inhabiting the same? If, as Nietzsche argues in Daybreak §109, none of us possess an impartial ‘intellect’ or sovereign soul, which can govern the conflicts we experience between our drives – if, on the contrary, this intellect is no more than ‘the blind tool of a different drive, a rival to that other drive, which is tormenting us with its vehemence’²¹ – then, and hypothesising that we could have chatted live to Nietzsche over tripe in the 1880s, why should we valorise the phantasm of the unified soul we would have then experienced over the plurality of his ideas, lyrically his souls, which have taken on multiple new lives since the cessation of his physical heart on 25 August 1900?

Klossowski gets his nose into this same material, but with more humour, by smuggling Nietzsche as a character into Baphomet. We encounter him in chapter VIII when we learn that he has incarnated ‘in the guise of an anteater’²² – yes, you heard – and under the name of Frederick the Antichrist, in the circle led by the last Grand Master of the Knights Templar, Jacques de Molay (c.1240-1314 CE). Burnt at the stake in historical time after dozens of Templars had already been executed in the crushing of the order, the novel has ‘the Grand Master’ continuing to direct his knights in this in-between life, in what feels like an interminable waiting room. He has been tasked by the ‘Thrones and Dominions’, two orders or classes of angels, with guarding the souls of his murdered knights until the rightful Resurrection of the flesh at the Last Judgement; but pressures on Molay / the Master mean that his policing of this divine plan is hardly strict. One such pressure is this anteater. The Grand Master confuses the anteater Nietzsche with the aforementioned Friedrich II, and is not easily persuaded to give up his confusion: ‘What have I to do with Frederick? Hohenstaufen, no doubt? The Antichrist . . . an anteater?’²³ Knowing that Friedrich II von Hohenstaufen had been decried by the papacy as ‘the anti-Christ’ for challenging its theocratic dominion was a further reason for Nietzsche selecting this title for the last work he wrote during his sane life. The German title, Der Antichrist translates just as relevantly as The Anti-Christian, and being anti everyday modern Christians is indeed the work’s core. Nietzsche also enjoyed the title’s ambiguity, allowing him to pose as the devil incarnate.  

The devilish Nietzsche turns comical when we don’t just hear about him but first see him in Baphomet, ridden by none other than the murdered Ogier, who has disappeared for a long while, and astonishes with this stylish re-entry:

The group of guards disperse this crowd and form a barrier, while Ogier, mounted on a furry monster that he guides with a chain, slowly advances through the rows of tables; there is not a single guest that does not detain him at each step to examine as closely as possible the animal whose diminutive head and long muzzle obstinately sliding along the flagstones contrast with the enormous body and paws armed with long claws.²⁴

Klossowski’s procession triggers several associations at once. It’s hard not to think of the tragi-comic photo of Nietzsche harnessed up beside Paul Rée, to pull the cart of the whip-wielding Lou Salomé. But it’s hard to also not think that this is a Dionysian inversion of Christ’s entry into Jerusalem mounted on a donkey: both scenes contain the deliberately ridiculous; both contain the ridiculed and the humiliated shedding their humiliation and their ridicule in acts of improbable overcoming. Beyond such obvious associations, we could consider Winter’s mode of interpretation: commensurate with Klossowski’s ‘ambiguous’ conversion to Islam, Winter suggests we can decode ‘Muslimness’, as opposed to Islam explicitly, ‘as a theme in his [Klossowski’s] later writings’.²⁵ Reading the ‘furry monster’ scene this way, both Ogier, through what he has endured, and Nietzsche himself, in the form of the utterly othered anteater, are ‘the excluded’ who harbour a ‘just claim’. Again Winter returns to the polymathic and ecumenical Catholic Louis Massignon to describe Islam as the religion of that claim:

Islam is a great mystery of the divine will, the just claim [revendication] of the excluded, those exiled to the desert with their ancestor Ishmael, against the “privileged ones” of God, Jews and above all Christians who have abused the divine privileges of Grace.²⁶

It’s possible to reject wholeheartedly Massignon and Winter’s claims about what Islam is, and to refute that Klossowski’s novel has anything to do with Muslimness, and yet still remain engrossed in the philosophical material that these debates are based on. Can Nietzsche’s unpublished note about ‘the eternal return of the same’ written in the Swiss Alps in August 1881, itself enduringly ambiguous and a catalyst for all of Klossowski’s responses to Nietzsche, really be dismissed as merely a no-nonsense ‘thought experiment’? No spiritual revelation, no epiphanic moment, nothing to see here, move along please, move along? Carefully laid out on the paper, headed ‘Draft.’, and annotated with the remark ‘6000 feet above sea level and much higher above all human things! –’, the note has certainly encouraged religiously-minded readers of Nietzsche to propagate their worldviews from within Nietzsche’s own work.²⁷ According to Klossowski, the 1881 note is not a draft of an embryonic theory, but rather the description of a lived experience:²⁸

                                                 The Return of the Same.

                                                               Draft.

1. The incarnation of the foundational errors.

2. The incarnation of the passions.

3. The incarnation²⁹ of knowledge and of the knowledge that destroys. (Passion of Cognizing)

4. The innocent one. The individual as experiment. The relieving of life, humiliation, weakening – transition.

5. The new heavyweight: the eternal return of the same. Infinite importance of our knowledge, errors, of our habits, ways of life for all that will come. What shall we do with the rest of our life – we, who have spent the greatest part of the same in the most essential ignorance? We shall teach the doctrine [die Lehre] – it is the strongest means of incarnating it within ourselves. Our kind of beatitude, as teacher of the greatest teaching.

                                                                                                                                         Start of August 1881 in Sils-Maria³⁰

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III. Epilogue: Walking Pollockshields with Fatima and Ishmael

As I write this article I’m conducting an online interview with a woman in her late twenties who I’m friends with and who grew up in Pollockshields. Although she, like me, enjoys going hiking and trekking, neither of us have yet tramped the alpine paths around Sils-Maria, to follow in Nietzsche’s footsteps. Leaving behind thoughts about the Eternal Return speaking to a myriad of unfulfilled wishes, whether for pakora or for Swiss hikes, I find myself back on a video call. Again.

Fatima is an engineer working in aeronautics in the south of England, who defines herself primarily as Scottish and, as a secondary attribute, as Muslim. Nonetheless she agrees to talk to me about her faith. She speaks about her less religious dad, whose greater concern has been to work hard in routine jobs to ensure that his kids get the good school and university education they have now received. She describes her more religious mum, with whom she has talked more about questions of religious observance, like the hijab her mum had wanted her to wear when she was a teenager. When Fatima made it clear she didn’t want to, neither her mum nor any other family member insisted on this dress code. As if feeling a duty to educate me on the basics, Fatima foregrounds Islam’s ‘five pillars’, which she learnt about attending Muslim ‘Sunday school’: the profession of faith, prayer, charitable giving, fasting during Ramadan, and the once in a lifetime Hajj, or pilgrimage to Mecca. Fatima explains that she hasn’t been on the Hajj yet, but she has been on the `Umrah, or lesser pilgrimage.  

Like many other believers I speak to, theological questions are not Fatima’s big thing. From the outside, her life looks entirely secular: working hard, traveling the globe, spending time with both female and male friends, and able to play bass guitar. In this last regard, she’s unimpressed by the entreaties of the hyper-literalists. Muhammad ibn Adam al-Kawthari is a pro-caliphate cleric based in Leicester, England, who propagates a ban on both playing and listening to instruments, but this is hardly the kind of voice that Fatima is listening to.³¹ Considering such ascetic and irrationalist manifestations in Britain’s Muslim community, and experiencing Fatima as their opposite, a level-headed person who affirms life’s diversity, I ask if she can imagine anything that would make her give up her religion altogether? Pausing for an instant, she labels her childhood religious education matter-of-factly as ‘indoctrination’, and talks about how people internalise the same – that it’s nothing you can just shrug off. She doesn’t forget how Glasgow Sunnis, the grouping she belongs to, ensure that those who formally renounce their faith get the ‘right’ message: ‘you will burn forever in hell’. I don’t press Fatima on this – adults recalling the existential religious images stamped on them as children need some of this to stay private. But I get the sense that she neither believes in hellfire nor refuses to disbelieve in it entirely. Religion is bound tight to family, culture, geographical community: the things that co-define you while you become who you are. With no alternative philosophical or religious worldview on the horizon with a substance and a pull comparable to that which Islam exerts, why would individuals like Fatima risk exiling themselves from it?

Back in Glasgow in the summer, and with time to kill before my evening interview with the imam at the Dawat-E-Islami mosque on Niddrie Road, I go and wait in Queen’s Park, just to the south of Pollockshields. Under soaring church spires, groups sit on the freshly-cut grass and gear up for the weekend, drinking and smoking joints as the heat recedes. A bare-footed Glaswegian of middle-Eastern heritage is even walking around with a tamed but untethered parrot on his shoulder. I’ve never seen such a display in public. If he or his ancestors ever belonged to a ‘nay-saying religion’ he’s now saying yes to life so vigorously that you sense it could end dangerously. The North Sudanese barbers’ who I’d popped into for a trim on the way to the park were also full of patter,³² their self-professed Muslimness no barrier to treating life as a convivial and slowly-evolving party. When I get into the mosque the mood changes. Courteously, the Pakistani imam, Shafqad Mahmood, his assistant Mansoor Awais, who interprets for him when the English gets more complex, and a further elder male congregant, Haji Ahmad, have found half-an-hour or so for me at short notice, before evening prayers begin. My uneasiness is down to what I’ve read about the Dawat-E-Islami organisation in Ed Husain’s liberal Muslim critique of the current state of his religion in the UK. Translating as ‘Invitation to Islam’, the Pakistan-based group first opened mosques in the UK around 1995 and now, as the imam tells me proudly, they have three centres in the greater Glasgow area, catering for over five hundred believers weekly.³³ Husain for his part discusses the sectarian murder, in 2016, of Asad Shah, less than a mile from where we’re sitting and talking, by ‘a Dawat-e-Islami man’: albeit one from Bradford in the north of England, and not by a fellow Glaswegian.³⁴ Shah’s ‘offence’, at least in his killer’s eyes, was to be an Ahmadi, a follower of the Indian Ghulam Ahmad (1835-1908 CE) who claimed to be, concurrently, a ‘renewer of the faith’, ‘the promised messiah’, and ‘the mahdi (the rightly guided one who will appear at the end times together with the messiah)’: thus kickstarting a major new religious movement that is rejected uniformly by orthodox Muslims.³⁵ As Husain had already interviewed a previous imam at the Queen’s Park mosque about Dawat-e-Islami and the 2016 murder, and had gotten evasive answers, I restrict myself to asking about the mosque’s attitudes to Shi’a, the Ahmadiya Muslim community, and other Muslim denominations. My overly orthodox question harvests a no-frills answer: ‘the Ahmadiya are not Muslims’. Surprisingly, Haji Ahmad adds that ‘we have Shi’a who come to pray here every week. Ahmadiya could even come and pray here if they wanted. If they didn’t say anything.’

Meant generously, the message is clear: mosque leaders tolerate non-standard beliefs only to the extent they remain utterly private. This strategy for ensuing conformity fits with what my question on the mosque’s attitude ‘to homosexual Muslims or to trans people?’ evinces: ‘We don’t accept them. But we wouldn’t say anything [if they came to pray at the mosque].’ I have to think of the story Fatima told me about a lesbian Muslim friend of hers trying to come out to her mother, and the friend’s mother being unable to embrace or support this reality. Hearing the story, you think the friend’s mother must have known long before about her daughter’s relationships – and tolerated them, as long as they remained hushed up.

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No one is keeping quiet at the queer bookshop, Category is Books, just up the road from the Dawat-E-Islami mosque and religious school. Sadly I arrive outside opening hours, but the shop window is shouting out winning slogans to passers-by: ‘encourage lesbianism’, ‘better gay than grumpy’, ‘freedom of movement for all!’ and, in huge letters, the potentially game-changing ‘GET OFF THE INTERNET. DESTROY THE RIGHT WING.’ You’ll be forgiven for thinking that there is no dialogue between this shop’s community and that of the mosque. But the cause that has and will continue to generate dialogue arises when I ask the mosque’s leaders about the recipients of the organisation’s formal charitable status: ‘Over the last two years we’ve been funding aid deliveries via airplane into Gaza and the West Bank, food, water, and clothes, also looking after the orphans, no matter if the people there are Muslims, Christians or whatever.’ As the major British news platform The Canary reported recently, the group ‘No Pride in Genocide’ (Glasgow branch), ‘a broad coalition of LGBTQ+ Glaswegians’ demand of those running the city’s annual Pride march that they reject what Canary journalists call ‘companies directly profiting from Israel’s illegal occupation and ongoing genocide in Palestine.’³⁶ If these concerns seem worlds removed from Nietzsche’s philosophical and Klossowski’s artistic hunches regarding Islam, we should turn to Judith Butler, surely the most widely-read philosopher of queerness of their generation,  to see connections from them back to philosophy. Fighting back against Donald Trump’s Executive Order 14168 from January 2025, whose title makes its targets clear – ‘Defending Women from Gender Ideology Extremism and Restoring Biological Truth to the Federal Government’ – Butler joins up the dots on the common cause that trans people, Muslims, and other people of migrant heritage can find and are finding, in today’s polarised societies. Moreover, they [Butler] hone in on that group of trans people most vilified by the far Right: ‘people assigned male at birth who seek to transition [to a female or other gender identity]’.³⁷ They point out that ‘presumption[s]’ about such men held by an increased number in society are unevidenced, and that the great majority of such men transition because ‘they hope for a more livable life’. Topping this, Butler argues that there is no philosophical justification for taking the ‘few recorded instances’ in which men have transitioned to ‘seek entry into women’s spaces in order, it is presumed, to harm the women there’ as a general ‘model for transition’. Extrapolating from here, and writing in the ‘first-person we’, Butler concludes:

We do not point to the nefarious actions of particular Jews or Muslims and conclude that all Jews or Muslims act in that way. No, we refuse to generalise on that basis, and we suspect that those who do so generalise are using the particular examples to ratify and amplify a form of hatred they already feel.³⁸

Was Nietzsche being nefarious and intending harm by calling Islam ‘a yea-saying Semitic religion, spawned by the ruling classes’, then cementing this prejudice in favour of Islam over both Christianity and Judaism in print? – ‘Either one is a Chandala or one isn’t.’ If so, the remedy for such damage could be found in his more circumspect, more moderate and more ambiguously artistic successors. Whether you’ll find such successors on the streets of Glasgow’s Southside or in great artists, and latter-day Muslims, like Pierre Klossowski, will depend on the kind of cultural or religious home you’re looking for.

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All pictures are photographs taken by the author. The title image shows a stone-mason’s yard on the edge of Pollockshields, offering bilingual gravestones for the district’s Muslim residents.

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Bibliography

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Almond, Ian: ‘Nietzsche’s Peace with Islam: My Enemy’s Enemy is my Friend’, German Life and Letters 56, no. 1 (2003), 43-55.

Balthus (Count Balthazar Klossowski de Rola Balthus): Balthus in his Own Words: A Conversation with Cristina Carrillo de Albornoz. Assouline: 2002.

Balzani, Marzia, Ahmadiyya Islam and the Muslim Diaspora: Living at the End of Days. Routledge: 2020.

Barber, Malcolm: The New Knighthood: A History of the Order of the Temple. Cambridge University Press: 1994.

Bauer, Thomas: A Culture of Ambiguity: An Alternative History of Islam. Translated by Hinrich Biesterfeldt and Tricia Tunstall. Columbia University Press: 2021.

Butler, Judith: ‘This is Wrong: Judith Butler on Executive Order 14168’, London Review of Books, 3 April 2025, https://www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v47/n06/judith-butler/this-is-wrong, unnumbered.

Canary Journalists, The: ‘Glasgow Pride was just exposed as being complicit in Israel’s genocide’ in The Canary, 20 July 2025, unpaginated, https://www.thecanary.co/uk/news/2025/07/20/glasgow-pride-2025/.

Editors, various: Dictionaries of the Scots Language Online: 2025.  

Groff, Peter: ‘Nietzsche and Islam’ [review of Nietzsche and Islam, by Roy Jackson], Philosophy East & West Volume 60, Number 3, July 2010, 430-437.

Husain, Ed: Among the Mosques: A Journey Around Muslim Britain. Bloomsbury: 2021.

Jackson, Roy: Nietzsche and Islam. Routledge: 2007.

Klossowski, Pierre: The Baphomet, translated by Sophie Hawkes and Stephen Sartarelli, with introductions by Juan Garcia Ponce and Michel Foucault. Eridanos Press: 1988.

Krokus, Christian: The Theology of Louis Massignon: Islam, Christ and the Church. Catholic University of America Press: 2017.

Newcomb, Tim (Translator and Editor of): Friedrich Nietzsche, Anti-Christian: The Curse of Christianity. Livraria Press: 2024.

Orsucci, Andrea. Orient-Okzident: Nietzsches Versuch einer Loslösung vom europäischen Weltbild. De Gruyter: 2011.

Smith Daniel: ‘Translator’s Preface’ in Pierre Klossowski, Nietzsche and the Vicious Circle, translated by Daniel Smith. University of Chicago Press: 1997, vii-xiii.

Sommer, Andreas Urs Sommer, Kommentar zu Nietzsches Der Antichrist, Ecce homo, Dionysos-Dithyramben, Nietzsche contra Wagner. De Gruyter: 2013.

Winter, Timothy: ‘Klossowski’s Reading of Nietzsche From an Islamic Viewpoint’, [Unpublished manuscript, shared by Winter with Henry Holland in October 2025, with a text similar but not identical to Winter’s lecture recorded for YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wC8YJfyOkOY], (2025).

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Footnotes

1: Wellhausen, Reste arabischen Heidentums (1887), cited from Andreas Urs Sommer, Kommentar zu Nietzsches Der Antichrist, Ecce homo, Dionysos-Dithyramben, Nietzsche contra Wagner, 294-295. Sommer confirms Nietzsche was reading this work by Wellhausen in this period; see Sommer’s ‘Personenregister’, ibid., 920, for comprehensive references on Nietzsche’s reading of Wellhausen. Most translators continue to the follow the translation tradition established by Walter Kaufmann and others, and title their English works The Antichrist. Yet Tim Newcomb, author of one of the few translations to opt for The Anti-Christian as its title, is right to point out that Nietzsche’s primary target was Christians of his own age. Because ‘ein Christ’ translates as ‘a Christian’, deciding for the alternative title of The Anti-Christian is legitimate. Cf. Tim Newcomb, ‘Afterword’ in Friedrich Nietzsche, Anti-Christian: The Curse of Christianity.

2: Sommer, Kommentar zu Nietzsches Der Antichrist, 110.

3: All references to Manu / the Law Book of Manu in Nietzsche’s work, and to the related concept of Chandala, date to 1888. A letter to Heinrich Köselitz on 31 May 1888 (link) suggests he has just discovered this work: ‘I thank these last weeks for an essential lesson: I found the Legal Code of Manu in a French translation [presumably Louis Jacolliot’s], which was made in India under the precise control of the highest-ranked priests and scholars. This [is an] absolutely Aryan product, a priestly codex of morality on the foundation of the Vedas, the notion of castes, and ancient ancestry’. (Emphasis in the original.) This and the other translations from Nietzsche’s writings in this essay are the author’s own. For more on orientalist texts read by Nietzsche, cf. Ian Almond, ‘Nietzsche's Peace with Islam’, 43; and indeed for sufficient context, the whole text of: Andrea Orsucci, Orient-Okzident: Nietzsches Versuch einer Loslösung vom europaischen Weltbild.  

4: Sommer, Kommentar zu Nietzsches Der Antichrist, 9 and 265.

5: Nachgelassene Fragmente 1888 14[95].

6: As Andreas Urs Sommer demonstrates, Nietzsche only inserted this cheap, anti-Semitic jibe into the final draft of this text: Sommer suggests this is Nietzsche playing to popular anti-Semitic sentiments among his potential readers. Cf. Sommer, Kommentar zu Nietzsches Der Antichrist, 298.

7: The Anti-Christian, § 60. There has been much recent scholarship on Friedrich II’s fondness for and proximity to Islam. On Nietzsche’s sources for the same subject, see Sommer, Kommentar zu Nietzsches Der Antichrist, 298-299, which also highlights the role played by August Müller’s writings on Friedrich II in Nietzsche’s reading. Müller recounts ‘as common knowledge […] how he [Friedrich II] took the most lively interest in the Arabs’ language and literature, pursued logic with his Muslim court philosophers, and even became half or even a whole heathen [i.e., a Muslim] himself, thus scandalising all pious people’. (Cited from Sommer, Kommentar zu Nietzsches Der Antichrist, 298.)

8: The Anti-Christian, § 27.

9: Summary of the position argued by Jackson as given by: Peter Groff, ‘Nietzsche and Islam’, 431.

10: Roy Jackson, Nietzsche and Islam, e-book-location: chapter 1, location 7.51.

11: Groff, 435. Groff considers The Joyous Science, §346 as one of Nietzsche’s clearest statements about ‘going beyond atheism’. Here Nietzsche writes: ‘If we wanted simply to name ourselves with an older expression like godless or unbelievers or even immoralists, we would still believe ourselves to be far from described by such epithets’.

12: Groff, 430.

13: Cf. ibid. 431; and Jackson, Nietzsche, chapter 2, 8.46-8.50.

14: Beyond Good and Evil, § 12.

15: Summary of Jackson’s argument given in Groff, ‘Nietzsche and Islam’, 432.

16: For a well-researched historical summary of such viewpoints, see Malcom Barber, The New Knighthood, 321. For an Islamophile account of the same history that is open to conspiracist thinking, see  HRH Prince Michael of Albany and Walid Amine Salhab, The Knights Templar of the Middle East: The Hidden History of the Islamic Origins of Freemasonry, x-xi and 22-23.

17: Thomas Bauer, A Culture of Ambiguity: An Alternative History of Islam, 11, cited from Timothy Winter’s unpublished manuscript ‘Klossowski’s reading of Nietzsche from an Islamic viewpoint’, 1, which Winter generously shared with me in October 2025. I thank Winter heartily for his colleaguiality in sharing this book in progress with me at this stage. The text of Winter’s manuscript is mostly identical to his aforementioned YouTube lecture, but includes some minor changes.

18: Klossowski, The Baphomet, xv.

19: Winter, unpublished manuscript ‘Klossowski’s reading of Nietzsche from an Islamic viewpoint’, 8.

20: Pierre Klossowski, ‘Notes and Explanations’ in The Baphomet, 166-167.

21: Daybreak, § 109.

22: Italics my own. Klossowski, Baphomet, 111.

23: Ibid., 112.

24: Ibid., 125.

25: Winter, ‘Klossowski’s reading’, 10. Klossowski’s conversion is ambiguous in the sense that is recorded in a single, terse passage by his younger brother, Balthus: ‘My brother, Pierre, became a Dominican monk when he was young. Then, a lot later, he converted to Islam.’ Cited in: Balthus (Count Balthazar Klossowski de Rola Balthus), Balthus in his Own Words, 11. There is no reason to question Balthus’s account just because it’s terse: we could instead conclude that Klossowski’s Muslimness was a mostly private affair. Relevantly, this is not the only conversion in Klossowski’s life that Balthus describes: ‘[Adam-Maxwell Reweski] left my brother and me a sum of money that we could use for our education if we became Catholics. And we did convert to Catholicism, whereas my father was a Protestant.’ Ibid., 5.

26: Christian Krokus, The Theology of Louis Massignon, 175; cited in Winter, ‘Klossowski’s Reading of Nietzsche’, 11.

27: Nachgelassene Fragmente 1881 11[141].

28: See for example, the paper ‘entitled “Forgetting and Anamnesis in the Lived Experience of the Eternal Return of the Same”, which Klossowski presented at the famous Royaumont conference on Nietzsche in July 1964’, as described in Daniel Smith, ‘Translator’s Preface’, viii.

29: While the noun Einverleibung used in points 1 to 3 of this note could also be translated as ‘embodiment’ or even, more weakly and figuratively, as ‘incorporation’, disputing ‘incarnation’ as one valid translation makes no etymological sense. ‘Incarnation’ derives the from Late Latin incarnationem (nominative incarnatio), ‘act of being made flesh’ or entering into a body, while ‘embodiment’ in English also refers back primarily to the ‘embodiment of God in the person of Christ’, i.e., to the Old French incarnacion ‘the Incarnation’ (12^th century C.E.). ‘Einverleibung’ in German carries strong Christian connotations, of which Nietzsche was evidently aware, just as ‘incarnation’ does in English.

30: Nachgelassene Fragmente 1881 11[141].

31: Aw-Kawthari cited from Ed Husain, Among the Mosques, chapter 1.

32: Scottish English, patter: ‘A person’s line in conversation. This can mean ordinary chatting, as in “Sit doon an gie’s aw yer patter”; it can also mean talk intended to amuse or impress, as in “He’s got some patter that pal a yours”’. Cited from the Dictionaries of the Scots Language, https://www.dsl.ac.uk/entry/snd/sndns2837.

33: Dawat-e-Islami is estimated to own and run around forty properties in the UK as a whole.

34: For details of Shah’s murder and the theological role played by Dawat-e-Islami in it, see: Ed Husain, Among the Mosques, in the Glasgow section of chapter 8, ‘Edinburgh and Glasgow’.

35: Marzia Balzani, Ahmadiyya Islam and the Muslim Diaspora, 2.

36: The Canary Journalists, ‘Glasgow Pride was just exposed as being complicit in Israel’s genocide’ 20 July 2025, unpaginated.

37: Judith Butler, ‘This is Wrong: Judith Butler on Executive Order 14168’, unnumbered.

38:This and the previous citations taken from Butler, ibid., unnumbered.