No Pain, No Gain? Nietzsche, Freud, and the Alchemy of Suffering

Winter Field with Crows – In the Style of C. D. Friedrich (AI Art)

  

Introduction

Can suffering teach us anything? If it could, wouldn’t the world be filled with wise men? A phrase widely attributed to Sigmund Freud puts it starkly: “If suffering really taught lessons, the world would be populated only by wise people. Pain has nothing to teach those who do not find the courage and the strength to listen to it.” While the authenticity of this quote remains uncertain, its sentiment resonates powerfully with another provocative image from Friedrich Nietzsche: “Does wisdom perhaps appear on earth after the manner of a crow attracted by a slight smell of carrion?” (Nietzsche, 2005, p. 9).

Both expressions pose a challenge to our understanding of suffering and insight. They imply that distress alone does not enlighten—that something more is required. Nietzsche and Freud, each in his own way, suggest that only those who face darkness with fortitude can extract meaning from it. This article explores how these two thinkers converge on the idea that wisdom is not given freely by pain but must be earned by confronting it—be it through philosophical courage or psychoanalytic reckoning. Drawing on Twilight of the Idols, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, The Birth of Tragedy, and foundational psychoanalytic concepts, we will examine how suffering, when actively engaged, becomes a crucible of transformation.

Nietzsche’s Raven and the Decay of Philosophy

In Twilight of the Idols, Nietzsche opens “The Problem of Socrates” by noting a troubling consensus among philosophers: across history, many of the so-called wise have deemed life worthless. Even Socrates, with his dying breath—“I owe a rooster to Asclepius”—seemed to suggest that life was a disease for which death was the cure. Traditionally, this view—that life is an affliction and death a release—was taken as a sign of wisdom. Nietzsche, however, offers a counter-diagnosis: “There must be some sickness here” (Nietzsche, 2005, p. 8). In his view, such pessimism reveals less about life itself and more about the declining vitality of those who pass judgment on it.

This suspicion crystallizes in Nietzsche’s caustic metaphor: “Does wisdom perhaps appear on earth after the manner of a crow attracted by a slight smell of carrion?” (p. 9). The implication is unsettling: perhaps what we often call wisdom is not the fruit of clarity or truth, but the product of decay, drawn instinctively to rot. Far from being noble, such philosophy may be a sign of cultural and physiological degeneration. Nietzsche suspects that these sages were not bearers of insight, but exemplars of life in retreat—responding to suffering with negation rather than affirmation.

Moreover, Nietzsche’s invocation of smell in Ecce Homo—his “genius in the nostrils” (Nietzsche, 1992, p. 229)—adds a layer of diagnostic instinct to his critique:

“... I was the first to discover the truth because I was the first to see – to smell – lies for what they are ... My genius is in my nostrils ...”

To smell decay is to detect what polite reason fails to acknowledge: that not all wisdom is born of health. Some philosophies, he suggests, are elaborate disguises for decline.

The Dionysian Gamble: Facing Darkness with Surplus Life

Nietzsche’s critique of traditional wisdom culminates in a radical alternative: the idea that true strength is not the avoidance of suffering, but the capacity to face it without collapse. This notion permeates Thus Spoke Zarathustra, where Zarathustra, after years of solitude, descends from his mountain to offer a new teaching to a culture in decline. He does not flee its decay, but enters it willingly, prepared to transmute dysfunction into nourishment. Like the raven, Zarathustra seeks sustenance in what others deem revolting—but he does so not out of morbidity, but from a surplus of vitality.

This gamble echoes a theme from The Birth of Tragedy, especially in the prologue written years later, where Nietzsche asks whether Greek tragedy arose not from despair, but from “overflowing health and Dionysian exuberance” (Nietzsche, 1993, p. 21). Conversely, he wonders if the modern obsession with cheerfulness and rational clarity might signify exhaustion. In both cases, Nietzsche collapses the binary between optimism and strength: sometimes only the most vibrant cultures dare to stare into the abyss.

Zarathustra’s descent is not a fall but an act of defiant affirmation. He does not deny decay; he transforms it. Nietzsche’s model of wisdom does not hide from life’s grotesque underbelly—it confronts it, digests it, and grows stronger from it. This is what separates Dionysian insight from the pessimism of the dying sage.

Freud and the Strength to Listen

This Nietzschean vision finds a curious echo in Freud’s psychoanalytic project. The attributed quote—“Pain has nothing to teach those who do not find the courage and the strength to listen to it”—mirrors the idea that suffering, by itself, enlightens no one. In Freud’s theory, the unconscious harbors repressed memories, traumas, and desires that remain inaccessible unless they are consciously confronted. The psychoanalytic process requires the patient to turn inward and face that which they have buried. Without courage, the suffering remains mute; with it, it may begin to speak.

In Civilization and Its Discontents, Freud (1961) acknowledges that repression is the price we pay for social order. Yet this repression is never complete—it festers, manifests as neuroses, and returns in disguised forms. Healing involves bringing repressed material to awareness—a painful but necessary encounter. Like Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, the analyst (and the analysand) must enter into the very territory most would avoid.

This act of listening to pain is not passive. It demands attention, strength, and a willingness to withstand inner conflict. Freud’s therapeutic vision, though scientific in method, shares Nietzsche’s existential demand: that truth requires exposure to darkness, and that such exposure is only bearable for those who possess or cultivate the strength to endure it.

Conclusion

Nietzsche and Freud, though different in their methods and vocabularies, converge on a crucial insight: suffering is not inherently illuminating. It is a medium through which wisdom might emerge—but only for those prepared to confront it fully. Nietzsche’s raven, circling over carrion, is not a morbid emblem, but a symbol of a vitality strong enough to find sustenance in decay. Freud’s listening patient, guided by an attentive analyst, must also plunge into the depths of the psyche to transform pain into insight.

Neither thinker glorifies suffering; both insist that what matters is how we meet it. Wisdom, in their shared vision, is not a passive inheritance from experience, but an achievement wrested from the darkest materials of life.

References

Freud, S. (1961). Civilization and its discontents (J. Strachey, Trans.). W. W. Norton & Company. (Original work published 1930)

Nietzsche, F. (1992). Ecce homo (W. Kaufmann, Trans.). Vintage. (Original work published 1908)

Nietzsche, F. (1993). The birth of tragedy and other writings (R. Geuss & R. Speirs, Eds. & Trans.). Cambridge University Press. (Original work published 1872)

Nietzsche, F. (1999). Thus spoke Zarathustra (R. J. Hollingdale, Trans.). Penguin Books. (Original work published 1883)

Nietzsche, F. (2005). Twilight of the idols (R. J. Hollingdale, Trans.). Penguin Books. (Original work published 1889)