ESSAYS OF SCHOPENHAUER:

TRANSLATED BY MRS. RUDOLF DIRCKS. 

WITH AN INTRODUCTION. 

CONTENTS

ON AUTHORSHIP AND STYLEON NOISEON EDUCATIONON READING AND BOOKSTHE EMPTINESS OF EXISTENCEON WOMENTHINKING FOR ONESELFSHORT DIALOGUE ON THE INDESTRUCTIBILITY OF OUR TRUE BEING BY DEATHRELIGION--A DIALOGUEPSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONSMETAPHYSICS OF LOVEPHYSIOGNOMYON SUICIDE

PRELIMINARY. 

When Schopenhauer was asked where he wished to be buried, he answered, "Anywhere; they will find me;" and the stone that marks his grave atFrankfort bears merely the inscription "Arthur Schopenhauer, " withouteven the date of his birth or death. Schopenhauer, the pessimist, had asufficiently optimistic conviction that his message to the world wouldultimately be listened to--a conviction that never failed him during alifetime of disappointments, of neglect in quarters where perhaps hewould have most cherished appreciation; a conviction that only showedsome signs of being justified a few years before his death. Schopenhauerwas no opportunist; he was not even conciliatory; he never hesitated todeclare his own faith in himself, in his principles, in his philosophy;he did not ask to be listened to as a matter of courtesy but as aright--a right for which he would struggle, for which he fought, andwhich has in the course of time, it may be admitted, been conceded tohim. 

Although everything that Schopenhauer wrote was written more or less asevidence to support his main philosophical thesis, his unifyingphilosophical principle, the essays in this volume have an interest, ifnot altogether apart, at least of a sufficiently independent interest toenable them to be considered on their own merits, without relation tohis main idea. And in dissociating them, if one may do so for a moment(their author would have scarcely permitted it!), one feels that oneenters a field of criticism in which opinions can scarcely vary. So faras his philosophy is concerned, this unanimity does not exist; he is oneof the best abused amongst philosophers; he has many times beenexplained and condemned exhaustively, and no doubt this will be as manytimes repeated. What the trend of his underlying philosophical principalwas, his metaphysical explanation of the world, is indicated in almostall the following essays, but chiefly in the "Metaphysics of Love, " towhich the reader may be referred. 

These essays are a valuable criticism of life by a man who had a wideexperience of life, a man of the world, who possessed an almost inspiredfaculty of observation. Schopenhauer, of all men, unmistakably observedlife at first hand. There is no academic echo in his utterances; he isnot one of a school; his voice has no formal intonation; it is deep, full-chested, and rings out its words with all the poignancy ofindividual emphasis, without bluster, but with unfailing conviction. Hewas for his time, and for his country, an adept at literary form; but heused it only as a means. Complicated as his sentences occasionally are, he says many sharp, many brilliant, many epigrammatic things, he has themanner of the famous essayists, he is paradoxical (how many of hisparadoxes are now truisms!); one fancies at times that one is almostlistening to a creation of Moli�re, but these fireworks are not merely aliterary display, they are used to illumine what he considers to be thetruth. _Rien n'est beau que le vrai; le vrai seul est aimable_, hequotes; he was a deliberate and diligent searcher after truth, alwaysstriving to attain the heart of things, to arrive at a knowledge offirst principles. It is, too, not without a sort of grim humour thatthis psychological vivisectionist attempts to lay bare the skeleton ofthe human mind, to tear away all the charming little sentiments andhypocrisies which in the course of time become a part and parcel ofhuman life. A man influenced by such motives, and possessing a frank andcaustic tongue, was not likely to attain any very large share of popularfavour or to be esteemed a companionable sort of person. The fabric ofsocial life is interwoven with a multitude of delicate evasions, ofsmall hypocrisies, of matters of tinsel sentiment; social intercoursewould be impossible, if it were not so. There is no sort of socialexistence possible for a person who is ingenuous enough to say alwayswhat he thinks, and, on the whole, one may be thankful that there isnot. One naturally enough objects to form the subject of a criticaldiagnosis and exposure; one chooses for one's friends the agreeablehypocrites of life who sustain for one the illusions in which one wishesto live. The mere conception of a plain-speaking world is calculated toreduce one to the last degree of despair; it is the conception of theintolerable. Nevertheless it is good for mankind now and again to have aplain speaker, a "mar feast, " on the scene; a wizard who devises for usa spectacle of disillusionment, and lets us for a moment see things ashe honestly conceives them to be, and not as we would have them to be. But in estimating the value of a lesson of this sort, we must not becarried too far, not be altogether convinced. We may first take intoaccount the temperament of the teacher; we may ask, is his visionperfect? We may indulge in a trifling diagnosis on our own account. Andin an examination of this sort we find that Schopenhauer stands the testpretty well, if not with complete success. It strikes us that he suffersperhaps a little from a hereditary taint, for we know that there is anunmistakable predisposition to hypochondria in his family; we know, forinstance, that his paternal grandmother became practically insanetowards the end of her life, that two of her children suffered from somesort of mental incapacity, and that a third, Schopenhauer's father, wasa man of curious temper and that he probably ended his own life. Hehimself would also have attached some importance, in a consideration ofthis sort, to the fact, as he might have put it, that his mother, whenshe married, acted in the interests of the individual instead ofunconsciously fulfilling the will of the species, and that the offspringof the union suffered in consequence. Still, taking all these thingsinto account, and attaching to them what importance they may be worth, one is amazed at the clearness of his vision, by his vigorous and atmoments subtle perception. If he did not see life whole, what he did seehe saw with his own eyes, and then told us all about it withunmistakable veracity, and for the most part simply, brilliantly. Toomuch importance cannot be attached to this quality of seeing things foroneself; it is the stamp of a great and original mind; it is theprincipal quality of what one calls genius. 

In possessing Schopenhauer the world possesses a personality the richer;a somewhat garrulous personality it may be; a curiously whimsical andsensitive personality, full of quite ordinary superstitions, ofextravagant vanities, selfish, at times violent, rarely generous; a manwhom during his lifetime nobody quite knew, an isolated creature, self-absorbed, solely concerned in his elaboration of the explanation ofthe world, and possessing subtleties which for the most part escaped theperception of his fellows; at once a hermit and a boulevardier. His wasessentially a great temperament; his whole life was a life of ideas, anintellectual life. And his work, the fruit of his life, would seem to bestanding the test of all great work--the test of time. It is not alittle curious that one so little realised in his own day, one so littlelovable and so little loved, should now speak to us from his pages withsomething of the force of personal utterance, as if he were actuallywith us and as if we knew him, even as we know Charles Lamb and IzaakWalton, personalities of such a different calibre. And this man whom werealise does not impress us unfavourably; if he is without charm, he issurely immensely interesting and attractive; he is so strong in hisintellectual convictions, he is so free from intellectual affectations, he is such an ingenuous egotist, so na�vely human; he is so mercilesslyhonest and independent, and, at times (one may be permitted to think), so mistaken. 

R. D. 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE. 

Arthur Schopenhauer was born at No. 117 of the Heiligengeist Strasse, atDantzic, on February 22, 1788. His parents on both sides traced theirdescent from Dutch ancestry, the great-grandfather of his mother havingoccupied some ecclesiastical position at Gorcum. Dr. Gwinner in his_Life_ does not follow the Dutch ancestry on the father's side, butmerely states that the great-grandfather of Schopenhauer at thebeginning of the eighteenth century rented a farm, the Stuthof, in theneighbourhood of Dantzic. This ancestor, Andreas Schopenhauer, receivedhere on one occasion an unexpected visit from Peter the Great andCatherine, and it is related that there being no stove in the chamberwhich the royal pair selected for the night, their host, for the purposeof heating it, set fire to several small bottles of brandy which hadbeen emptied on the stone floor. His son Andreas followed in thefootsteps of his father, combining a commercial career with countrypursuits. He died in 1794 at Ohra, where he had purchased an estate, andto which he had retired to spend his closing years. His wife (thegrandmother of Arthur) survived him for some years, although shortlyafter his death she was declared insane and incapable of managing heraffairs. This couple had four sons: the eldest, Michael Andreas, wasweak-minded; the second, Karl Gottfried, was also mentally weak and haddeserted his people for evil companions; the youngest son, HeinrichFloris, possessed, however, in a considerable degree the qualities whichhis brothers lacked. He possessed intelligence, a strong character, andhad great commercial sagacity; at the same time, he took a definiteinterest in intellectual pursuits, reading Voltaire, of whom he was moreor less a disciple, and other French authors, possessing a keenadmiration for English political and family life, and furnishing hishouse after an English fashion. He was a man of fiery temperament andhis appearance was scarcely prepossessing; he was short and stout; hehad a broad face and turned-up nose, and a large mouth. This was thefather of our philosopher. 

When he was thirty-eight, Heinrich Schopenhauer married, on May 16, 1785, Johanna Henriette Trosiener, a young lady of eighteen, anddaughter of a member of the City Council of Dantzic. She was at thistime an attractive, cultivated young person, of a placid disposition, who seems to have married more because marriage offered her acomfortable settlement and assured position in life, than from anypassionate affection for her wooer, which, it is just to her to say, shedid not profess. Heinrich Schopenhauer was so much influenced by Englishideas that he desired that his first child should be born in England;and thither, some two years after their marriage, the pair, after makinga _d�tour_ on the Continent, arrived. But after spending some weeks inLondon Mrs. Schopenhauer was seized with home-sickness, and her husbandacceded to her entreaties to return to Dantzic, where a child, thefuture philosopher, was shortly afterwards born. The first five years ofthe child's life were spent in the country, partly at the Stuthof whichhad formerly belonged to Andreas Schopenhauer, but had recently comeinto the possession of his maternal grandfather. 

Five years after the birth of his son, Heinrich Schopenhauer, inconsequence of the political crisis, which he seems to have taken keenlyto heart, in the affairs of the Hanseatic town of Dantzic, transferredhis business and his home to Hamburg, where in 1795 a second child, Adele, was born. Two years later, Heinrich, who intended to train hisson for a business life, took him, with this idea, to Havre, by way ofParis, where they spent a little time, and left him there with M. Gr�goire, a commercial connection. Arthur remained at Havre for twoyears, receiving private instruction with this man's son Anthime, withwhom he struck up a strong friendship, and when he returned to Hamburgit was found that he remembered but few words of his mother-tongue. Herehe was placed in one of the principal private schools, where he remainedfor three years. Both his parents, but especially his mother, cultivatedat this time the society of literary people, and entertained at theirhouse Klopstock and other notable persons. In the summer following hisreturn home from Havre he accompanied his parents on a continental tour, stopping amongst other places at Weimar, where he saw Schiller. Hismother, too, had considerable literary tastes, and a distinct literarygift which, later, she cultivated to some advantage, and which broughther in the production of accounts of travel and fiction a notinconsiderable reputation. It is, therefore, not surprising thatliterary tendencies began to show themselves in her son, accompanied bya growing distaste for the career of commerce which his father wishedhim to follow. Heinrich Schopenhauer, although deprecating thesetendencies, considered the question of purchasing a canonry for his son, but ultimately gave up the idea on the score of expense. He thenproposed to take him on an extended trip to France, where he might meethis young friend Anthime, and then to England, if he would give up theidea of a literary calling, and the proposal was accepted. 

In the spring of 1803, then, he accompanied his parents to London, where, after spending some time in sight-seeing, he was placed in theschool of Mr. Lancaster at Wimbledon. Here he remained for three months, from July to September, laying the foundation of his knowledge of theEnglish language, while his parents proceeded to Scotland. Englishformality, and what he conceived to be English hypocrisy, did notcontrast favourably with his earlier and gayer experiences in France, and made an extremely unfavourable impression upon his mind; which foundexpression in letters to his friends and to his mother. 

On returning to Hamburg after this extended excursion abroad, Schopenhauer was placed in the office of a Hamburg senator calledJenisch, but he was as little inclined as ever to follow a commercialcareer, and secretly shirked his work so that he might pursue hisstudies. A little later a somewhat unexplainable calamity occurred. WhenDantzic ceased to be a free city, and Heinrich Schopenhauer at aconsiderable cost and monetary sacrifice transferred his business toHamburg, the event caused him much bitterness of spirit. At Hamburg hisbusiness seems to have undergone fluctuations. Whether these furtheraffected his spirit is not sufficiently established, but it is certain, however, that he developed peculiarities of manner, and that his temperbecame more violent. At any rate, one day in April 1805 it was foundthat he had either fallen or thrown himself into the canal from an upperstorey of a granary; it was generally concluded that it was a case ofsuicide. 

Schopenhauer was seventeen at the time of this catastrophe, by which hewas naturally greatly affected. Although by the death of his father theinfluence which impelled him to a commercial career was removed, hisveneration for the dead man remained with him through life, and on oneoccasion found expression in a curious tribute to his memory in adedication (which was not, however, printed) to the second edition of_Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung. _ "That I could make use of andcultivate in a right direction the powers which nature gave me, " heconcludes, "that I could follow my natural impulse and think and workfor countless others without the help of any one; for that I thank thee, my father, thank thy activity, thy cleverness, thy thrift and care forthe future. Therefore I praise thee, my noble father. And every one whofrom my work derives any pleasure, consolation, or instruction shallhear thy name and know that if Heinrich Floris Schopenhauer had not beenthe man he was, Arthur Schopenhauer would have been a hundred timesruined. "

The year succeeding her husband's death, Johanna Schopenhauer removedwith her daughter to Weimar, after having attended to the settlement ofher husband's affairs, which left her in possession of a considerableincome. At Weimar she devoted herself to the pursuit of literature, andheld twice a week a sort of salon, which was attended by Goethe, the twoSchlegels, Wieland, Heinrich Meyer, Grimm, and other literary persons ofnote. Her son meanwhile continued for another year at the "dead timberof the desk, " when his mother, acting under the advice of her friendFernow, consented, to his great joy, to his following his literary bent. 

During the next few years we find Schopenhauer devoting himselfassiduously to acquiring the equipment for a learned career; at first atthe Gymnasium at Gotha, where he penned some satirical verses on one ofthe masters, which brought him into some trouble. He removed inconsequence to Weimar, where he pursued his classical studies under thedirection of Franz Passow, at whose house he lodged. Unhappily, duringhis sojourn at Weimar his relations with his mother became strained. Onefeels that there is a sort of autobiographical interest in his essay onwomen, that his view was largely influenced by his relations with hismother, just as one feels that his particular argument in his essay oneducation is largely influenced by the course of his own training. 

On his coming of age Schopenhauer was entitled to a share of thepaternal estate, a share which yielded him a yearly income of about�150. He now entered himself at the University of G�ttingen (October1809), enrolling himself as a student of medicine, and devoting himselfto the study of the natural sciences, mineralogy, anatomy, mathematics, and history; later, he included logic, physiology, and ethnography. Hehad always been passionately devoted to music and found relaxation inlearning to play the flute and guitar. His studies at this time did notpreoccupy him to the extent of isolation; he mixed freely with hisfellows, and reckoned amongst his friends or acquaintances, F. W. Kreise, Bunsen, and Ernst Schulze. During one vacation he went on an expeditionto Cassel and to the Hartz Mountains. It was about this time, and partlyowing to the influence of Schulze, the author of _Aenesidemus_, and thena professor at the University of G�ttingen, that Schopenhauer came torealise his vocation as that of a philosopher. 

During his holiday at Weimar he called upon Wieland, then seventy-eightyears old, who, probably prompted by Mrs. Schopenhauer, tried todissuade him from the vocation which he had chosen. Schopenhauer inreply said, "Life is a difficult question; I have decided to spend mylife in thinking about it. " Then, after the conversation had continuedfor some little time, Wieland declared warmly that he thought that hehad chosen rightly. "I understand your nature, " he said; "keep tophilosophy. " And, later, he told Johanna Schopenhauer that he thoughther son would be a great man some day. 

Towards the close of the summer of 1811 Schopenhauer removed to Berlinand entered the University. He here continued his study of the naturalsciences; he also attended the lectures on the History of Philosophy bySchleiermacher, and on Greek Literature and Antiquities by F. A. Wolf, and the lectures on "Facts of Consciousness" and "Theory of Science" byFichte, for the last of whom, as we know indeed from frequent referencesin his books, he had no little contempt. A year or so later, when thenews of Napoleon's disaster in Russia arrived, the Germans were throwninto a state of great excitement, and made speedy preparations for war. Schopenhauer contributed towards equipping volunteers for the army, buthe did not enter active service; indeed, when the result of the battleof L�tzen was known and Berlin seemed to be in danger, he fled forsafety to Dresden and thence to Weimar. A little later we find him atRudolstadt, whither he had proceeded in consequence of the recurrence ofdifferences with his mother, and remained there from June to November1813, principally engaged in the composition of an essay, "APhilosophical Treatise on the Fourfold Root of the Principle ofSufficient Reason, " which he offered to the University of Jena as anexercise to qualify for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, and forwhich a diploma was granted. He published this essay at his own costtowards the end of the year, but it seems to have fallen flatly from thepress, although its arguments attracted the attention and the sympathyof Goethe, who, meeting him on his return to Weimar in November, discussed with him his own theory of colour. A couple of years before, Goethe, who was opposed to the Newtonian theory of light, had broughtout his _Farbenlehre_ (colour theory). In Goethe's diary Schopenhauer'sname frequently occurs, and on the 24th November 1813 he wrote toKnebel: "Young Schopenhauer is a remarkable and interesting man. . . . Ifind him intellectual, but I am undecided about him as far as otherthings go. " The result of this association with Goethe was his _Ueberdas Sehn und die Farben_ ("On Vision and Colour"), published at Leipzigin 1816, a copy of which he forwarded to Goethe (who had already seenthe MS. ) on the 4th May of that year. A few days later Goethe wrote tothe distinguished scientist, Dr. Seebeck, asking him to read the work. In Gwinner's _Life_ we find the copy of a letter written in English toSir C. L. Eastlake: "In the year 1830, as I was going to publish in Latinthe same treatise which in German accompanies this letter, I went to Dr. Seebeck of the Berlin Academy, who is universally admitted to be thefirst natural philosopher (in the English sense of the word meaningphysiker) of Germany; he is the discoverer of thermo-electricity and ofseveral physical truths. I questioned him on his opinion on thecontroversy between Goethe and Newton; he was extremely cautious andmade me promise that I should not print and publish anything of what hemight say, and at last, being hard pressed by me, he confessed thatindeed Goethe was perfectly right and Newton wrong, but that he had nobusiness to tell the world so. He has died since, the old coward!"

In May 1814 Schopenhauer removed from Weimar to Dresden, in consequenceof the recurrence of domestic differences with his mother. This was thefinal break between the pair, and he did not see her again during theremaining twenty-four years of her life, although they resumedcorrespondence some years before her death. It were futile to attempt torevive the dead bones of the cause of these unfortunate differencesbetween Johanna Schopenhauer and her son. It was a question of opposingtemperaments; both and neither were at once to blame. There is no reasonto suppose that Schopenhauer was ever a conciliatory son, or acompanionable person to live with; in fact, there is plenty to show thathe possessed trying and irritating qualities, and that he assumed anattitude of criticism towards his mother that could not in anycircumstances be agreeable. On the other hand, Anselm Feuerbach in his_Memoirs_ furnishes us with a scarcely prepossessing picture of Mrs. Schopenhauer: "Madame Schopenhauer, " he writes, "a rich widow. Makesprofession of erudition. Authoress. Prattles much and well, intelligently; without heart and soul. Self-complacent, eager afterapprobation, and constantly smiling to herself. God preserve us fromwomen whose mind has shot up into mere intellect. "

Schopenhauer meanwhile was working out his philosophical system, theidea of his principal philosophical work. "Under my hands, " he wrote in1813, "and still more in my mind grows a work, a philosophy which willbe an ethics and a metaphysics in one:--two branches which hitherto havebeen separated as falsely as man has been divided into soul and body. The work grows, slowly and gradually aggregating its parts like thechild in the womb. I became aware of one member, one vessel, one partafter another. In other words, I set each sentence down without anxietyas to how it will fit into the whole; for I know it has all sprung froma single foundation. It is thus that an organic whole originates, andthat alone will live. . . . Chance, thou ruler of this sense-world! Let melive and find peace for yet a few years, for I love my work as themother her child. When it is matured and has come to birth, then exactfrom me thy duties, taking interest for the postponement. But, if I sinkbefore the time in this iron age, then grant that these miniaturebeginnings, these studies of mine, be given to the world as they are andfor what they are: some day perchance will arise a kindred spirit, whocan frame the members together and 'restore' the fragment ofantiquity. "[1]

By March 1817 he had completed the preparatory work of his system, andbegan to put the whole thing together; a year later _Die Welt als Willeund Vorstellung: vier B�cher, nebst einem Anhange, der die Kritik derKantischen Philosophie enth�lt_ ("The World as Will and Idea; fourbooks, with an appendix containing a criticism on the philosophy ofKant"). Some delay occurring in the publication, Schopenhauer wrote oneof his characteristically abusive letters to Brockhaus, his publisher, who retorted "that he must decline all further correspondence with onewhose letters, in their divine coarseness and rusticity, savoured moreof the cabman than of the philosopher, " and concluded with a hope thathis fears that the work he was printing would be good for nothing butwaste paper, might not be realised. [2] The work appeared about the endof December 1818 with 1819 on the title-page. Schopenhauer had meanwhileproceeded in September to Italy, where he revised the final proofs. Sofar as the reception of the work was concerned there was reason tobelieve that the fears of Brockhaus would be realised, as, in fact, theycame practically to be. But in the face of this general want ofappreciation, Schopenhauer had some crumbs of consolation. His sisterwrote to him in March (he was then staying at Naples) that Goethe "hadreceived it with great joy, immediately cut the thick book, and began_instantly_ to read it. An hour later he sent me a note to say that hethanked you very much and thought that the whole book was good. Hepointed out the most important passages, read them to us, and wasgreatly delighted. . . . You are the only author whom Goethe has ever readseriously, it seems to me, and I rejoice. " Nevertheless the book did notsell. Sixteen years later Brockhaus informed Schopenhauer that a largenumber of copies had been sold at waste paper price, and that he hadeven then a few in stock. Still, during the years 1842-43, Schopenhauerwas contemplating the issue of a second edition and making revisions forthat purpose; when he had completed the work he took it to Brockhaus, and agreed to leave the question of remuneration open. In the followingyear the second edition was issued (500 copies of the first volume, and750 of the second), and for this the author was to receive noremuneration. "Not to my contemporaries, " says Schopenhauer with fineconviction in his preface to this edition, "not to my compatriots--tomankind I commit my now completed work, in the confidence that it willnot be without value for them, even if this should be late recognised, as is commonly the lot of what is good. For it cannot have been for thepassing generation, engrossed with the delusion of the moment, that mymind, almost against my will, has uninterruptedly stuck to its workthrough the course of a long life. And while the lapse of time has notbeen able to make me doubt the worth of my work, neither has the lack ofsympathy; for I constantly saw the false and the bad, and finally theabsurd and senseless, stand in universal admiration and honour, and Ibethought myself that if it were not the case, those who are capable ofrecognising the genuine and right are so rare that we may look for themin vain for some twenty years, then those who are capable of producingit could not be so few that their works afterwards form an exception tothe perishableness of earthly things; and thus would be lost thereviving prospect of posterity which every one who sets before himself ahigh aim requires to strengthen him. "[3]

When Schopenhauer started for Italy Goethe had provided him with aletter of introduction to Lord Byron, who was then staying at Venice, but Schopenhauer never made use of the letter; he said that he hadn'tthe courage to present himself. "Do you know, " he says in a letter, "three great pessimists were in Italy at the same time--Byron, Leopardi, and myself! And yet not one of us has made the acquaintance of theother. " He remained in Italy until June 1819, when he proceeded toMilan, where he received distressing news from his sister to the effectthat a Dantzic firm, in which she and her mother had invested all theircapital, and in which he himself had invested a little, had becomebankrupt. Schopenhauer immediately proposed to share his own income withthem. But later, when the defaulting firm offered to its creditors acomposition of thirty per cent, Schopenhauer would accept nothing lessthan seventy per cent in the case of immediate payment, or the whole ifthe payment were deferred; and he was so indignant at his mother andsister falling in with the arrangement of the debtors, that he did notcorrespond with them again for eleven years. With reference to thisaffair he wrote: "I can imagine that from your point of view mybehaviour may seem hard and unfair. That is a mere illusion whichdisappears as soon as you reflect that all I want is merely not to havetaken from me what is most rightly and incontestably mine, what, moreover, my whole happiness, my freedom, my learned leisure dependupon;--a blessing which in this world people like me enjoy so rarelythat it would be almost as unconscientious as cowardly not to defend itto the uttermost and maintain it by every exertion. You say, perhaps, that if all your creditors were of this way of thinking, I too shouldcome badly off. But if all men thought as I do, there would be much morethinking done, and in that case probably there would be neitherbankruptcies, nor wars, nor gaming tables. "[4]

In July 1819, when he was at Heidelberg, the idea occurred to him ofturning university lecturer, and took practical shape the followingsummer, when he delivered a course of lectures on philosophy at theBerlin University. But the experiment was not a success; the course wasnot completed through the want of attendance, while Hegel at the sametime and place was lecturing to a crowded and enthusiastic audience. This failure embittered him, and during the next few years there islittle of any moment in his life to record. There was one incident, however, to which his detractors would seem to have attached moreimportance than it was worth, but which must have been sufficientlydisturbing to Schopenhauer--we refer to the Marquet affair. It appearson his returning home one day he found three women gossiping outside hisdoor, one of whom was a seamstress who occupied another room in thehouse. Their presence irritated Schopenhauer (whose sensitiveness insuch matters may be estimated from his essay "On Noise"), who, findingthem occupying the same position on another occasion, requested them togo away, but the seamstress replied that she was an honest person andrefused to move. Schopenhauer disappeared into his apartments andreturned with a stick. According to his own account, he offered his armto the woman in order to take her out; but she would not accept it, andremained where she was. He then threatened to put her out, and carriedhis threat into execution by seizing her round the waist and putting herout. She screamed, and attempted to return. Schopenhauer now pushed herout; the woman fell, and raised the whole house. This woman, CarolineLuise Marquet, brought an action against him for damages, alleging thathe had kicked and beaten her. Schopenhauer defended his own case, withthe result that the action was dismissed. The woman appealed, andSchopenhauer, who was contemplating going to Switzerland, did not alterhis plans, so that the appeal was heard during his absence, the judgmentreversed, and he was mulcted in a fine of twenty thalers. But theunfortunate business did not end here. Schopenhauer proceeded fromSwitzerland to Italy, and did not return to Berlin until May 1825. Caroline Marquet renewed her complaints before the courts, stating thathis ill-usage had occasioned a fever through which she had lost thepower of one of her arms, that her whole system was entirely shaken, anddemanding a monthly allowance as compensation. She won her case; thedefendant had to pay three hundred thalers in costs and contribute sixtythalers a year to her maintenance while she lived. Schopenhauer onreturning to Berlin did what he could to get the judgment reversed, butunsuccessfully. The woman lived for twenty years; he inscribed on herdeath certificate, "_Obit anus, obit onus"_

The idea of marriage seems to have more or less possessed Schopenhauerabout this time, but he could not finally determine to take the step. There is sufficient to show in the following essays in what light heregarded women. Marriage was a debt, he said, contracted in youth andpaid off in old age. Married people have the whole burden of life tobear, while the unmarried have only half, was a characteristicallyselfish apothegm. Had not all the true philosophers beencelibates--Descartes, Leibnitz, Malebranche, Spinoza, and Kant? Theclassic writers were of course not to be considered, because with themwoman occupied a subordinate position. Had not all the great poetsmarried, and with disastrous consequences? Plainly, Schopenhauer was notthe person to sacrifice the individual to the will of the species. 

In August 1831 he made a fortuitous expedition toFrankfort-on-the-Main--an expedition partly prompted by the outbreak ofcholera at Berlin at the time, and partly by the portent of a dream (hewas credulous in such matters) which at the beginning of the year hadintimated his death. Here, however, he practically remained until hisdeath, leading a quiet, mechanically regular life and devoting histhoughts to the development of his philosophic ideas, isolated at first, but as time went on enjoying somewhat greedily the success which hadbeen denied him in his earlier days. In February 1839 he had a moment ofelation when he heard from the Scientific Society of Drontheim that hehad won the prize for the best essay on the question, "Whether free willcould be proved from the evidence of consciousness, " and that he hadbeen elected a member of the Society; and a corresponding moment ofdespondency when he was informed by the Royal Danish Academy of theSciences at Copenhagen, in a similar competition, that his essay on"Whether the source and foundation of ethics was to be sought in anintuitive moral idea, and in the analysis of other derivative moralconceptions, or in some other principle of knowledge, " had failed, partly on the ground of the want of respect which it showed to theopinions of the chief philosophers. He published these essays in 1841under the title of "The Two Fundamental Problems of Ethics, " and tenyears later _Parerga und Paralipomena_ the composition of which hadengaged his attention for five or six years. The latter work, whichproved to be his most popular, was refused by three publishers, and wheneventually it was accepted by Hayn of Berlin, the author only receivedten free copies of his work as payment. It is from this book that allexcept one of the following essays have been selected; the exception is"The Metaphysics of Love, " which appears in the supplement of the thirdbook of his principal work. The second edition of _Die Welt als Willeund Vorstellung_ appeared in 1844, and was received with growingappreciation. Hitherto he had been chiefly known in Frankfort as the sonof the celebrated Johanna Schopenhauer; now he came to have a followingwhich, if at first small in numbers, were sufficiently enthusiastic, andproved, indeed, so far as his reputation was concerned, helpful. Artistspainted his portrait; a bust of him was made by Elizabeth Ney. In theApril number of the _Westminster Review_ for 1853 John Oxenford, in anarticle entitled "Iconoclasm in German Philosophy, " heralded in Englandhis recognition as a writer and thinker; three years later Saint-Ren�Taillandier, in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, did a similar service forhim in France. One of his most enthusiastic admirers was Richard Wagner, who in 1854 sent him a copy of his _Der Ring der Nibelungen_, with theinscription "In admiration and gratitude. " The Philosophical Faculty ofthe University of Leipzic offered a prize for an exposition andcriticism of his philosophical system. Two Frenchmen, M. Foucher deCareil and M. Challemel Lacour, who visited Schopenhauer during his lastdays, have given an account of their impressions of the interview, thelatter in an article entitled, "Un Bouddhiste Contemporain enAllemagne, " which appeared in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ for March15th, 1870. M. Foucher de Careil gives a charming picture of him:--

 "Quand je le vis, pour la premi�re fois, en 1859, � la table de l'h�tel d'Angleterre, � Francfort, c'�tait d�j� un vieillard, � l'oeil d'un bleu vif et limpide, � la l�vre mince et l�g�rement sarcastique, autour de laquelle errait un fin sourire, et dont le vaste front, estomp� de deux touffes de cheveux blancs sur les c�t�s, relevait d'un cachet de noblesse et de distinction la physionomie petillante d'esprit et de malice. Les habits, son jabot de dentelle, sa cravate blanche rappelaient un vieillard de la fin du r�gne de Louis XV; ses mani�res �taient celles d'un homme de bonne compagnie. Habituellement r�serv� et d'un naturel craintif jusqu'� la m�fiance, il ne se livrait qu'avec ses intimes ou les �trangers de passage � Francfort. Ses mouvements �taient vifs et devenaient d'une p�tulance extraordinaire dans la conversation; il fuyait les discussions et les vains combats de paroles, mais c'�tait pour mieux jouir du charme d'une causerie intime. Il poss�dait et parlait avec une �gale perfection quatre langues: le fran�ais, l'anglais, l'allemand, l'italien et passablement l'espagnol. Quand il causait, la verve du vieillard brodait sur le canevas un peu lourd de l'allemand ses brilliantes arabesques latines, grecques, fran�aises, anglaises, italiennes. C'�tait un entrain, une pr�cision et des sailles, une richesse de citations, une exactitude de d�tails qui faisait couler les heures; et quelquefois le petit cercle de ses intimes l'�coutait jusqu'� minuit, sans qu'un moment de fatigue se f�t peint sur ses traits ou que le feu de son regard se f�t un instant amorti. Sa parole nette et accentu�e captivait l'auditoire: elle peignait et analysait tout ensemble; une sensibilit� d�licate en augmentait le feu; elle �tait exacte et pr�cise sur toutes sortes de sujets. "

Schopenhauer died on the 20th September 1860, in his seventy-third year, peacefully, alone as he had lived, but not without warning. One day inApril, taking his usual brisk walk after dinner, he suffered frompalpitation of the heart, he could scarcely breathe. These symptomsdeveloped during the next few months, and Dr. Gwinner advised him todiscontinue his cold baths and to breakfast in bed; but Schopenhauer, notwithstanding his early medical training, was little inclined tofollow medical advice. To Dr. Gwinner, on the evening of the 18thSeptember, when he expressed a hope that he might be able to go toItaly, he said that it would be a pity if he died now, as he wished tomake several important additions to his _Parerga_; he spoke about hisworks and of the warm recognition with which they had been welcomed inthe most remote places. Dr. Gwinner had never before found him so eagerand gentle, and left him reluctantly, without, however, the leastpremonition that he had seen him for the last time. On the secondmorning after this interview Schopenhauer got up as usual, and had hiscold bath and breakfast. His servant had opened the window to let in themorning air and had then left him. A little later Dr. Gwinner arrivedand found him reclining in a corner of the sofa; his face wore itscustomary expression; there was no sign of there having been anystruggle with death. There had been no struggle with death; he had died, as he had hoped he would die, painlessly, easily. 

In preparing the above notice the writer has to acknowledge herindebtedness to Dr. Gwinner's _Life_ and Professor Wallace's little workon the same subject, as well as to the few other authorities that havebeen available. --THE TRANSLATOR. 

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Wallace's _Life_, pp. 95, 96. 

[2] Wallace, p. 108. 

[3] Haldane and Kemp's _The World as Will and Idea_. 

[4] Wallace, p. 145. 

ESSAYS OF SCHOPENHAUER. 

ON AUTHORSHIP AND STYLE. 

There are, first of all, two kinds of authors: those who write for thesubject's sake, and those who write for writing's sake. The first kindhave had thoughts or experiences which seem to them worth communicating, while the second kind need money and consequently write for money. Theythink in order to write, and they may be recognised by their spinningout their thoughts to the greatest possible length, and also by the waythey work out their thoughts, which are half-true, perverse, forced, andvacillating; then also by their love of evasion, so that they may seemwhat they are not; and this is why their writing is lacking indefiniteness and clearness. 

Consequently, it is soon recognised that they write for the sake offilling up the paper, and this is the case sometimes with the bestauthors; for example, in parts of Lessing's _Dramaturgie_, and even inmany of Jean Paul's romances. As soon as this is perceived the bookshould be thrown away, for time is precious. As a matter of fact, theauthor is cheating the reader as soon as he writes for the sake offilling up paper; because his pretext for writing is that he hassomething to impart. Writing for money and preservation of copyrightare, at bottom, the ruin of literature. It is only the man who writesabsolutely for the sake of the subject that writes anything worthwriting. What an inestimable advantage it would be, if, in every branchof literature, there existed only a few but excellent books! This cannever come to pass so long as money is to be made by writing. It seemsas if money lay under a curse, for every author deteriorates directly hewrites in any way for the sake of money. The best works of great men allcome from the time when they had to write either for nothing or for verylittle pay. This is confirmed by the Spanish proverb: _honra y provechono caben en un saco_ (Honour and money are not to be found in the samepurse). The deplorable condition of the literature of to-day, both inGermany and other countries, is due to the fact that books are writtenfor the sake of earning money. Every one who is in want of money sitsdown and writes a book, and the public is stupid enough to buy it. Thesecondary effect of this is the ruin of language. 

A great number of bad authors eke out their existence entirely by thefoolishness of the public, which only will read what has just beenprinted. I refer to journalists, who have been appropriately so-called. In other words, it would be "day labourer. "

 * * * * *

Again, it may be said that there are three kinds of authors. In thefirst place, there are those who write without thinking. They write frommemory, from reminiscences, or even direct from other people's books. This class is the most numerous. In the second, those who think whilstthey are writing. They think in order to write; and they are numerous. In the third place, there are those who have thought before they beginto write. They write solely because they have thought; and they arerare. 

Authors of the second class, who postpone their thinking until theybegin to write, are like a sportsman who goes out at random--he is notlikely to bring home very much. While the writing of an author of thethird, the rare class, is like a chase where the game has been capturedbeforehand and cooped up in some enclosure from which it is afterwardsset free, so many at a time, into another enclosure, where it is notpossible for it to escape, and the sportsman has now nothing to do butto aim and fire--that is to say, put his thoughts on paper. This is thekind of sport which yields something. 

But although the number of those authors who really and seriously thinkbefore they write is small, only extremely few of them think about _thesubject itself_; the rest think only about the books written on thissubject, and what has been said by others upon it, I mean. In order tothink, they must have the more direct and powerful incentive of otherpeople's thoughts. These become their next theme, and therefore theyalways remain under their influence and are never, strictly speaking, original. On the contrary, the former are roused to thought through the_subject itself_, hence their thinking is directed immediately to it. Itis only among them that we find the authors whose names become immortal. Let it be understood that I am speaking here of writers of the higherbranches of literature, and not of writers on the method of distillingbrandy. 

It is only the writer who takes the material on which he writes directout of his own head that is worth reading. Book manufacturers, compilers, and the ordinary history writers, and others like them, taketheir material straight out of books; it passes into their fingerswithout its having paid transit duty or undergone inspection when it wasin their heads, to say nothing of elaboration. (How learned many a manwould be if he knew everything that was in his own books!) Hence theirtalk is often of such a vague nature that one racks one's brains in vainto understand of _what_ they are really thinking. They are not thinkingat all. The book from which they copy is sometimes composed in the sameway: so that writing of this kind is like a plaster cast of a cast of acast, and so on, until finally all that is left is a scarcelyrecognisable outline of the face of Antinous. Therefore, compilationsshould be read as seldom as possible: it is difficult to avoid thementirely, since compendia, which contain in a small space knowledge thathas been collected in the course of several centuries, are included incompilations. 

No greater mistake can be made than to imagine that what has beenwritten latest is always the more correct; that what is written later onis an improvement on what was written previously; and that every changemeans progress. Men who think and have correct judgment, and people whotreat their subject earnestly, are all exceptions only. Vermin is therule everywhere in the world: it is always at hand and busily engaged intrying to improve in its own way upon the mature deliberations of thethinkers. So that if a man wishes to improve himself in any subject hemust guard against immediately seizing the newest books written upon it, in the assumption that science is always advancing and that the olderbooks have been made use of in the compiling of the new. They have, itis true, been used; but how? The writer often does not thoroughlyunderstand the old books; he will, at the same time, not use their exactwords, so that the result is he spoils and bungles what has been said ina much better and clearer way by the old writers; since they wrote fromtheir own lively knowledge of the subject. He often leaves out the bestthings they have written, their most striking elucidations of thematter, their happiest remarks, because he does not recognise theirvalue or feel how pregnant they are. It is only what is stupid andshallow that appeals to him. An old and excellent book is frequentlyshelved for new and bad ones; which, written for the sake of money, weara pretentious air and are much eulogised by the authors' friends. Inscience, a man who wishes to distinguish himself brings something new tomarket; this frequently consists in his denouncing some principle thathas been previously held as correct, so that he may establish a wrongone of his own. Sometimes his attempt is successful for a short time, when a return is made to the old and correct doctrine. These innovatorsare serious about nothing else in the world than their own pricelessperson, and it is this that they wish to make its mark. They bring thisquickly about by beginning a paradox; the sterility of their own headssuggests their taking the path of negation; and truths that have longbeen recognised are now denied--for instance, the vital power, thesympathetic nervous system, _generatio equivoca_, Bichat's distinctionbetween the working of the passions and the working of intelligence, orthey return to crass atomism, etc. , etc. Hence _the course of science isoften retrogressive_. 

To this class of writers belong also those translators who, besidestranslating their author, at the same time correct and alter him, athing that always seems to me impertinent. Write books yourself whichare worth translating and leave the books of other people as they are. One should read, if it is possible, the real authors, the founders anddiscoverers of things, or at any rate the recognised great masters inevery branch of learning, and buy second-hand _books_ rather than readtheir _contents_ in new ones. 

It is true that _inventis aliquid addere facile est_, therefore a man, after having studied the principles of his subject, will have to makehimself acquainted with the more recent information written upon it. Ingeneral, the following rule holds good here as elsewhere, namely: whatis new is seldom good; because a good thing is only new for a shorttime. 

What the address is to a letter the _title_ should be to a book--thatis, its immediate aim should be to bring the book to that part of thepublic that will be interested in its contents. Therefore, the titleshould be effective, and since it is essentially short, it should beconcise, laconic, pregnant, and if possible express the contents in aword. Therefore a title that is prolix, or means nothing at all, or thatis indirect or ambiguous, is bad; so is one that is false andmisleading: this last may prepare for the book the same fate as thatwhich awaits a wrongly addressed letter. The worst titles are those thatare stolen, such titles that is to say that other books already bear;for in the first place they are a plagiarism, and in the second a mostconvincing proof of an absolute want of originality. A man who has notenough originality to think out a new title for his book will be muchless capable of giving it new contents. Akin to these are those titleswhich have been imitated, in other words, half stolen; for instance, along time after I had written "On Will in Nature, " Oersted wrote "OnMind in Nature. "

 * * * * *

A book can never be anything more than the impression of its author'sthoughts. The value of these thoughts lies either in the _matter aboutwhich_ he has thought, or in the _form_ in which he develops hismatter--that is to say, _what_ he has thought about it. 

The matter of books is very various, as also are the merits conferred onbooks on account of their matter. All matter that is the outcome ofexperience, in other words everything that is founded on fact, whetherit be historical or physical, taken by itself and in its widest sense, is included in the term matter. It is the _motif_ that gives itspeculiar character to the book, so that a book can be important whoeverthe author may have been; while with form the peculiar character of abook rests with the author of it. The subjects may be of such a natureas to be accessible and well known to everybody; but the form in whichthey are expounded, _what_ has been thought about them, gives the bookits value, and this depends upon the author. Therefore if a book, fromthis point of view, is excellent and without a rival, so also is itsauthor. From this it follows that the merit of a writer worth reading isall the greater the less he is dependent on matter--and the better knownand worn out this matter, the greater will be his merit. The three greatGrecian tragedians, for instance, all worked at the same subject. 

So that when a book becomes famous one should carefully distinguishwhether it is so on account of its matter or its form. 

Quite ordinary and shallow men are able to produce books of very greatimportance because of their _matter_, which was accessible to themalone. Take, for instance, books which give descriptions of foreigncountries, rare natural phenomena, experiments that have been made, historical events of which they were witnesses, or have spent both timeand trouble in inquiring into and specially studying the authorities forthem. 

On the other hand, it is on _form_ that we are dependent, where thematter is accessible to every one or very well known; and it is what hasbeen thought about the matter that will give any value to theachievement; it will only be an eminent man who will be able to writeanything that is worth reading. For the others will only think what ispossible for every other man to think. They give the impress of theirown mind; but every one already possesses the original of thisimpression. 

However, the public is very much more interested in matter than in form, and it is for this very reason that it is behindhand in any high degreeof culture. It is most laughable the way the public reveals its likingfor matter in poetic works; it carefully investigates the real events orpersonal circumstances of the poet's life which served to give the_motif_ of his works; nay, finally, it finds these more interesting thanthe works themselves; it reads more about Goethe than what has beenwritten by Goethe, and industriously studies the legend of Faust inpreference to Goethe's _Faust_ itself. And when B�rger said that "peoplewould make learned expositions as to who Leonora really was, " we seethis literally fulfilled in Goethe's case, for we now have many learnedexpositions on Faust and the Faust legend. They are and will remain of apurely material character. This preference for matter to form is thesame as a man ignoring the shape and painting of a fine Etruscan vase inorder to make a chemical examination of the clay and colours of which itis made. The attempt to be effective by means of the matter used, thereby ministering to this evil propensity of the public, is absolutelyto be censured in branches of writing where the merit must lie expresslyin the form; as, for instance, in poetical writing. However, there arenumerous bad dramatic authors striving to fill the theatre by means ofthe matter they are treating. For instance, they place on the stage anykind of celebrated man, however stripped of dramatic incidents his lifemay have been, nay, sometimes without waiting until the persons whoappear with him are dead. 

The distinction between matter and form, of which I am here speaking, istrue also in regard to conversation. It is chiefly intelligence, judgment, wit, and vivacity that enable a man to converse; they giveform to the conversation. However, the _matter_ of the conversation mustsoon come into notice--in other words, _that_ about which one can talkto the man, namely, his knowledge. If this is very small, it will onlybe his possessing the above-named formal qualities in a quiteexceptionally high degree that will make his conversation of any value, for his matter will be restricted to things concerning humanity andnature, which are known generally. It is just the reverse if a man iswanting in these formal qualities, but has, on the other hand, knowledgeof such a kind that it lends value to his conversation; this value, however, will then entirely rest on the matter of his conversation, for, according to the Spanish proverb, _mas sabe el necio en su casa, que elsabio en la agena_. 

A thought only really lives until it has reached the boundary line ofwords; it then becomes petrified and dies immediately; yet it is aseverlasting as the fossilised animals and plants of former ages. Itsexistence, which is really momentary, may be compared to a crystal theinstant it becomes crystallised. 

As soon as a thought has found words it no longer exists in us or isserious in its deepest sense. 

When it begins to exist for others it ceases to live in us; just as achild frees itself from its mother when it comes into existence. Thepoet has also said:

 "Ihr m�sst mich nicht durch Widerspruch verwirren! _Sobald man spricht, beginnt man schon zu irren_. "

The pen is to thought what the stick is to walking, but one walks mosteasily without a stick, and thinks most perfectly when no pen is athand. It is only when a man begins to get old that he likes to make useof a stick and his pen. 

A hypothesis that has once gained a position in the mind, or been bornin it, leads a life resembling that of an organism, in so far as itreceives from the outer world matter only that is advantageous andhomogeneous to it; on the other hand, matter that is harmful andheterogeneous to it is either rejected, or if it must be received, castoff again entirely. 

Abstract and indefinite terms should be employed in satire only as theyare in algebra, in place of concrete and specified quantities. Moreover, it should be used as sparingly as the dissecting knife on the body of aliving man. At the risk of forfeiting his life it is an unsafeexperiment. 

For a work to become _immortal_ it must possess so many excellences thatit will not be easy to find a man who understands and values them _all_;so that there will be in all ages men who recognise and appreciate someof these excellences; by this means the credit of the work will beretained throughout the long course of centuries and ever-changinginterests, for, as it is appreciated first in this sense, then in that, the interest is never exhausted. 

An author like this, in other words, an author who has a claim to liveon in posterity, can only be a man who seeks in vain his like among hiscontemporaries over the wide world, his marked distinction making him astriking contrast to every one else. Even if he existed through severalgenerations, like the wandering Jew, he would still occupy the sameposition; in short, he would be, as Ariosto has put it, _lo fece natura, e poi ruppe lo stampo_. If this were not so, one would not be able tounderstand why his thoughts should not perish like those of other men. 

In almost every age, whether it be in literature or art, we find that ifa thoroughly wrong idea, or a fashion, or a manner is in vogue, it isadmired. Those of ordinary intelligence trouble themselves inordinatelyto acquire it and put it in practice. An intelligent man sees through itand despises it, consequently he remains out of the fashion. Some yearslater the public sees through it and takes the sham for what it isworth; it now laughs at it, and the much-admired colour of all theseworks of fashion falls off like the plaster from a badly-built wall: andthey are in the same dilapidated condition. We should be glad and notsorry when a fundamentally wrong notion of which we have been secretlyconscious for a long time finally gains a footing and is proclaimed bothloudly and openly. The falseness of it will soon be felt and eventuallyproclaimed equally loudly and openly. It is as if an abscess had burst. 

The man who publishes and edits an article written by an anonymouscritic should be held as immediately responsible for it as if he hadwritten it himself; just as one holds a manager responsible for bad workdone by his workmen. In this way the fellow would be treated as hedeserves to be--namely, without any ceremony. 

An anonymous writer is a literary fraud against whom one shouldimmediately cry out, "Wretch, if you do not wish to admit what it is yousay against other people, hold your slanderous tongue. "

An anonymous criticism carries no more weight than an anonymous letter, and should therefore be looked upon with equal mistrust. Or do we wishto accept the assumed name of a man, who in reality represents a_soci�t� anonyme_, as a guarantee for the veracity of his friends?

The little honesty that exists among authors is discernible in theunconscionable way they misquote from the writings of others. I findwhole passages in my works wrongly quoted, and it is only in myappendix, which is absolutely lucid, that an exception is made. Themisquotation is frequently due to carelessness, the pen of such peoplehas been used to write down such trivial and banal phrases that it goeson writing them out of force of habit. Sometimes the misquotation is dueto impertinence on the part of some one who wants to improve upon mywork; but a bad motive only too often prompts the misquotation--it isthen horrid baseness and roguery, and, like a man who commits forgery, he loses the character for being an honest man for ever. 

Style is the physiognomy of the mind. It is a more reliable key tocharacter than the physiognomy of the body. To imitate another person'sstyle is like wearing a mask. However fine the mask, it soon becomesinsipid and intolerable because it is without life; so that even theugliest living face is better. Therefore authors who write in Latin andimitate the style of the old writers essentially wear a mask; onecertainly hears what they say, but one cannot watch theirphysiognomy--that is to say their style. One observes, however, thestyle in the Latin writings of men _who think for themselves_, those whohave not deigned to imitate, as, for instance, Scotus Erigena, Petrarch, Bacon, Descartes, Spinoza, etc. 

Affectation in style is like making grimaces. The language in which aman writes is the physiognomy of his nation; it establishes a great manydifferences, beginning from the language of the Greeks down to that ofthe Caribbean islanders. 

We should seek for the faults in the style of another author's works, sothat we may avoid committing the same in our own. 

In order to get a provisional estimate of the value of an author'sproductions it is not exactly necessary to know the matter on which hehas thought or what it is he has thought about it, --this would compelone to read the whole of his works, --but it will be sufficient to know_how_ he has thought. His _style_ is an exact expression of _how_ he hasthought, of the essential state and general _quality_ of his thoughts. It shows the _formal_ nature--which must always remain the same--of allthe thoughts of a man, whatever the subject on which he has thought orwhat it is he has said about it. It is the dough out of which all hisideas are kneaded, however various they may be. When Eulenspiegel wasasked by a man how long he would have to walk before reaching the nextplace, and gave the apparently absurd answer _Walk_, his intention wasto judge from the man's walking how far he would go in a given time. Andso it is when I have read a few pages of an author, I know about how farhe can help me. 

In the secret consciousness that this is the condition of things, everymediocre writer tries to mask his own natural style. This instantlynecessitates his giving up all idea of being _na�ve_, a privilege whichbelongs to superior minds sensible of their superiority, and thereforesure of themselves. For instance, it is absolutely impossible for men ofordinary intelligence to make up their minds to write as they think;they resent the idea of their work looking too simple. It would alwaysbe of some value, however. If they would only go honestly to work and ina simple way express the few and ordinary ideas they have reallythought, they would be readable and even instructive in their ownsphere. But instead of that they try to appear to have thought much moredeeply than is the case. The result is, they put what they have to sayinto forced and involved language, create new words and prolix periodswhich go round the thought and cover it up. They hesitate between thetwo attempts of communicating the thought and of concealing it. Theywant to make it look grand so that it has the appearance of beinglearned and profound, thereby giving one the idea that there is muchmore in it than one perceives at the moment. Accordingly, they sometimesput down their thoughts in bits, in short, equivocal, and paradoxicalsentences which appear to mean much more than they say (a splendidexample of this kind of writing is furnished by Schelling's treatises onNatural Philosophy); sometimes they express their thoughts in a crowd ofwords and the most intolerable diffuseness, as if it were necessary tomake a sensation in order to make the profound meaning of their phrasesintelligible--while it is quite a simple idea if not a trivial one(examples without number are supplied in Fichte's popular works and inthe philosophical pamphlets of a hundred other miserable blockheads thatare not worth mentioning), or else they endeavour to use a certain stylein writing which it has pleased them to adopt--for example, a style thatis so thoroughly _Kat' e'xochae'u_ profound and scientific, where one istortured to death by the narcotic effect of long-spun periods that arevoid of all thought (examples of this are specially supplied by thosemost impertinent of all mortals, the Hegelians in their Hegel newspapercommonly known as _Jahrb�cher der wissenschaftlichen Literatur)_; oragain, they aim at an intellectual style where it seems then as if theywish to go crazy, and so on. All such efforts whereby they try topostpone the _nascetur ridiculus mus_ make it frequently difficult tounderstand what they really mean. Moreover, they write down words, nay, whole periods, which mean nothing in themselves, in the hope, however, that some one else will understand something from them. Nothing else isat the bottom of all such endeavours but the inexhaustible attempt whichis always venturing on new paths, to sell words for thoughts, and bymeans of new expressions, or expressions used in a new sense, turns ofphrases and combinations of all kinds, to produce the appearance ofintellect in order to compensate for the want of it which is sopainfully felt. It is amusing to see how, with this aim in view, firstthis mannerism and then that is tried; these they intend to representthe mask of intellect: this mask may possibly deceive the inexperiencedfor a while, until it is recognised as being nothing but a dead mask, when it is laughed at and exchanged for another. 

We find a writer of this kind sometimes writing in a dithyrambic style, as if he were intoxicated; at other times, nay, on the very next page, he will be high-sounding, severe, and deeply learned, prolix to the lastdegree of dulness, and cutting everything very small, like the lateChristian Wolf, only in a modern garment. The mask of unintelligibilityholds out the longest; this is only in Germany, however, where it wasintroduced by Fichte, perfected by Schelling, and attained its highestclimax finally in Hegel, always with the happiest results. And yetnothing is easier than to write so that no one can understand; on theother hand, nothing is more difficult than to express learned ideas sothat every one must understand them. All the arts I have cited above aresuperfluous if the writer really possesses any intellect, for it allowsa man to show himself as he is and verifies for all time what Horacesaid: _Scribendi recte sapere est et principium et fons_. 

But this class of authors is like certain workers in metal, who try ahundred different compositions to take the place of gold, which is theonly metal that can never have a substitute. On the contrary, there isnothing an author should guard against more than the apparent endeavourto show more intellect than he has; because this rouses the suspicion inthe reader that he has very little, since a man always affectssomething, be its nature what it may, that he does not really possess. And this is why it is praise to an author to call him na�ve, for itsignifies that he may show himself as he is. In general, na�vet�attracts, while anything that is unnatural everywhere repels. We alsofind that every true thinker endeavours to express his thoughts aspurely, clearly, definitely, and concisely as ever possible. This is whysimplicity has always been looked upon as a token, not only of truth, but also of genius. Style receives its beauty from the thoughtexpressed, while with those writers who only pretend to think it istheir thoughts that are said to be fine because of their style. Style ismerely the silhouette of thought; and to write in a vague or bad stylemeans a stupid or confused mind. 

Hence, the first rule--nay, this in itself is almost sufficient for agood style--is this, _that the author should have something to say_. Ah!this implies a great deal. The neglect of this rule is a fundamentalcharacteristic of the philosophical, and generally speaking of all thereflective authors in Germany, especially since the time of Fichte. Itis obvious that all these writers wish _to appear_ to have something tosay, while they have nothing to say. This mannerism was introduced bythe pseudo-philosophers of the Universities and may be discernedeverywhere, even among the first literary notabilities of the age. It isthe mother of that forced and vague style which seems to have two, nay, many meanings, as well as of that prolix and ponderous style, _le stileempes�_; and of that no less useless bombastic style, and finally ofthat mode of concealing the most awful poverty of thought under a babbleof inexhaustible chatter that resembles a clacking mill and is just asstupefying: one may read for hours together without getting hold of asingle clearly defined and definite idea. The _Halleschen_, afterwardscalled the _Deutschen Jahrb�cher_, furnishes almost throughout excellentexamples of this style of writing. The Germans, by the way, from forceof habit read page after page of all kinds of such verbiage withoutgetting any definite idea of what the author really means: they think itall very proper and do not discover that he is writing merely for thesake of writing. On the other hand, a good author who is rich in ideassoon gains the reader's credit of having really and truly _something tosay_; and this gives the intelligent reader patience to follow himattentively. An author of this kind will always express himself in thesimplest and most direct manner, for the very reason that he really hassomething to say; because he wishes to awaken in the reader the sameidea he has in his own mind and no other. Accordingly he will be able tosay with Boileau--

 "Ma pens�e au grand jour partout s'offre et s'expose, Et mon vers, bien ou mal, dit toujours quelque chose;"

while of those previously described writers it may be said, in the wordsof the same poet, _et qui parlant beaucoup ne disent jamais rien_. It isalso a characteristic of such writers to avoid, if it is possible, expressing themselves _definitely_, so that they may be always able incase of need to get out of a difficulty; this is why they always choosethe more _abstract_ expressions: while people of intellect choose themore _concrete_; because the latter bring the matter closer to view, which is the source of all evidence. This preference for abstractexpressions may be confirmed by numerous examples: a speciallyridiculous example is the following. Throughout German literature of thelast ten years we find "to condition" almost everywhere used in place of"to cause" or "to effect. " Since it is more abstract and indefinite itsays less than it implies, and consequently leaves a little back dooropen to please those whose secret consciousness of their own incapacityinspires them with a continual fear of all _definite_ expressions. Whilewith other people it is merely the effect of that national tendency toimmediately imitate everything that is stupid in literature and wickedin life; this is shown in either case by the quick way in which itspreads. The Englishman depends on his own judgment both in what hewrites and what he does, but this applies less to the German than to anyother nation. In consequence of the state of things referred to, thewords "to cause" and "to effect" have almost entirely disappeared fromthe literature of the last ten years, and people everywhere talk of "tocondition. " The fact is worth mentioning because it ischaracteristically ridiculous. Everyday authors are only half consciouswhen they write, a fact which accounts for their want of intellect andthe tediousness of their writings; they do not really themselvesunderstand the meaning of their own words, because they take ready-madewords and learn them. Hence they combine whole phrases more thanwords--_phrases banales_. This accounts for that obviouslycharacteristic want of clearly defined thought; in fact, they lack thedie that stamps their thoughts, they have no clear thought of their own;in place of it we find an indefinite, obscure interweaving of words, current phrases, worn-out terms of speech, and fashionable expressions. The result is that their foggy kind of writing is like print that hasbeen done with old type. On the other hand, intelligent people _really_speak to us in their writings, and this is why they are able to bothmove and entertain us. It is only intelligent writers who placeindividual words together with a full consciousness of their use andselect them with deliberation. Hence their style of writing bears thesame relation to that of those authors described above, as a picturethat is really painted does to one that has been executed with stencil. In the first instance every word, just as every stroke of the brush, hassome special significance, while in the other everything is donemechanically. The same distinction may be observed in music. For it isthe omnipresence of intellect that always and everywhere characterisesthe works of the genius; and analogous to this is Lichtenberg'sobservation, namely, that Garrick's soul was omnipresent in all themuscles of his body. With regard to the tediousness of the writingsreferred to above, it is to be observed in general that there are twokinds of tediousness--an objective and a subjective. The _objective_form of tediousness springs from the deficiency of which we have beenspeaking--that is to say, where the author has no perfectly clearthought or knowledge to communicate. For if a writer possesses any clearthought or knowledge it will be his aim to communicate it, and he willwork with this end in view; consequently the ideas he furnishes areeverywhere clearly defined, so that he is neither diffuse, unmeaning, nor confused, and consequently not tedious. Even if his fundamental ideais wrong, yet in such a case it will be clearly thought out and wellpondered; in other words, it is at least formally correct, and thewriting is always of some value. While, for the same reason, a work thatis objectively _tedious_ is at all times without value. Again, _subjective_ tediousness is merely relative: this is because the readeris not interested in the subject of the work, and that what he takes aninterest in is of a very limited nature. The most excellent work maytherefore be tedious subjectively to this or that person, just as, _vicevers�_, the worst work may be subjectively diverting to this or thatperson: because he is interested in either the subject or the writer ofthe book. 

It would be of general service to German authors if they discerned thatwhile a man should, if possible, think like a great mind, he shouldspeak the same language as every other person. Men should use commonwords to say uncommon things, but they do the reverse. We find themtrying to envelop trivial ideas in grand words and to dress their veryordinary thoughts in the most extraordinary expressions and the mostoutlandish, artificial, and rarest phrases. Their sentences perpetuallystalk about on stilts. With regard to their delight in bombast, and totheir writing generally in a grand, puffed-up, unreal, hyperbolical, andacrobatic style, their prototype is Pistol, who was once impatientlyrequested by Falstaff, his friend, to "say what you have to say, _like aman of this world_!"[5]

There is no expression in the German language exactly corresponding to_stile empes�_; but the thing itself is all the more prevalent. Whencombined with unnaturalness it is in works what affected gravity, grandness, and unnaturalness are in social intercourse; and it is justas intolerable. Poverty of intellect is fond of wearing this dress; justas stupid people in everyday life are fond of assuming gravity andformality. 

A man who writes in this _prezi�s_ style is like a person who dresseshimself up to avoid being mistaken for or confounded with the mob; adanger which a _gentleman_, even in his worst clothes, does not run. Hence just as a plebeian is recognised by a certain display in his dressand his _tir� � quatre �pingles_, so is an ordinary writer recognised byhis style. 

If a man has something to say that is worth saying, he need not envelopit in affected expressions, involved phrases, and enigmaticalinnuendoes; but he may rest assured that by expressing himself in asimple, clear, and na�ve manner he will not fail to produce the righteffect. A man who makes use of such artifices as have been alluded tobetrays his poverty of ideas, mind, and knowledge. 

Nevertheless, it is a mistake to attempt to write exactly as one speaks. Every style of writing should bear a certain trace of relationship withthe monumental style, which is, indeed, the ancestor of all styles; sothat to write as one speaks is just as faulty as to do the reverse, thatis to say, to try and speak as one writes. This makes the authorpedantic, and at the same time difficult to understand. 

Obscurity and vagueness of expression are at all times and everywhere avery bad sign. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred they arise fromvagueness of thought, which, in its turn, is almost always fundamentallydiscordant, inconsistent, and therefore wrong. When a right thoughtsprings up in the mind it strives after clearness of expression, and itsoon attains it, for clear thought easily finds its appropriateexpression. A man who is capable of thinking can express himself at alltimes in clear, comprehensible, and unambiguous words. Those writers whoconstruct difficult, obscure, involved, and ambiguous phrases mostcertainly do not rightly know what it is they wish to say: they haveonly a dull consciousness of it, which is still struggling to put itselfinto thought; they also often wish to conceal from themselves and otherpeople that in reality they have nothing to say. Like Fichte, Schelling, and Hegel, they wish to appear to know what they do not know, to thinkwhat they do not think, and to say what they do not say. 

Will a man, then, who has something real to impart endeavour to say itin a clear or an indistinct way? Quintilian has already said, _plerumqueaccidit ut faciliora sint ad intelligendum et lucidiora multo, quae adoctissimo quoque dicuntur. . . . Erit ergo etiam obscurior, quo quisquedeterior_. 

A man's way of expressing himself should not be _enigmatical_, but heshould know whether he has something to say or whether he has not. It isan uncertainty of expression which makes German writers so dull. Theonly exceptional cases are those where a man wishes to express somethingthat is in some respect of an illicit nature. As anything that isfar-fetched generally produces the reverse of what the writer has aimedat, so do words serve to make thought comprehensible; but only up to acertain point. If words are piled up beyond this point they make thethought that is being communicated more and more obscure. To hit thatpoint is the problem of style and a matter of discernment; for everysuperfluous word prevents its purpose being carried out. Voltaire meansthis when he says: _l'adjectif est l'ennemi du substantif_. (But, truly, many authors try to hide their poverty of thought under a superfluity ofwords. )

Accordingly, all prolixity and all binding together of unmeaningobservations that are not worth reading should be avoided. A writer mustbe sparing with the reader's time, concentration, and patience; in thisway he makes him believe that what he has before him is worth hiscareful reading, and will repay the trouble he has spent upon it. It isalways better to leave out something that is good than to write downsomething that is not worth saying. Hesiod's πλέον ἡμισυ πάντος[6]finds its right application. In fact, not to say everything! _Le secretpour �tre ennuyeux, c'est de tout dire_. Therefore, if possible, thequintessence only! the chief matter only! nothing that the reader wouldthink for himself. The use of many words in order to express littlethought is everywhere the infallible sign of mediocrity; while to clothemuch thought in a few words is the infallible sign of distinguishedminds. 

Truth that is naked is the most beautiful, and the simpler itsexpression the deeper is the impression it makes; this is partly becauseit gets unobstructed hold of the hearer's mind without his beingdistracted by secondary thoughts, and partly because he feels that herehe is not being corrupted or deceived by the arts of rhetoric, but thatthe whole effect is got from the thing itself. For instance, whatdeclamation on the emptiness of human existence could be more impressivethan Job's: _Homo, natus de muliere, brevi vivit tempore, repletusmultis miseriis, qui, tanquam flos, egreditur et conteritur, et fugitvelut umbra_. It is for this very reason that the na�ve poetry of Goetheis so incomparably greater than the rhetorical of Schiller. This is alsowhy many folk-songs have so great an effect upon us. An author shouldguard against using all unnecessary rhetorical adornment, all uselessamplification, and in general, just as in architecture he should guardagainst an excess of decoration, all superfluity of expression--in otherwords, he must aim at _chastity_ of style. Everything that is redundanthas a harmful effect. The law of simplicity and na�vet� applies to allfine art, for it is compatible with what is most sublime. 

True brevity of expression consists in a man only saying what is worthsaying, while avoiding all diffuse explanations of things which everyone can think out for himself; that is, it consists in his correctlydistinguishing between what is necessary and what is superfluous. On theother hand, one should never sacrifice clearness, to say nothing ofgrammar, for the sake of being brief. To impoverish the expression of athought, or to obscure or spoil the meaning of a period for the sake ofusing fewer words shows a lamentable want of judgment. And this isprecisely what that false brevity nowadays in vogue is trying to do, forwriters not only leave out words that are to the purpose, but evengrammatical and logical essentials. [7]

_Subjectivity_, which is an error of style in German literature, is, through the deteriorated condition of literature and neglect of oldlanguages, becoming more common. By _subjectivity_ I mean when a writerthinks it sufficient for himself to know what he means and wants to say, and it is left to the reader to discover what is meant. Withouttroubling himself about his reader, he writes as if he were holding amonologue; whereas it should be a dialogue, and, moreover, a dialogue inwhich he must express himself all the more clearly as the questions ofthe reader cannot be heard. And it is for this very reason that styleshould not be subjective but objective, and for it to be objective thewords must be written in such a way as to directly compel the reader tothink precisely the same as the author thought. This will only be thecase when the author has borne in mind that thoughts, inasmuch as theyfollow the law of gravity, pass more easily from head to paper than frompaper to head. Therefore the journey from paper to head must be helpedby every means at his command. When he does this his words have a purelyobjective effect, like that of a completed oil painting; while thesubjective style is not much more certain in its effect than spots onthe wall, and it is only the man whose fantasy is accidentally arousedby them that sees figures; other people only see blurs. The differencereferred to applies to every style of writing as a whole, and it is alsooften met with in particular instances; for example, I read in a bookthat has just been published: _I have not written to increase the numberof existing books_. This means exactly the opposite of what the writerhad in view, and is nonsense into the bargain. 

A man who writes carelessly at once proves that he himself puts no greatvalue on his own thoughts. For it is only by being convinced of thetruth and importance of our thoughts that there arises in us theinspiration necessary for the inexhaustible patience to discover theclearest, finest, and most powerful expression for them; just as oneputs holy relics or priceless works of art in silvern or goldenreceptacles. It was for this reason that the old writers--whosethoughts, expressed in their own words, have lasted for thousands ofyears and hence bear the honoured title of classics--wrote withuniversal care. Plato, indeed, is said to have written the introductionto his _Republic_ seven times with different modifications. On the otherhand, the Germans are conspicuous above all other nations for neglect ofstyle in writing, as they are for neglect of dress, both kinds ofslovenliness which have their source in the German national character. Just as neglect of dress betrays contempt for the society in which a manmoves, so does a hasty, careless, and bad style show shocking disrespectfor the reader, who then rightly punishes it by not reading the book. 

FOOTNOTES:

[5] Schopenhauer here gives an example of this bombastic style whichwould be of little interest to English readers. --TRANSLATOR. 

[6] _Opera et dies_, v. 40. 

[7] Schopenhauer here at length points out various common errors in thewriting and speaking of German which would lose significance in atranslation. --TR. 

ON NOISE. 

Kant has written a treatise on _The Vital Powers_; but I should like towrite a dirge on them, since their lavish use in the form of knocking, hammering, and tumbling things about has made the whole of my life adaily torment. Certainly there are people, nay, very many, who willsmile at this, because they are not sensitive to noise; it is preciselythese people, however, who are not sensitive to argument, thought, poetry or art, in short, to any kind of intellectual impression: a factto be assigned to the coarse quality and strong texture of their braintissues. On the other hand, in the biographies or in other records ofthe personal utterances of almost all great writers, I find complaintsof the pain that noise has occasioned to intellectual men. For example, in the case of Kant, Goethe, Lichtenberg, Jean Paul; and indeed when nomention is made of the matter it is merely because the context did notlead up to it. I should explain the subject we are treating in this way:If a big diamond is cut up into pieces, it immediately loses its valueas a whole; or if an army is scattered or divided into small bodies, itloses all its power; and in the same way a great intellect has no morepower than an ordinary one as soon as it is interrupted, disturbed, distracted, or diverted; for its superiority entails that itconcentrates all its strength on one point and object, just as a concavemirror concentrates all the rays of light thrown upon it. Noisyinterruption prevents this concentration. This is why the most eminentintellects have always been strongly averse to any kind of disturbance, interruption and distraction, and above everything to that violentinterruption which is caused by noise; other people do not take anyparticular notice of this sort of thing. The most intelligent of all theEuropean nations has called "Never interrupt" the eleventh commandment. But noise is the most impertinent of all interruptions, for it not onlyinterrupts our own thoughts but disperses them. Where, however, there isnothing to interrupt, noise naturally will not be felt particularly. Sometimes a trifling but incessant noise torments and disturbs me for atime, and before I become distinctly conscious of it I feel it merely asthe effort of thinking becomes more difficult, just as I should feel aweight on my foot; then I realise what it is. 

But to pass from _genus_ to _species_, the truly infernal cracking ofwhips in the narrow resounding streets of a town must be denounced asthe most unwarrantable and disgraceful of all noises. It deprives lifeof all peace and sensibility. Nothing gives me so clear a grasp of thestupidity and thoughtlessness of mankind as the tolerance of thecracking of whips. This sudden, sharp crack which paralyses the brain, destroys all meditation, and murders thought, must cause pain to any onewho has anything like an idea in his head. Hence every crack mustdisturb a hundred people applying their minds to some activity, howevertrivial it may be; while it disjoints and renders painful themeditations of the thinker; just like the executioner's axe when itsevers the head from the body. No sound cuts so sharply into the brainas this cursed cracking of whips; one feels the prick of the whip-cordin one's brain, which is affected in the same way as the _mimosa pudica_is by touch, and which lasts the same length of time. With all respectfor the most holy doctrine of utility, I do not see why a fellow who isremoving a load of sand or manure should obtain the privilege of killingin the bud the thoughts that are springing up in the heads of about tenthousand people successively. (He is only half-an-hour on the road. )

Hammering, the barking of dogs, and the screaming of children areabominable; but it is _only_ the cracking of a whip that is the truemurderer of thought. Its object is to destroy every favourable momentthat one now and then may have for reflection. If there were no othermeans of urging on an animal than by making this most disgraceful of allnoises, one would forgive its existence. But it is quite the contrary:this cursed cracking of whips is not only unnecessary but even useless. The effect that it is intended to have on the horse mentally becomesquite blunted and ineffective; since the constant abuse of it hasaccustomed the horse to the crack, he does not quicken his pace for it. This is especially noticeable in the unceasing crack of the whip whichcomes from an empty vehicle as it is being driven at its slowest rate topick up a fare. The slightest touch with the whip would be moreeffective. Allowing, however, that it were absolutely necessary toremind the horse of the presence of the whip by continually cracking it, a crack that made one hundredth part of the noise would be sufficient. It is well known that animals in regard to hearing and seeing notice theslightest indications, even indications that are scarcely perceptible toourselves. Trained dogs and canary birds furnish astonishing examples ofthis. Accordingly, this cracking of whips must be regarded as somethingpurely wanton; nay, as an impudent defiance, on the part of those whowork with their hands, offered to those who work with their heads. Thatsuch infamy is endured in a town is a piece of barbarity and injustice, the more so as it could be easily removed by a police notice requiringevery whip cord to have a knot at the end of it. It would do no harm todraw the proletariat's attention to the classes above him who work withtheir heads; for he has unbounded fear of any kind of head work. Afellow who rides through the narrow streets of a populous town withunemployed post-horses or cart-horses, unceasingly cracking with all hisstrength a whip several yards long, instantly deserves to dismount andreceive five really good blows with a stick. If all the philanthropistsin the world, together with all the legislators, met in order to bringforward their reasons for the total abolition of corporal punishment, Iwould not be persuaded to the contrary. 

But we can see often enough something that is even still worse. I mean acarter walking alone, and without any horses, through the streetsincessantly cracking his whip. He has become so accustomed to the crackin consequence of its unwarrantable toleration. Since one looks afterone's body and all its needs in a most tender fashion, is the thinkingmind to be the only thing that never experiences the slightestconsideration or protection, to say nothing of respect? Carters, sack-bearers (porters), messengers, and such-like, are the beasts ofburden of humanity; they should be treated absolutely with justice, fairness, forbearance and care, but they ought not to be allowed tothwart the higher exertions of the human race by wantonly making anoise. I should like to know how many great and splendid thoughts thesewhips have cracked out of the world. If I had any authority, I shouldsoon produce in the heads of these carters an inseparable _nexusidearum_ between cracking a whip and receiving a whipping. 

Let us hope that those nations with more intelligence and refinedfeelings will make a beginning, and then by force of example induce theGermans to do the same. [8] Meanwhile, hear what Thomas Hood says of them(_Up the Rhine)_: "_For a musical people they are the most noisy I evermet with_" That they are so is not due to their being more prone tomaking a noise than other people, but to their insensibility, whichsprings from obtuseness; they are not disturbed by it in reading orthinking, because they do not think; they only smoke, which is theirsubstitute for thought. The general toleration of unnecessary noise, forinstance, of the clashing of doors, which is so extremely ill-manneredand vulgar, is a direct proof of the dulness and poverty of thought thatone meets with everywhere. In Germany it seems as though it were plannedthat no one should think for noise; take the inane drumming that goes onas an instance. Finally, as far as the literature treated of in thischapter is concerned, I have only one work to recommend, but it is anexcellent one: I mean a poetical epistle in _terzo rimo_ by the famouspainter Bronzino, entitled "_De' Romori: a Messer Luca Martini_" Itdescribes fully and amusingly the torture to which one is put by themany kinds of noises of a small Italian town. It is written intragicomic style. This epistle is to be found in _Opere burlesche delBerni, Aretino ed altri, _ vol. Ii. P. 258, apparently published inUtrecht in 1771. 

The nature of our intellect is such that _ideas_ are said to spring byabstraction from _observations_, so that the latter are in existencebefore the former. If this is really what takes place, as is the casewith a man who has merely his own experience as his teacher and book, heknows quite well which of his observations belong to and are representedby each of his ideas; he is perfectly acquainted with both, andaccordingly he treats everything correctly that comes before his notice. We might call this the natural mode of education. 

On the other hand, an artificial education is having one's head crammedfull of ideas, derived from hearing others talk, from learning andreading, before one has anything like an extensive knowledge of theworld as it is and as one sees it. The observations which produce allthese ideas are said to come later on with experience; but until thenthese ideas are applied wrongly, and accordingly both things and men arejudged wrongly, seen wrongly, and treated wrongly. And so it is thateducation perverts the mind; and this is why, after a long spell oflearning and reading, we enter the world, in our youth, with views thatare partly simple, partly perverted; consequently we comport ourselveswith an air of anxiety at one time, at another of presumption. This isbecause our head is full of ideas which we are now trying to make useof, but almost always apply wrongly. This is the result of ὑστερονπροτερον (putting the cart before the horse), since we are directlyopposing the natural development of our mind by obtaining ideas firstand observations last; for teachers, instead of developing in a boy hisfaculties of discernment and judgment, and of thinking for himself, merely strive to stuff his head full of other people's thoughts. Subsequently, all the opinions that have sprung from misapplied ideashave to be rectified by a lengthy experience; and it is seldom that theyare completely rectified. This is why so few men of learning have suchsound common sense as is quite common among the illiterate. 

 * * * * *

From what has been said, the principal point in education is that _one'sknowledge of the world begins at the right end;_ and the attainment ofwhich might be designated as the aim of all education. But, as has beenpointed out, this depends principally on the observation of each thingpreceding the idea one forms of it; further, that narrow ideas precedebroader; so that the whole of one's instruction is given in the orderthat the ideas themselves during formation must have followed. Butdirectly this order is not strictly adhered to, imperfect andsubsequently wrong ideas spring up; and finally there arises a pervertedview of the world in keeping with the nature of the individual--a viewsuch as almost every one holds for a long time, and most people to theend of their lives. If a man analyses his own character, he will findthat it was not until he reached a very ripe age, and in some casesquite unexpectedly, that he was able to rightly and clearly understandmany matters of a quite simple nature. 

Previously, there had been an obscure point in his knowledge of theworld which had arisen through his omitting something in his earlyeducation, whether he had been either artificially educated by men orjust naturally by his own experience. Therefore one should try to findout the strictly natural course of knowledge, so that by keepingmethodically to it children may become acquainted with the affairs ofthe world, without getting false ideas into their heads, whichfrequently cannot be driven out again. In carrying this out, one mustnext take care that children do not use words with which they connect noclear meaning. Even children have, as a rule, that unhappy tendency ofbeing satisfied with words instead of wishing to understand things, andof learning words by heart, so that they may make use of them when theyare in a difficulty. This tendency clings to them afterwards, so thatthe knowledge of many learned men becomes mere verbosity. 

However, the principal thing must always be to let one's observationsprecede one's ideas, and not the reverse as is usually and unfortunatelythe case; which may be likened to a child coming into the world with itsfeet foremost, or a rhyme begun before thinking of its reason. While thechild's mind has made a very few observations one inculcates it withideas and opinions, which are, strictly speaking, prejudices. Hisobservations and experience are developed through this ready-madeapparatus instead of his ideas being developed out of his ownobservations. In viewing the world one sees many things from many sides, consequently this is not such a short or quick way of learning as thatwhich makes use of abstract ideas, and quickly comes to a decision abouteverything; therefore preconceived ideas will not be rectified untillate, or it may be they are never rectified. For, when a man's viewcontradicts his ideas, he will reject at the outset what it rendersevident as one-sided, nay, he will deny it and shut his eyes to it, sothat his preconceived ideas may remain unaffected. And so it happensthat many men go through life full of oddities, caprices, fancies, andprejudices, until they finally become fixed ideas. He has neverattempted to abstract fundamental ideas from his own observations andexperience, because he has got everything ready-made from other people;and it is for this very reason that he and countless others are soinsipid and shallow. Instead of such a system, the natural system ofeducation should be employed in educating children. No idea should beimpregnated but what has come through the medium of observations, or atany rate been verified by them. A child would have fewer ideas, but theywould be well-grounded and correct. It would learn to measure thingsaccording to its own standard and not according to another's. It wouldthen never acquire a thousand whims and prejudices which must beeradicated by the greater part of subsequent experience and education. Its mind would henceforth be accustomed to thoroughness and clearness;the child would rely on its own judgment, and be free from prejudices. And, in general, children should not get to know life, in any aspectwhatever, from the copy before they have learnt it from the original. Instead, therefore, of hastening to place mere books in their hands, oneshould make them gradually acquainted with things and the circumstancesof human life, and above everything one should take care to guide themto a clear grasp of reality, and to teach them to obtain their ideasdirectly from the real world, and to form them in keeping with it--butnot to get them from elsewhere, as from books, fables, or what othershave said--and then later to make use of such ready-made ideas in reallife. The result will be that their heads are full of chimeras and thatsome will have a wrong comprehension of things, and others willfruitlessly endeavour to remodel the world according to those chimeras, and so get on to wrong paths both in theory and practice. For it isincredible how much harm is done by false notions which have beenimplanted early in life, only to develop later on into prejudices; thelater education which we get from the world and real life must beemployed in eradicating these early ideas. And this is why, as isrelated by Diogenes Laertius, Antisthenes gave the following answer:έρωτηθεις τι των μαθηματων ἀναγκαιοτατον, έφη, "το κακα ἀπομαθειν. "(_Interrogatus quaenam esset disciplina maxime necessaria, Mala, inquit, dediscere_. )

 * * * * *

Children should be kept from all kinds of instruction that may makeerrors possible until their sixteenth year, that is to say, fromphilosophy, religion, and general views of every description; because itis the errors that are acquired in early days that remain, as a rule, ineradicable, and because the faculty of judgment is the last to arriveat maturity. They should only be interested in such things that makeerrors impossible, such as mathematics, in things which are not verydangerous, such as languages, natural science, history, and so forth; ingeneral, the branches of knowledge which are to be taken up at any agemust be within reach of the intellect at that age and perfectlycomprehensible to it. Childhood and youth are the time for collectingdata and getting to know specially and thoroughly individual andparticular things. On the other hand, all judgment of a general naturemust at that time be suspended, and final explanations left alone. Oneshould leave the faculty of judgment alone, as it only comes withmaturity and experience, and also take care that one does not anticipateit by inculcating prejudice, when it will be crippled for ever. 

On the contrary, the memory is to be specially exercised, as it has itsgreatest strength and tenacity in youth; however, what has to beretained must be chosen with the most careful and scrupulousconsideration. For as it is what we have learnt well in our youth thatlasts, we should take the greatest possible advantage of this preciousgift. If we picture to ourselves how deeply engraven on our memory thepeople are whom we knew during the first twelve years of our life, andhow indelibly imprinted are also the events of that time, and most ofthe things that we then experienced, heard, or learnt, the idea ofbasing education on this susceptibility and tenacity of the youthfulmind will seem natural; in that the mind receives its impressionsaccording to a strict method and a regular system. But because the yearsof youth that are assigned to man are only few, and the capacity forremembering, in general, is always limited (and still more so thecapacity for remembering of the individual), everything depends on thememory being filled with what is most essential and important in anydepartment of knowledge, to the exclusion of everything else. Thisselection should be made by the most capable minds and masters in everybranch of knowledge after the most mature consideration, and the resultof it established. Such a selection must be based on a sifting ofmatters which are necessary and important for a man to know in general, and also for him to know in a particular profession or calling. Knowledge of the first kind would have to be divided into graduatedcourses, like an encyclop�dia, corresponding to the degree of generalculture which each man has attained in his external circumstances; froma course restricted to what is necessary for primary instruction up tothe matter contained in every branch of the philosophical faculty. Knowledge of the second kind would, however, be reserved for him who hadreally mastered the selection in all its branches. The whole would givea canon specially devised for intellectual education, which naturallywould require revision every ten years. By such an arrangement theyouthful power of the memory would be put to the best advantage, and itwould furnish the faculty of judgment with excellent material when itappeared later on. 

 * * * * *

What is meant by maturity of knowledge is that state of perfection towhich any one individual is able to bring it, when an exactcorrespondence has been effected between the whole of his abstract ideasand his own personal observations: whereby each of his ideas restsdirectly or indirectly on a basis of observation, which alone gives itany real value; and likewise he is able to place every observation thathe makes under the right idea corresponding to it. 

_Maturity_ of knowledge is the work of experience alone, andconsequently of time. For the knowledge we acquire from our ownobservation is, as a rule, distinct from that we get through abstractideas; the former is acquired in the natural way, while the latter comesthrough good and bad instruction and what other people have told to us. Consequently, in youth there is generally little harmony and connectionbetween our ideas, which mere expressions have fixed, and our realknowledge, which has been acquired by observation. Later they bothgradually approach and correct each other; but maturity of knowledgedoes not exist until they have become quite incorporated. This maturityis quite independent of that other kind of perfection, the standard ofwhich may be high or low, I mean the perfection to which the capacitiesof an individual may be brought; it is not based on a correspondencebetween the abstract and intuitive knowledge, but on the degree ofintensity of each. 

The most necessary thing for the practical man is the attainment of anexact and thorough knowledge of _what is really going on in the world;_but it is also the most irksome, for a man may continue studying untilold age without having learnt all that is to be learnt; while one canmaster the most important things in the sciences in one's youth. Ingetting such a knowledge of the world, it is as a novice that the boyand youth have the first and most difficult lessons to learn; butfrequently even the matured man has still much to learn. The study is ofconsiderable difficulty in itself, but it is made doubly difficult by_novels_, which depict the ways of the world and of men who do not existin real life. But these are accepted with the credulity of youth, andbecome incorporated with the mind; so that now, in the place of purelynegative ignorance, a whole framework of wrong ideas, which arepositively wrong, crops up, subsequently confusing the schooling ofexperience and representing the lesson it teaches in a false light. Ifthe youth was previously in the dark, he will now be led astray by awill-o'-the-wisp: and with a girl this is still more frequently thecase. They have been deluded into an absolutely false view of life byreading novels, and expectations have been raised that can never befulfilled. This generally has the most harmful effect on their wholelives. Those men who had neither time nor opportunity to read novels intheir youth, such as those who work with their hands, have decidedadvantage over them. Few of these novels are exempt from reproach--nay, whose effect is contrary to bad. Before all others, for instance, _GilBlas_ and the other works of Le Sage (or rather their Spanishoriginals); further, _The Vicar of Wakefield_, and to some extent thenovels of Walter Scott. _Don Quixote_ may be regarded as a satiricalpresentation of the error in question. 

FOOTNOTES:

[8] According to a notice from the Munich Society for the Protection ofAnimals, the superfluous whipping and cracking were strictly forbiddenin Nuremberg in December 1858. 

ON READING AND BOOKS. 

Ignorance is degrading only when it is found in company with riches. Want and penury restrain the poor man; his employment takes the place ofknowledge and occupies his thoughts: while rich men who are ignorantlive for their pleasure only, and resemble a beast; as may be seendaily. They are to be reproached also for not having used wealth andleisure for that which lends them their greatest value. 

When we read, another person thinks for us: we merely repeat his mentalprocess. It is the same as the pupil, in learning to write, followingwith his pen the lines that have been pencilled by the teacher. Accordingly, in reading, the work of thinking is, for the greater part, done for us. This is why we are consciously relieved when we turn toreading after being occupied with our own thoughts. But, in reading, ourhead is, however, really only the arena of some one else's thoughts. Andso it happens that the person who reads a great deal--that is to say, almost the whole day, and recreates himself by spending the intervals inthoughtless diversion, gradually loses the ability to think for himself;just as a man who is always riding at last forgets how to walk. Such, however, is the case with many men of learning: they have readthemselves stupid. For to read in every spare moment, and to readconstantly, is more paralysing to the mind than constant manual work, which, at any rate, allows one to follow one's own thoughts. Just as aspring, through the continual pressure of a foreign body, at last losesits elasticity, so does the mind if it has another person's thoughtscontinually forced upon it. And just as one spoils the stomach byoverfeeding and thereby impairs the whole body, so can one overload andchoke the mind by giving it too much nourishment. For the more one readsthe fewer are the traces left of what one has read; the mind is like atablet that has been written over and over. Hence it is impossible toreflect; and it is only by reflection that one can assimilate what onehas read if one reads straight ahead without pondering over it later, what has been read does not take root, but is for the most part lost. Indeed, it is the same with mental as with bodily food: scarcely thefifth part of what a man takes is assimilated; the remainder passes offin evaporation, respiration, and the like. 

From all this it may be concluded that thoughts put down on paper arenothing more than footprints in the sand: one sees the road the man hastaken, but in order to know what he saw on the way, one requires hiseyes. 

 * * * * *

No literary quality can be attained by reading writers who possess it:be it, for example, persuasiveness, imagination, the gift of drawingcomparisons, boldness or bitterness, brevity or grace, facility ofexpression or wit, unexpected contrasts, a laconic manner, na�vet�, andthe like. But if we are already gifted with these qualities--that is tosay, if we possess them _potentia_--we can call them forth and bringthem to consciousness; we can discern to what uses they are to be put;we can be strengthened in our inclination, nay, may have courage, to usethem; we can judge by examples the effect of their application and solearn the correct use of them; and it is only after we have accomplishedall this that we _actu_ possess these qualities. This is the only way inwhich reading can form writing, since it teaches us the use to which wecan put our own natural gifts; and in order to do this it must be takenfor granted that these qualities are in us. Without them we learnnothing from reading but cold, dead mannerisms, and we become mereimitators. 

 * * * * *

The health officer should, in the interest of one's eyes, see that thesmallness of print has a fixed minimum, which must not be exceeded. WhenI was in Venice in 1818, at which time the genuine Venetian chain wasstill being made, a goldsmith told me that those who made the _catenafina_ turned blind at thirty. 

 * * * * *

As the strata of the earth preserve in rows the beings which lived informer times, so do the shelves of a library preserve in a like mannerthe errors of the past and expositions concerning them. Like thosecreatures, they too were full of life in their time and made a greatdeal of noise; but now they are stiff and fossilised, and only ofinterest to the literary palaeontologist. 

 * * * * *

According to Herodotus, Xerxes wept at the sight of his army, which wastoo extensive for him to scan, at the thought that a hundred years hencenot one of all these would be alive. Who would not weep at the thoughtin looking over a big catalogue that of all these books not one will bein existence in ten years' time?

It is the same in literature as in life. Wherever one goes oneimmediately comes upon the incorrigible mob of humanity. It existseverywhere in legions; crowding, soiling everything, like flies insummer. Hence the numberless bad books, those rank weeds of literaturewhich extract nourishment from the corn and choke it. 

They monopolise the time, money, and attention which really belong togood books and their noble aims; they are written merely with a view tomaking money or procuring places. They are not only useless, but they dopositive harm. Nine-tenths of the whole of our present literature aimssolely at taking a few shillings out of the public's pocket, and toaccomplish this, author, publisher, and reviewer have joined forces. 

There is a more cunning and worse trick, albeit a profitable one. _Litt�rateurs_, hack-writers, and productive authors have succeeded, contrary to good taste and the true culture of the age, in bringing theworld _elegante_ into leading-strings, so that they have been taught toread _a tempo_ and all the same thing--namely, _the newest books_ orderthat they may have material for conversation in their social circles. Bad novels and similar productions from the pen of writers who were oncefamous, such as Spindler, Bulwer, Eug�ne Sue, and so on, serve thispurpose. But what can be more miserable than the fate of a readingpublic of this kind, that feels always impelled to read the latestwritings of extremely commonplace authors who write for money only, andtherefore exist in numbers? And for the sake of this they merely know byname the works of the rare and superior writers, of all ages andcountries. 

Literary newspapers, since they print the daily smatterings ofcommonplace people, are especially a cunning means for robbing from theaesthetic public the time which should be devoted to the genuineproductions of art for the furtherance of culture. 

Hence, in regard to our subject, the art of _not_ reading is highlyimportant. This consists in not taking a book into one's hand merelybecause it is interesting the great public at the time--such aspolitical or religious pamphlets, novels, poetry, and the like, whichmake a noise and reach perhaps several editions in their first and lastyears of existence. Remember rather that the man who writes for foolsalways finds a large public: and only read for a limited and definitetime exclusively the works of great minds, those who surpass other menof all times and countries, and whom the voice of fame points to assuch. These alone really educate and instruct. 

One can never read too little of bad, or too much of good books: badbooks are intellectual poison; they destroy the mind. 

In order to read what is good one must make it a condition never to readwhat is bad; for life is short, and both time and strength limited. 

 * * * * *

Books are written sometimes about this, sometimes about that greatthinker of former times, and the public reads these books, but not theworks of the man himself. This is because it wants to read only what hasjust been printed, and because _similis simili gaudet_, and it finds theshallow, insipid gossip of some stupid head of to-day more homogeneousand agreeable than the thoughts of great minds. I have to thank fate, however, that a fine epigram of A. B. Schlegel, which has since been myguiding star, came before my notice as a youth:

 "Leset fleizig die Alten, die wahren eigentlich Alten Was die Neuen davon sagen bedeutet nicht viel. "

Oh, how like one commonplace mind is to another! How they are allfashioned in one form! How they all think alike under similarcircumstances, and never differ! This is why their views are so personaland petty. And a stupid public reads the worthless trash written bythese fellows for no other reason than that it has been printed to-day, while it leaves the works of great thinkers undisturbed on thebookshelves. 

Incredible are the folly and perversity of a public that will leaveunread writings of the noblest and rarest of minds, of all times and allcountries, for the sake of reading the writings of commonplace personswhich appear daily, and breed every year in countless numbers likeflies; merely because these writings have been printed to-day and arestill wet from the press. It would be better if they were thrown on oneside and rejected the day they appeared, as they must be after the lapseof a few years. They will then afford material for laughter asillustrating the follies of a former time. 

It is because people will only read what is _the newest_ instead of whatis the best of all ages, that writers remain in the narrow circle ofprevailing ideas, and that the age sinks deeper and deeper in its ownmire. 

 * * * * *

There are at all times two literatures which, although scarcely known toeach other, progress side by side--the one real, the other merelyapparent. The former grows into literature that _lasts_. Pursued bypeople who live _for_ science or poetry, it goes its way earnestly andquietly, but extremely slowly; and it produces in Europe scarcely adozen works in a century, which, however, are _permanent_. The otherliterature is pursued by people who live _on_ science or poetry; it goesat a gallop amid a great noise and shouting of those taking part, andbrings yearly many thousand works into the market. But after a few yearsone asks, Where are they? where is their fame, which was so greatformerly? This class of literature may be distinguished as fleeting, theother as permanent. 

 * * * * *

It would be a good thing to buy books if one could also buy the time toread them; but one usually confuses the purchase of books with theacquisition of their contents. To desire that a man should retaineverything he has ever read, is the same as wishing him to retain in hisstomach all that he has ever eaten. He has been bodily nourished on whathe has eaten, and mentally on what he has read, and through them becomewhat he is. As the body assimilates what is homogeneous to it, so will aman _retain_ what _interests_ him; in other words, what coincides withhis system of thought or suits his ends. Every one has aims, but veryfew have anything approaching a system of thought. This is why suchpeople do not take an objective interest in anything, and why they learnnothing from what they read: they remember nothing about it. 

_Repetitio est mater studiorum_. Any kind of important book shouldimmediately be read twice, partly because one grasps the matter in itsentirety the second time, and only really understands the beginning whenthe end is known; and partly because in reading it the second time one'stemper and mood are different, so that one gets another impression; itmay be that one sees the matter in another light. 

Works are the quintessence of a mind, and are therefore always of by fargreater value than conversation, even if it be the conversation of thegreatest mind. In every essential a man's works surpass his conversationand leave it far behind. Even the writings of an ordinary man may beinstructive, worth reading, and entertaining, for the simple reason thatthey are the quintessence of that man's mind--that is to say, thewritings are the result and fruit of his whole thought and study; whilewe should be dissatisfied with his conversation. Accordingly, it ispossible to read books written by people whose conversation would giveus no satisfaction; so that the mind will only by degrees attain highculture by finding entertainment almost entirely in books, and not inmen. 

There is nothing that so greatly recreates the mind as the works of theold classic writers. Directly one has been taken up, even if it is onlyfor half-an-hour, one feels as quickly refreshed, relieved, purified, elevated, and strengthened as if one had refreshed oneself at a mountainstream. Is this due to the perfections of the old languages, or to thegreatness of the minds whose works have remained unharmed and untouchedfor centuries? Perhaps to both combined. This I know, directly we stoplearning the old languages (as is at present threatening) a new class ofliterature will spring up, consisting of writing that is more barbaric, stupid, and worthless than has ever yet existed; that, in particular, the German language, which possesses some of the beauties of the oldlanguages, will be systematically spoilt and stripped by these worthlesscontemporary scribblers, until, little by little, it becomesimpoverished, crippled, and reduced to a miserable jargon. 

Half a century is always a considerable time in the history of theuniverse, for the matter which forms it is always shifting; something isalways taking place. But the same length of time in literature oftengoes for nothing, because nothing has happened; unskilful attempts don'tcount; so that we are exactly where we were fifty years previously. 

To illustrate this: imagine the progress of knowledge among mankind inthe form of a planet's course. The false paths the human race soonfollows after any important progress has been made represent theepicycles in the Ptolemaic system; after passing through any one of themthe planet is just where it was before it entered it. The great minds, however, which really bring the race further on its course, do notaccompany it on the epicycles which it makes every time. This explainswhy posthumous fame is got at the expense of contemporary fame, and_vice vers�_. We have an instance of such an epicycle in the philosophyof Fichte and Schelling, crowned by Hegel's caricature of it. Thisepicycle issued from the limit to which philosophy had been finallybrought by Kant, where I myself took it up again later to carry itfurther. In the interim the false philosophers I have mentioned, andsome others, passed through their epicycle, which has just beenterminated; hence the people who accompanied them are conscious of beingexactly at the point from which they started. 

This condition of things shows why the scientific, literary, andartistic spirit of the age is declared bankrupt about every thirtyyears. During that period the errors have increased to such an extentthat they fall under the weight of their absurdity; while at the sametime the opposition to them has become stronger. At this point there isa crash, which is followed by an error in the opposite direction. Toshow the course that is taken in its periodical return would be the truepractical subject of the history of literature; little notice is takenof it, however. Moreover, through the comparative shortness of suchperiods, the data of remote times are with difficulty collected; hencethe matter can be most conveniently observed in one's own age. Anexample of this taken from physical science is found in Werter'sNeptunian geology. But let me keep to the example already quoted above, for it is nearest to us. In German philosophy Kant's brilliant periodwas immediately followed by another period, which aimed at beingimposing rather than convincing. Instead of being solid and clear, itaimed at being brilliant and hyperbolical, and, in particular, unintelligible; instead of seeking truth, it intrigued. Under thesecircumstances philosophy could make no progress. Ultimately the wholeschool and its method became bankrupt. For the audacious, sophisticatednonsense on the one hand, and the unconscionable praise on the other ofHegel and his fellows, as well as the apparent object of the wholeaffair, rose to such a pitch that in the end the charlatanry of thething was obvious to everybody; and when, in consequence of certainrevelations, the protection that had been given it by the upper classeswas withdrawn, it was talked about by everybody. This most miserable ofall the philosophies that have ever existed dragged down with it intothe abyss of discredit the systems of Fichte and Schelling, which hadpreceded it. So that the absolute philosophical futility of the firsthalf of the century following upon Kant in Germany is obvious; and yetthe Germans boast of their gift for philosophy compared with foreigners, especially since an English writer, with malicious irony, called them _anation of thinkers_. 

Those who want an example of the general scheme of epicycles taken fromthe history of art need only look at the School of Sculpture whichflourished in the last century under Bernini, and especially at itsfurther cultivation in France. This school represented commonplacenature instead of antique beauty, and the manners of a French minuetinstead of antique simplicity and grace. It became bankrupt when, underWinckelmann's direction, a return was made to the antique school. Another example is supplied in the painting belonging to the firstquarter of this century. Art was regarded merely as a means andinstrument of mediaeval religious feeling, and consequentlyecclesiastical subjects alone were chosen for its themes. These, however, were treated by painters who were wanting in earnestness offaith, and in their delusion they took for examples Francesco Francia, Pietro Perugino, Angelico da Fiesole, and others like them, even holdingthem in greater esteem than the truly great masters who followed. Inview of this error, and because in poetry an analogous effort had at thesame time met with favour, Goethe wrote his parable _Pfaffenspiel_. Thisschool, reputedly capricious, became bankrupt, and was followed by areturn to nature, which made itself known in _genre_ pictures and scenesof life of every description, even though it strayed sometimes intovulgarity. 

It is the same with the progress of the human mind in the _history ofliterature_, which is for the most part like the catalogue of a cabinetof deformities; the spirit in which they keep the longest is pigskin. Wedo not need to look there for the few who have been born shapely; theyare still alive, and we come across them in every part of the world, like immortals whose youth is ever fresh. They alone form what I havedistinguished as _real_ literature, the history of which, although poorin persons, we learn from our youth up out of the mouths of educatedpeople, and not first of all from compilations. As a specific againstthe present prevailing monomania for reading literary histories, so thatone may be able to chatter about everything without really knowinganything, let me refer you to a passage from Lichtenberg which is wellworth reading (vol. Ii. P. 302 of the old edition). 

But I wish some one would attempt a _tragical history of literature_, showing how the greatest writers and artists have been treated duringtheir lives by the various nations which have produced them and whoseproudest possessions they are. It would show us the endless fight whichthe good and genuine works of all periods and countries have had tocarry on against the perverse and bad. It would depict the martyrdom ofalmost all those who truly enlightened humanity, of almost all the greatmasters in every kind of art; it would show us how they, with fewexceptions, were tormented without recognition, without any to sharetheir misery, without followers; how they existed in poverty and miserywhilst fame, honour, and riches fell to the lot of the worthless; itwould reveal that what happened to them happened to Esau, who, whilehunting the deer for his father, was robbed of the blessing by Jacobdisguised in his brother's coat; and how through it all the love oftheir subject kept them up, until at last the trying fight of such ateacher of the human race is ended, the immortal laurel offered to him, and the time come when it can be said of him

 "Der schwere Panzer wird zum Fl�gelkleide Kurz ist der Schmerz, unendlich ist die Freude. "

THE EMPTINESS OF EXISTENCE. 

This emptiness finds its expression in the whole form of existence, inthe infiniteness of Time and Space as opposed to the finiteness of theindividual in both; in the flitting present as the only manner of realexistence; in the dependence and relativity of all things; in constantlyBecoming without Being; in continually wishing without being satisfied;in an incessant thwarting of one's efforts, which go to make up life, until victory is won. _Time_, and the _transitoriness_ of all things, are merely the form under which the will to live, which as thething-in-itself is imperishable, has revealed to Time the futility ofits efforts. Time is that by which at every moment all things become asnothing in our hands, and thereby lose all their true value. 

 * * * * *

What _has been_ exists no more; and exists just as little as that whichhas _never_ been. But everything that exists _has been_ in the nextmoment. Hence something belonging to the present, however unimportant itmay be, is superior to something important belonging to the past; thisis because the former is a _reality_ and related to the latter assomething is to nothing. 

A man to his astonishment all at once becomes conscious of existingafter having been in a state of non-existence for many thousands ofyears, when, presently again, he returns to a state of non-existence foran equally long time. This cannot possibly be true, says the heart; andeven the crude mind, after giving the matter its consideration, musthave some sort of presentiment of the ideality of time. This ideality oftime, together with that of space, is the key to every true system ofmetaphysics, because it finds room for quite another order of thingsthan is to be found in nature. This is why Kant is so great. 

Of every event in our life it is only for a moment that we can say thatit _is_; after that we must say for ever that it _was_. Every eveningmakes us poorer by a day. It would probably make us angry to see thisshort space of time slipping away, if we were not secretly conscious inthe furthest depths of our being that the spring of eternity belongs tous, and that in it we are always able to have life renewed. 

Reflections of the nature of those above may, indeed, establish thebelief that to enjoy the present, and to make this the purpose of one'slife, is the greatest _wisdom_; since it is the present alone that isreal, everything else being only the play of thought. But such a purposemight just as well be called the greatest _folly_, for that which in thenext moment exists no more, and vanishes as completely as a dream, cannever be worth a serious effort. 

 * * * * *

Our existence is based solely on the ever-fleeting present. Essentially, therefore, it has to take the form of continual motion without thereever being any possibility of our finding the rest after which we arealways striving. It is the same as a man running downhill, who falls ifhe tries to stop, and it is only by his continuing to run on that hekeeps on his legs; it is like a pole balanced on one's finger-tips, orlike a planet that would fall into its sun as soon as it stoppedhurrying onwards. Hence unrest is the type of existence. 

In a world like this, where there is no kind of stability, nopossibility of anything lasting, but where everything is thrown into arestless whirlpool of change, where everything hurries on, flies, and ismaintained in the balance by a continual advancing and moving, it isimpossible to imagine happiness. It cannot dwell where, as Plato says, _continual Becoming and never Being_ is all that takes place. First ofall, no man is happy; he strives his whole life long after imaginaryhappiness, which he seldom attains, and if he does, then it is only tobe disillusioned; and as a rule he is shipwrecked in the end and entersthe harbour dismasted. Then it is all the same whether he has been happyor unhappy in a life which was made up of a merely ever-changing presentand is now at an end. 

Meanwhile it surprises one to find, both in the world of human beingsand in that of animals, that this great, manifold, and restless motionis sustained and kept going by the medium of two simple impulses--hungerand the instinct of sex, helped perhaps a little by boredom--and thatthese have the power to form the _primum mobile_ of so complex amachinery, setting in motion the variegated show!

Looking at the matter a little closer, we see at the very outset thatthe existence of inorganic matter is being constantly attacked bychemical forces which eventually annihilates it. While organic existenceis only made possible by continual change of matter, to keep up aperpetual supply of which it must consequently have help from without. Therefore organic life is like balancing a pole on one's hand; it mustbe kept in continual motion, and have a constant supply of matter ofwhich it is continually and endlessly in need. Nevertheless it is onlyby means of this organic life that consciousness is possible. 

Accordingly this is a _finite existence_, and its antithesis would be an_infinite_, neither exposed to any attack from without nor in want ofhelp from without, and hence ἀεί ὡσαύτως ὄν, in eternal rest; οὔτεγιγνόμενον, οὔτε ἀπολλύμενον, without change, without time, and withoutdiversity; the negative knowledge of which is the fundamental note ofPlato's philosophy. The denial of the will to live reveals the way tosuch a state as this. 

 * * * * *

The scenes of our life are like pictures in rough mosaic, which have noeffect at close quarters, but must be looked at from a distance in orderto discern their beauty. So that to obtain something we have desired isto find out that it is worthless; we are always living in expectation ofbetter things, while, at the same time, we often repent and long forthings that belong to the past. We accept the present as something thatis only temporary, and regard it only as a means to accomplish our aim. So that most people will find if they look back when their life is at anend, that they have lived their lifelong _ad interim_, and they will besurprised to find that something they allowed to pass by unnoticed andunenjoyed was just their life--that is to say, it was the very thing inthe expectation of which they lived. And so it may be said of man ingeneral that, befooled by hope, he dances into the arms of death. 

Then again, there is the insatiability of each individual will; everytime it is satisfied a new wish is engendered, and there is no end toits eternally insatiable desires. 

This is because the Will, taken in itself, is the lord of worlds; sinceeverything belongs to it, it is not satisfied with a portion ofanything, but only with the whole, which, however, is endless. Meanwhileit must excite our pity when we consider how extremely little this lordof the world receives, when it makes its appearance as an individual;for the most part only just enough to maintain the body. This is why manis so very unhappy. 

In the present age, which is intellectually impotent and remarkable forits veneration of what is bad in every form--a condition of things whichis quite in keeping with the coined word "Jetztzeit" (present time), aspretentious as it is cacophonic--the pantheists make bold to say thatlife is, as they call it, "an end-in itself. " If our existence in thisworld were an end-in-itself, it would be the most absurd end that wasever determined; even we ourselves or any one else might have imaginedit. 

Life presents itself next as a task, the task, that is, of subsisting_de gagner sa vie_. If this is solved, then that which has been wonbecomes a burden, and involves the second task of its being got rid ofin order to ward off boredom, which, like a bird of prey, is ready tofall upon any life that is secure from want. 

So that the first task is to win something, and the second, after thesomething has been won, to forget about it, otherwise it becomes aburden. 

That human life must be a kind of mistake is sufficiently clear from thefact that man is a compound of needs, which are difficult to satisfy;moreover, if they are satisfied, all he is granted is a state ofpainlessness, in which he can only give himself up to boredom. This is aprecise proof that existence in itself has no value, since boredom ismerely the feeling of the emptiness of life. If, for instance, life, thelonging for which constitutes our very being, had in itself any positiveand real value, boredom could not exist; mere existence in itself wouldsupply us with everything, and therefore satisfy us. But our existencewould not be a joyous thing unless we were striving after something;distance and obstacles to be overcome then represent our aim assomething that would satisfy us--an illusion which vanishes when our aimhas been attained; or when we are engaged in something that is of apurely intellectual nature, when, in reality, we have retired from theworld, so that we may observe it from the outside, like spectators at atheatre. Even sensual pleasure itself is nothing but a continualstriving, which ceases directly its aim is attained. As soon as we arenot engaged in one of these two ways, but thrown back on existenceitself, we are convinced of the emptiness and worthlessness of it; andthis it is we call boredom. That innate and ineradicable craving forwhat is out of the common proves how glad we are to have the natural andtedious course of things interrupted. Even the pomp and splendour of therich in their stately castles is at bottom nothing but a futile attemptto escape the very essence of existence, _misery_. 

 * * * * *

That the most perfect manifestation of the _will to live_, whichpresents itself in the extremely subtle and complicated machinery of thehuman organism, must fall to dust and finally deliver up its whole beingto dissolution, is the na�ve way in which Nature, invariably true andgenuine, declares the whole striving of the will in its very essence tobe of no avail. If it were of any value in itself, somethingunconditioned, its end would not be non-existence. This is the dominantnote of Goethe's beautiful song:

 "Hoch auf dem alten Thurme steht Des Helden edler Geist. "

That man is nothing but a phenomenon, that he isnot-the-thing-in-itself--I mean that he is not ὄντως ὄν--is proved bythe fact that _death is a necessity_. 

And how different the beginning of our life is to the end! The former ismade up of deluded hopes, sensual enjoyment, while the latter is pursuedby bodily decay and the odour of death. 

The road dividing the two, as far as our well-being and enjoyment oflife are concerned, is downhill; the dreaminess of childhood, thejoyousness of youth, the troubles of middle age, the infirmity andfrequent misery of old age, the agonies of our last illness, and finallythe struggle with death--do all these not make one feel that existenceis nothing but a mistake, the consequences of which are becominggradually more and more obvious?

It would be wisest to regard life as a _desenga�o_, a delusion; thateverything is intended to be so is sufficiently clear. 

Our life is of a microscopical nature; it is an indivisible point which, drawn out by the powerful lenses of Time and Space, becomes considerablymagnified. 

Time is an element in our brain which by the means of duration gives asemblance of reality to the _absolutely empty existence_ of things andourselves. 

How foolish it is for a man to regret and deplore his having made no useof past opportunities, which might have secured him this or thathappiness or enjoyment! What is there left of them now? Only the ghostof a remembrance! And it is the same with everything that really fallsto our lot. So that the _form of time_ itself, and how much is reckonedon it, is a definite way of proving to us the vanity of all earthlyenjoyment. 

Our existence, as well as that of all animals, is not one that lasts, itis only temporary, merely an _existentia fluxa_, which may be comparedto a water-mill in that it is constantly changing. 

It is true that the _form_ of the body lasts for a time, but only oncondition that the matter is constantly changing, that the old matter isthrown off and new added. And it is the chief work of all livingcreatures to secure a constant supply of suitable matter. At the sametime, they are conscious that their existence is so fashioned as to lastonly for a certain time, as has been said. This is why they attempt, when they are taking leave of life, to hand it over to some one else whowill take their place. This attempt takes the form of the sexualinstinct in self-consciousness, and in the consciousness of other thingspresents itself objectively--that is, in the form of genital instinct. This instinct may be compared to the threading of a string of pearls;one individual succeeding another as rapidly as the pearls on thethread. If we, in imagination, hasten on this succession, we shall seethat the matter is constantly changing in the whole row just as it ischanging in each pearl, while it retains the same form: we will thenrealise that we have only a quasi-existence. That it is only Ideas whichexist, and the shadow-like nature of the thing corresponding to them, isthe basis of Plato's teachings. 

That we are nothing but _phenomena_ as opposed to the thing-in-itself isconfirmed, exemplified, and made clear by the fact that the _conditiosine qua non_ of our existence is a continual flowing off and flowing toof matter which, as nourishment, is a constant need. So that we resemblesuch phenomena as smoke, fire, or a jet of water, all of which die outor stop directly there is no supply of matter. It may be said then thatthe _will to live_ presents itself in the form of _pure phenomena_ whichend _in nothing_. This nothingness, however, together with thephenomena, remain within the boundary of the _will to live_ and arebased on it. I admit that this is somewhat obscure. 

If we try to get a general view of humanity at a glance, we shall seeeverywhere a constant fighting and mighty struggling for life andexistence; that mental and bodily strength is taxed to the utmost, andopposed by threatening and actual dangers and woes of every kind. 

And if we consider the price that is paid for all this, existence, andlife itself, it will be found that there has been an interval whenexistence was free from pain, an interval, however, which wasimmediately followed by boredom, and which in its turn was quicklyterminated by fresh cravings. 

That boredom is immediately followed by fresh needs is a fact which isalso true of the cleverer order of animals, because life has _no trueand genuine value_ in itself, but is kept _in motion_ merely through themedium of needs and illusion. As soon as there are no needs and illusionwe become conscious of the absolute barrenness and emptiness ofexistence. 

If one turns from contemplating the course of the world at large, and inparticular from the ephemeral and mock existence of men as they followeach other in rapid succession, to the _detail_ of _life_, how like acomedy it seems!

It impresses us in the same way as a drop of water, crowded with_infusoria_, seen through a microscope, or a little heap of cheese-mitesthat would otherwise be invisible. Their activity and struggling witheach other in such little space amuse us greatly. And it is the same inthe little span of life--great and earnest activity produces a comiceffect. 

No man has ever felt perfectly happy in the present; if he had it wouldhave intoxicated him. 

ON WOMEN. 

These few words of Jouy, _Sans les femmes le commencement de notre vieseroit priv� de secours, le milieu de plaisirs et la fin deconsolation_, more exactly express, in my opinion, the true praise ofwoman than Schiller's poem, _W�rde der Frauen_, which is the fruit ofmuch careful thought and impressive because of its antithesis and use ofcontrast. The same thing is more pathetically expressed by Byron in_Sardanapalus_, Act i, Sc. 2:--

 "The very first Of human life must spring from woman's breast, Your first small words are taught you from her lips, Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing, When men have shrunk from the ignoble care Of watching the last hour of him who led them. "

Both passages show the right point of view for the appreciation ofwomen. 

One need only look at a woman's shape to discover that she is notintended for either too much mental or too much physical work. She paysthe debt of life not by what she does but by what she suffers--by thepains of child-bearing, care for the child, and by subjection to man, towhom she should be a patient and cheerful companion. The greatestsorrows and joys or great exhibition of strength are not assigned toher; her life should flow more quietly, more gently, and lessobtrusively than man's, without her being essentially happier orunhappier. 

 * * * * *

Women are directly adapted to act as the nurses and educators of ourearly childhood, for the simple reason that they themselves arechildish, foolish, and short-sighted--in a word, are big children alltheir lives, something intermediate between the child and the man, whois a man in the strict sense of the word. Consider how a young girl willtoy day after day with a child, dance with it and sing to it; and thenconsider what a man, with the very best intentions in the world, coulddo in her place. 

 * * * * *

With girls, Nature has had in view what is called in a dramatic sense a"striking effect, " for she endows them for a few years with a richnessof beauty and a, fulness of charm at the expense of the rest of theirlives; so that they may during these years ensnare the fantasy of a manto such a degree as to make him rush into taking the honourable care ofthem, in some kind of form, for a lifetime--a step which would notseem sufficiently justified if he only considered the matter. Accordingly, Nature has furnished woman, as she has the rest of hercreatures, with the weapons and implements necessary for the protectionof her existence and for just the length of time that they will be ofservice to her; so that Nature has proceeded here with her usualeconomy. Just as the female ant after coition loses her wings, whichthen become superfluous, nay, dangerous for breeding purposes, so forthe most part does a woman lose her beauty after giving birth to one ortwo children; and probably for the same reasons. 

Then again we find that young girls in their hearts regard theirdomestic or other affairs as secondary things, if not as a mere jest. Love, conquests, and all that these include, such as dressing, dancing, and so on, they give their serious attention. 

 * * * * *

The nobler and more perfect a thing is, the later and slower is it inreaching maturity. Man reaches the maturity of his reasoning and mentalfaculties scarcely before he is eight-and-twenty; woman when she iseighteen; but hers is reason of very narrow limitations. This is whywomen remain children all their lives, for they always see only what isnear at hand, cling to the present, take the appearance of a thing forreality, and prefer trifling matters to the most important. It is byvirtue of man's reasoning powers that he does not live in the presentonly, like the brute, but observes and ponders over the past and future;and from this spring discretion, care, and that anxiety which we sofrequently notice in people. The advantages, as well as thedisadvantages, that this entails, make woman, in consequence of herweaker reasoning powers, less of a partaker in them. Moreover, she isintellectually short-sighted, for although her intuitive understandingquickly perceives what is near to her, on the other hand her circle ofvision is limited and does not embrace anything that is remote; henceeverything that is absent or past, or in the future, affects women in aless degree than men. This is why they have greater inclination forextravagance, which sometimes borders on madness. Women in their heartsthink that men are intended to earn money so that they may spend it, ifpossible during their husband's lifetime, but at any rate after hisdeath. 

As soon as he has given them his earnings on which to keep house theyare strengthened in this belief. Although all this entails manydisadvantages, yet it has this advantage--that a woman lives more in thepresent than a man, and that she enjoys it more keenly if it is at allbearable. This is the origin of that cheerfulness which is peculiar towoman and makes her fit to divert man, and in case of need, to consolehim when he is weighed down by cares. To consult women in matters ofdifficulty, as the Germans used to do in old times, is by no means amatter to be overlooked; for their way of grasping a thing is quitedifferent from ours, chiefly because they like the shortest way to thepoint, and usually keep their attention fixed upon what lies nearest;while we, as a rule, see beyond it, for the simple reason that it liesunder our nose; it then becomes necessary for us to be brought back tothe thing in order to obtain a near and simple view. This is why womenare more sober in their judgment than we, and why they see nothing morein things than is really there; while we, if our passions are roused, slightly exaggerate or add to our imagination. 

It is because women's reasoning powers are weaker that they show moresympathy for the unfortunate than men, and consequently take a kindlierinterest in them. On the other hand, women are inferior to men inmatters of justice, honesty, and conscientiousness. Again, because theirreasoning faculty is weak, things clearly visible and real, andbelonging to the present, exercise a power over them which is rarelycounteracted by abstract thoughts, fixed maxims, or firm resolutions, ingeneral, by regard for the past and future or by consideration for whatis absent and remote. Accordingly they have the first and principalqualities of virtue, but they lack the secondary qualities which areoften a necessary instrument in developing it. Women may be compared inthis respect to an organism that has a liver but no gall-bladder. [9] Sothat it will be found that the fundamental fault in the character ofwomen is that they have no "_sense of justice_. " This arises from theirdeficiency in the power of reasoning already referred to, andreflection, but is also partly due to the fact that Nature has notdestined them, as the weaker sex, to be dependent on strength but oncunning; this is why they are instinctively crafty, and have anineradicable tendency to lie. For as lions are furnished with claws andteeth, elephants with tusks, boars with fangs, bulls with horns, and thecuttlefish with its dark, inky fluid, so Nature has provided woman forher protection and defence with the faculty of dissimulation, and allthe power which Nature has given to man in the form of bodily strengthand reason has been conferred on woman in this form. Hence, dissimulation is innate in woman and almost as characteristic of thevery stupid as of the clever. Accordingly, it is as natural for women todissemble at every opportunity as it is for those animals to turn totheir weapons when they are attacked; and they feel in doing so that ina certain measure they are only making use of their rights. Therefore awoman who is perfectly truthful and does not dissemble is perhaps animpossibility. This is why they see through dissimulation in others soeasily; therefore it is not advisable to attempt it with them. From thefundamental defect that has been stated, and all that it involves, spring falseness, faithlessness, treachery, ungratefulness, and so on. In a court of justice women are more often found guilty of perjury thanmen. It is indeed to be generally questioned whether they should beallowed to take an oath at all. From time to time there are repeatedcases everywhere of ladies, who want for nothing, secretly pocketing andtaking away things from shop counters. 

 * * * * *

Nature has made it the calling of the young, strong, and handsome men tolook after the propagation of the human race; so that the species maynot degenerate. This is the firm will of Nature, and it finds itsexpression in the passions of women. This law surpasses all others inboth age and power. Woe then to the man who sets up rights and interestsin such a way as to make them stand in the way of it; for whatever hemay do or say, they will, at the first significant onset, beunmercifully annihilated. For the secret, unformulated, nay, unconsciousbut innate moral of woman is: _We are justified in deceiving those who, because they care a little for us_, --_that is to say for theindividual_, --_imagine they have obtained rights over the species. Theconstitution, and consequently the welfare of the species, have been putinto our hands and entrusted to our care through the medium of the nextgeneration which proceeds from us; let us fulfil our dutiesconscientiously_. 

But women are by no means conscious of this leading principle _inabstracto_, they are only conscious of it _in concreto_, and have noother way of expressing it than in the manner in which they act when theopportunity arrives. So that their conscience does not trouble them somuch as we imagine, for in the darkest depths of their hearts they areconscious that in violating their duty towards the individual they haveall the better fulfilled it towards the species, whose claim upon themis infinitely greater. (A fuller explanation of this matter may be foundin vol. Ii. , ch. 44, in my chief work, _Die Welt als Wille undVorstellung_. )

Because women in truth exist entirely for the propagation of the race, and their destiny ends here, they live more for the species than for theindividual, and in their hearts take the affairs of the species moreseriously than those of the individual. This gives to their whole beingand character a certain frivolousness, and altogether a certain tendencywhich is fundamentally different from that of man; and this it is whichdevelops that discord in married life which is so prevalent and almostthe normal state. 

It is natural for a feeling of mere indifference to exist between men, but between women it is actual enmity. This is due perhaps to the factthat _odium figulinum_ in the case of men, is limited to their everydayaffairs, but with women embraces the whole sex; since they have only onekind of business. Even when they meet in the street, they look at eachother like Guelphs and Ghibellines. And it is quite evident when twowomen first make each other's acquaintance that they exhibit moreconstraint and dissimulation than two men placed in similarcircumstances. This is why an exchange of compliments between two womenis much more ridiculous than between two men. Further, while a man will, as a rule, address others, even those inferior to himself, with acertain feeling of consideration and humanity, it is unbearable to seehow proudly and disdainfully a lady of rank will, for the most part, behave towards one who is in a lower rank (not employed in her service)when she speaks to her. This may be because differences of rank are muchmore precarious with women than with us, and consequently more quicklychange their line of conduct and elevate them, or because while ahundred things must be weighed in our case, there is only one to beweighed in theirs, namely, with which man they have found favour; andagain, because of the one-sided nature of their vocation they stand incloser relationship to each other than men do; and so it is they try torender prominent the differences of rank. 

 * * * * *

It is only the man whose intellect is clouded by his sexual instinctthat could give that stunted, narrow-shouldered, broad-hipped, andshort-legged race the name of _the fair sex_; for the entire beauty ofthe sex is based on this instinct. One would be more justified incalling them the _unaesthetic sex_ than the beautiful. Neither formusic, nor for poetry, nor for fine art have they any real or true senseand susceptibility, and it is mere mockery on their part, in theirdesire to please, if they affect any such thing. 

This makes them incapable of taking a purely objective interest inanything, and the reason for it is, I fancy, as follows. A man strivesto get _direct_ mastery over things either by understanding them or bycompulsion. But a woman is always and everywhere driven to _indirect_mastery, namely through a man; all her _direct_ mastery being limited tohim alone. Therefore it lies in woman's nature to look upon everythingonly as a means for winning man, and her interest in anything else isalways a simulated one, a mere roundabout way to gain her ends, consisting of coquetry and pretence. Hence Rousseau said, _Les femmes, en g�n�ral, n'aiment aucun art, ne se connoissent � aucun et n'ont aucung�nie_ (Lettre � d'Alembert, note xx. ). Every one who can see through asham must have found this to be the case. One need only watch the waythey behave at a concert, the opera, or the play; the childishsimplicity, for instance, with which they keep on chattering during thefinest passages in the greatest masterpieces. If it is true that theGreeks forbade women to go to the play, they acted in a right way; forthey would at any rate be able to hear something. In our day it would bemore appropriate to substitute _taceat mulier in theatro_ for _taceatmulier in ecclesia_; and this might perhaps be put up in big letters onthe curtain. 

Nothing different can be expected of women if it is borne in mind thatthe most eminent of the whole sex have never accomplished anything inthe fine arts that is really great, genuine, and original, or given tothe world any kind of work of permanent value. This is most striking inregard to painting, the technique of which is as much within their reachas within ours; this is why they pursue it so industriously. Still, theyhave not a single great painting to show, for the simple reason thatthey lack that objectivity of mind which is precisely what is sodirectly necessary in painting. They always stick to what is subjective. For this reason, ordinary women have no susceptibility for painting atall: for _natura non facet saltum_. And Huarte, in his book which hasbeen famous for three hundred years, _Examen de ingenios para lasscienzias_, contends that women do not possess the higher capacities. Individual and partial exceptions do not alter the matter; women are andremain, taken altogether, the most thorough and incurable philistines;and because of the extremely absurd arrangement which allows them toshare the position and title of their husbands they are a constantstimulus to his _ignoble_ ambitions. And further, it is because they arephilistines that modern society, to which they give the tone and wherethey have sway, has become corrupted. As regards their position, oneshould be guided by Napoleon's maxim, _Les femmes n'ont pas de rang_;and regarding them in other things, Chamfort says very truly: _Ellessont faites pour commercer avec nos faiblesses avec notre folie, maisnon avec notre raison. Il existe entre elles et les hommes dessympathies d'�piderme et tr�s-peu de sympathies d'esprit d'�me et decaract�re_. They are the _sexus sequior_, the second sex in everyrespect, therefore their weaknesses should be spared, but to treat womenwith extreme reverence is ridiculous, and lowers us in their own eyes. When nature divided the human race into two parts, she did not cut itexactly through the middle! The difference between the positive andnegative poles, according to polarity, is not merely qualitative butalso quantitative. And it was in this light that the ancients and peopleof the East regarded woman; they recognised her true position betterthan we, with our old French ideas of gallantry and absurd veneration, that highest product of Christian-Teutonic stupidity. These ideas haveonly served to make them arrogant and imperious, to such an extent as toremind one at times of the holy apes in Benares, who, in theconsciousness of their holiness and inviolability, think they can doanything and everything they please. 

In the West, the woman, that is to say the "lady, " finds herself in a_fausse position_; for woman, rightly named by the ancients _sexussequior_, is by no means fit to be the object of our honour andveneration, or to hold her head higher than man and to have the samerights as he. The consequences of this _fausse position_ aresufficiently clear. Accordingly, it would be a very desirable thing ifthis Number Two of the human race in Europe were assigned her naturalposition, and the lady-grievance got rid of, which is not only ridiculedby the whole of Asia, but would have been equally ridiculed by Greeceand Rome. The result of this would be that the condition of our social, civil, and political affairs would be incalculably improved. The Saliclaw would be unnecessary; it would be a superfluous truism. The Europeanlady, strictly speaking, is a creature who should not exist at all; butthere ought to be housekeepers, and young girls who hope to become such;and they should be brought up not to be arrogant, but to be domesticatedand submissive. It is exactly because there are _ladies_ in Europe thatwomen of a lower standing, that is to say, the greater majority of thesex, are much more unhappy than they are in the East. Even Lord Byronsays (_Letters and Papers_, by Thomas Moore, vol. Ii. P. 399), _Thoughtof the state of women under the ancient Greeks--convenient enough. Present state, a remnant of the barbarism of the chivalric and feudalages--artificial and unnatural. They ought to mind home--and be well fedand clothed--but not mixed in society. Well educated, too, inreligion--but to read neither poetry nor politics--nothing but books ofpiety and cookery. Music--drawing--dancing--also a little gardening andploughing now and then. I have seen them mending the roads in Epiruswith good success. Why not, as well as hay-making and milking_?

 * * * * *

In our part of the world, where monogamy is in force, to marry means tohalve one's rights and to double one's duties. When the laws grantedwoman the same rights as man, they should also have given her amasculine power of reason. On the contrary, just as the privileges andhonours which the laws decree to women surpass what Nature has meted outto them, so is there a proportional decrease in the number of women whoreally share these privileges; therefore the remainder are deprived oftheir natural rights in so far as the others have been given more thanNature accords. 

For the unnatural position of privilege which the institution ofmonogamy, and the laws of marriage which accompany it, assign to thewoman, whereby she is regarded throughout as a full equivalent of theman, which she is not by any means, cause intelligent and prudent men toreflect a great deal before they make so great a sacrifice and consentto so unfair an arrangement. Therefore, whilst among polygamous nationsevery woman finds maintenance, where monogamy exists the number ofmarried women is limited, and a countless number of women who arewithout support remain over; those in the upper classes vegetate asuseless old maids, those in the lower are reduced to very hard work of adistasteful nature, or become prostitutes, and lead a life which is asjoyless as it is void of honour. But under such circumstances theybecome a necessity to the masculine sex; so that their position isopenly recognised as a special means for protecting from seduction thoseother women favoured by fate either to have found husbands, or who hopeto find them. In London alone there are 80, 000 prostitutes. Then whatare these women who have come too quickly to this most terrible end buthuman sacrifices on the altar of monogamy? The women here referred toand who are placed in this wretched position are the inevitablecounterbalance to the European lady, with her pretensions and arrogance. Hence polygamy is a real benefit to the female sex, taking it _as awhole_. And, on the other hand, there is no reason why a man whose wifesuffers from chronic illness, or remains barren, or has gradually becometoo old for him, should not take a second. Many people become convertsto Mormonism for the precise reasons that they condemn the unnaturalinstitution of monogamy. The conferring of unnatural rights upon womenhas imposed unnatural duties upon them, the violation of which, however, makes them unhappy. For example, many a man thinks marriage unadvisableas far as his social standing and monetary position are concerned, unless he contracts a brilliant match. He will then wish to win a womanof his own choice under different conditions, namely, under those whichwill render safe her future and that of her children. Be the conditionsever so just, reasonable, and adequate, and she consents by giving upthose undue privileges which marriage, as the basis of civil society, alone can bestow, she must to a certain extent lose her honour and leada life of loneliness; since human nature makes us dependent on theopinion of others in a way that is completely out of proportion to itsvalue. While, if the woman does not consent, she runs the risk of beingcompelled to marry a man she dislikes, or of shrivelling up into an oldmaid; for the time allotted to her to find a home is very short. In viewof this side of the institution of monogamy, Thomasius's profoundlylearned treatise, _de Concubinatu_, is well worth reading, for it showsthat, among all nations, and in all ages, down to the LutheranReformation, concubinage was allowed, nay, that it was an institution, in a certain measure even recognised by law and associated with nodishonour. And it held this position until the Lutheran Reformation, when it was recognised as another means for justifying the marriage ofthe clergy; whereupon the Catholic party did not dare to remainbehindhand in the matter. 

It is useless to argue about polygamy, it must be taken as a factexisting everywhere, the _mere regulation_ of which is the problem to besolved. Where are there, then, any real monogamists? We all live, at anyrate for a time, and the majority of us always, in polygamy. Consequently, as each man needs many women, nothing is more just than tolet him, nay, make it incumbent upon him to provide for many women. Bythis means woman will be brought back to her proper and natural place asa subordinate being, and _the lady_, that monster of Europeancivilisation and Christian-Teutonic stupidity, with her ridiculous claimto respect and veneration, will no longer exist; there will still be_women_, but no _unhappy women_, of whom Europe is at present full. TheMormons' standpoint is right. 

 * * * * *

In India no woman is ever independent, but each one stands under thecontrol of her father or her husband, or brother or son, in accordancewith the law of Manu. 

It is certainly a revolting idea that widows should sacrifice themselveson their husband's dead body; but it is also revolting that the moneywhich the husband has earned by working diligently for all his life, inthe hope that he was working for his children, should be wasted on herparamours. _Medium tenuere beati_. The first love of a mother, as thatof animals and men, is purely _instinctive_, and consequently ceaseswhen the child is no longer physically helpless. After that, the firstlove should be reinstated by a love based on habit and reason; but thisoften does not appear, especially where the mother has not loved thefather. The love of a father for his children is of a different natureand more sincere; it is founded on a recognition of his own inner selfin the child, and is therefore metaphysical in its origin. 

In almost every nation, both of the new and old world, and even amongthe Hottentots, property is inherited by the male descendants alone; itis only in Europe that one has departed from this. That the propertywhich men have with difficulty acquired by long-continued struggling andhard work should afterwards come into the hands of women, who, in theirwant of reason, either squander it within a short time or otherwisewaste it, is an injustice as great as it is common, and it should beprevented by limiting the right of women to inherit. It seems to me thatit would be a better arrangement if women, be they widows or daughters, only inherited the money for life secured by mortgage, but not theproperty itself or the capital, unless there lacked male descendants. Itis men who make the money, and not women; therefore women are neitherjustified in having unconditional possession of it nor capable ofadministrating it. Women should never have the free disposition ofwealth, strictly so-called, which they may inherit, such as capital, houses, and estates. They need a guardian always; therefore they shouldnot have the guardianship of their children under any circumstanceswhatever. The vanity of women, even if it should not be greater thanthat of men, has this evil in it, that it is directed on materialthings--that is to say, on their personal beauty and then on tinsel, pomp, and show. This is why they are in their right element in society. This it is which makes them inclined to be _extravagant_, especiallysince they possess little reasoning power. Accordingly, an ancientwriter says, Γυνη το συνολον ἐστι δαπανηρον φυσει. [10] Men's vanity, onthe other hand, is often directed on non-material advantages, such asintellect, learning, courage, and the like. Aristotle explains in the_Politics_[11] the great disadvantages which the Spartans brought uponthemselves by granting too much to their women, by allowing them theright of inheritance and dowry, and a great amount of freedom; and howthis contributed greatly to the fall of Sparta. May it not be that theinfluence of women in France, which has been increasing since LouisXIII. 's time, was to blame for that gradual corruption of the court andgovernment which led to the first Revolution, of which all subsequentdisturbances have been the result? In any case, the false position ofthe female sex, so conspicuously exposed by the existence of the "lady, "is a fundamental defect in our social condition, and this defect, proceeding from the very heart of it, must extend its harmful influencein every direction. That woman is by nature intended to obey is shown bythe fact that every woman who is placed in the unnatural position ofabsolute independence at once attaches herself to some kind of man, bywhom she is controlled and governed; this is because she requires amaster. If she, is young, the man is a lover; if she is old, a priest. 

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Let me refer to what I have said in my treatise on _The Foundationof Morals_, �71. 

[10] Brunck's _Gnomici poetae graeci_ v. 115. 

[11] Bk. I. , ch. 9. 

THINKING FOR ONESELF. 

The largest library in disorder is not so useful as a smaller butorderly one; in the same way the greatest amount of knowledge, if it hasnot been worked out in one's own mind, is of less value than a muchsmaller amount that has been fully considered. For it is only when a mancombines what he knows from all sides, and compares one truth withanother, that he completely realises his own knowledge and gets it intohis power. A man can only think over what he knows, therefore he shouldlearn something; but a man only knows what he has pondered. 

A man can apply himself of his own free will to reading and learning, while he cannot to thinking. Thinking must be kindled like a fire by adraught and sustained by some kind of interest in the subject. Thisinterest may be either of a purely objective nature or it may be merelysubjective. The latter exists in matters concerning us personally, butobjective interest is only to be found in heads that think by nature, and to whom thinking is as natural as breathing; but they are very rare. This is why there is so little of it in most men of learning. 

The difference between the effect that thinking for oneself and thatreading has on the mind is incredibly great; hence it is continuallydeveloping that original difference in minds which induces one man tothink and another to read. Reading forces thoughts upon the mind whichare as foreign and heterogeneous to the bent and mood in which it may befor the moment, as the seal is to the wax on which it stamps itsimprint. The mind thus suffers total compulsion from without; it hasfirst this and first that to think about, for which it has at the timeneither instinct nor liking. 

On the other hand, when a man thinks for himself he follows his ownimpulse, which either his external surroundings or some kind ofrecollection has determined at the moment. His visible surroundings donot leave upon his mind _one_ single definite thought as reading does, but merely supply him with material and occasion to think over what isin keeping with his nature and present mood. This is why _much_ readingrobs the mind of all elasticity; it is like keeping a spring under acontinuous, heavy weight. If a man does not want to think, the safestplan is to take up a book directly he has a spare moment. 

This practice accounts for the fact that learning makes most men morestupid and foolish than they are by nature, and prevents their writingsfrom being a success; they remain, as Pope has said, "For ever reading, never to be read. "--_Dunciad_ iii. 194. 

Men of learning are those who have read the contents of books. Thinkers, geniuses, and those who have enlightened the world and furthered therace of men, are those who have made direct use of the book of theworld. 

 * * * * *

Indeed, it is only a man's own fundamental thoughts that have truth andlife in them. For it is these that he really and completely understands. To read the thoughts of others is like taking the remains of some oneelse's meal, like putting on the discarded clothes of a stranger. 

The thought we read is related to the thought which rises in us, as thefossilised impress of a prehistoric plant is to a plant budding out inspring. 

 * * * * *

Reading is merely a substitute for one's own thoughts. A man allows histhoughts to be put into leading-strings. 

Further, many books serve only to show how many wrong paths there are, and how widely a man may stray if he allows himself to be led by them. But he who is guided by his genius, that is to say, he who thinks forhimself, who thinks voluntarily and rightly, possesses the compasswherewith to find the right course. A man, therefore, should only readwhen the source of his own thoughts stagnates; which is often the casewith the best of minds. 

It is sin against the Holy Spirit to frighten away one's own originalthoughts by taking up a book. It is the same as a man flying from Natureto look at a museum of dried plants, or to study a beautiful landscapein copperplate. A man at times arrives at a truth or an idea afterspending much time in thinking it out for himself, linking together hisvarious thoughts, when he might have found the same thing in a book; itis a hundred times more valuable if he has acquired it by thinking itout for himself. For it is only by his thinking it out for himself thatit enters as an integral part, as a living member into the whole systemof his thought, and stands in complete and firm relation with it; thatit is fundamentally understood with all its consequences, and carriesthe colour, the shade, the impress of his own way of thinking; and comesat the very moment, just as the necessity for it is felt, and standsfast and cannot be forgotten. This is the perfect application, nay, interpretation of Goethe's

 "Was du ererbt von deinen V�tern hast Erwirb es um es zu besitzen. "

The man who thinks for himself learns the authorities for his opinionsonly later on, when they serve merely to strengthen both them andhimself; while the book-philosopher starts from the authorities andother people's opinions, therefrom constructing a whole for himself; sothat he resembles an automaton, whose composition we do not understand. The other man, the man who thinks for himself, on the other hand, islike a living man as made by nature. His mind is impregnated fromwithout, which then bears and brings forth its child. Truth that hasbeen merely learned adheres to us like an artificial limb, a falsetooth, a waxen nose, or at best like one made out of another's flesh;truth which is acquired by thinking for oneself is like a naturalmember: it alone really belongs to us. Here we touch upon the differencebetween the thinking man and the mere man of learning. Therefore theintellectual acquirements of the man who thinks for himself are like afine painting that stands out full of life, that has its light and shadecorrect, the tone sustained, and perfect harmony of colour. Theintellectual attainments of the merely learned man, on the contrary, resemble a big palette covered with every colour, at most systematicallyarranged, but without harmony, relation, and meaning. 

 * * * * *

_Reading_ is thinking with some one else's head instead of one's own. But to think for oneself is to endeavour to develop a coherent whole, asystem, even if it is not a strictly complete one. Nothing is moreharmful than, by dint of continual reading, to strengthen the current ofother people's thoughts. These thoughts, springing from different minds, belonging to different systems, bearing different colours, never flowtogether of themselves into a unity of thought, knowledge, insight, orconviction, but rather cram the head with a Babylonian confusion oftongues; consequently the mind becomes overcharged with them and isdeprived of all clear insight and almost disorganised. This condition ofthings may often be discerned in many men of learning, and it makes theminferior in sound understanding, correct judgment, and practical tact tomany illiterate men, who, by the aid of experience, conversation, and alittle reading, have acquired a little knowledge from without, and madeit always subordinate to and incorporated it with their own thoughts. 

The scientific _thinker_ also does this to a much greater extent. Although he requires much knowledge and must read a great deal, his mindis nevertheless strong enough to overcome it all, to assimilate it, toincorporate it with the system of his thoughts, and to subordinate it tothe organic relative unity of his insight, which is vast andever-growing. By this means his own thought, like the bass in an organ, always takes the lead in everything, and is never deadened by othersounds, as is the case with purely antiquarian minds; where all sorts ofmusical passages, as it were, run into each other, and the fundamentaltone is entirely lost. 

 * * * * *

The people who have spent their lives in reading and acquired theirwisdom out of books resemble those who have acquired exact informationof a country from the descriptions of many travellers. These people canrelate a great deal about many things; but at heart they have noconnected, clear, sound knowledge of the condition of the country. Whilethose who have spent their life in thinking are like the people who havebeen to that country themselves; they alone really know what it is theyare saying, know the subject in its entirety, and are quite at home init. 

 * * * * *

The ordinary book-philosopher stands in the same relation to a man whothinks for himself as an eye-witness does to the historian; he speaksfrom his own direct comprehension of the subject. 

Therefore all who think for themselves hold at bottom much the sameviews; when they differ it is because they hold different points ofview, but when these do not alter the matter they all say the samething. They merely express what they have grasped from an objectivepoint of view. I have frequently hesitated to give passages to thepublic because of their paradoxical nature, and afterwards to my joyfulsurprise have found the same thoughts expressed in the works of greatmen of long ago. 

The book-philosopher, on the other hand, relates what one man has saidand another man meant, and what a third has objected to, and so on. Hecompares, weighs, criticises, and endeavours to get at the truth of thething, and in this way resembles the critical historian. For instance, he will try to find out whether Leibnitz was not for some time in hislife a follower of Spinoza, etc. The curious student will find strikingexamples of what I mean in Herbart's _Analytical Elucidation of Moralityand Natural Right_, and in his _Letters on Freedom_. It surprises usthat such a man should give himself so much trouble; for it is evidentthat if he had fixed his attention on the matter he would soon haveattained his object by thinking a little for himself. 

But there is a small difficulty to overcome; a thing of this kind doesnot depend upon our own will. One can sit down at any time and read, butnot--think. It is with thoughts as with men: we cannot always summonthem at pleasure, but must wait until they come. Thought about a subjectmust come of its own accord by a happy and harmonious union of externalmotive with mental temper and application; and it is precisely thatwhich never seems to come to these people. 

One has an illustration of this in matters that concern our personalinterest. If we have to come to a decision on a thing of this kind wecannot sit down at any particular moment and thrash out the reasons andarrive at a decision; for often at such a time our thoughts cannot befixed, but will wander off to other things; a dislike to the subject issometimes responsible for this. We should not use force, but wait untilthe mood appears of itself; it frequently comes unexpectedly and evenrepeats itself; the different moods which possess us at the differenttimes throwing another light on the matter. It is this long processwhich is understood by _a ripe resolution_. For the task of making upour mind must be distributed; much that has been previously overlookedoccurs to us; the aversion also disappears, for, after examining thematter closer, it seems much more tolerable than it was at first sight. 

And in theory it is just the same: a man must wait for the right moment;even the greatest mind is not always able to think for itself at alltimes. Therefore it is advisable for it to use its spare moments inreading, which, as has been said, is a substitute for one's own thought;in this way material is imported to the mind by letting another thinkfor us, although it is always in a way which is different from our own. For this reason a man should not read too much, in order that his minddoes not become accustomed to the substitute, and consequently evenforget the matter in question; that it may not get used to walking inpaths that have already been trodden, and by following a foreign courseof thought forget its own. Least of all should a man for the sake ofreading entirely withdraw his attention from the real world: as theimpulse and temper which lead one to think for oneself proceed oftenerfrom it than from reading; for it is the visible and real world in itsprimitiveness and strength that is the natural subject of the thinkingmind, and is able more easily than anything else to rouse it. Afterthese considerations it will not surprise us to find that the thinkingman can easily be distinguished from the book-philosopher by his markedearnestness, directness, and originality, the personal conviction of allhis thoughts and expressions: the book-philosopher, on the other hand, has everything second-hand; his ideas are like a collection of old ragsobtained anyhow; he is dull and pointless, resembling a copy of a copy. His style, which is full of conventional, nay, vulgar phrases andcurrent terms, resembles a small state where there is a circulation offoreign money because it coins none of its own. 

 * * * * *

Mere experience can as little as reading take the place of thought. Mereempiricism bears the same relation to thinking as eating to digestionand assimilation. When experience boasts that it alone, by itsdiscoveries, has advanced human knowledge, it is as though the mouthboasted that it was its work alone to maintain the body. 

The works of all really capable minds are distinguished from all otherworks by a character of decision and definiteness, and, in consequence, of lucidity and clearness. This is because minds like these knowdefinitely and clearly what they wish to express--whether it be inprose, in verse, or in music. Other minds are wanting in this decisionand clearness, and therefore may be instantly recognised. 

The characteristic sign of a mind of the highest standard is thedirectness of its judgment. Everything it utters is the result ofthinking for itself; this is shown everywhere in the way it givesexpression to its thoughts. Therefore it is, like a prince, an imperialdirector in the realm of intellect. All other minds are mere delegates, as may be seen by their style, which has no stamp of its own. 

Hence every true thinker for himself is so far like a monarch; he isabsolute, and recognises nobody above him. His judgments, like thedecrees of a monarch, spring from his own sovereign power and proceeddirectly from himself. He takes as little notice of authority as amonarch does of a command; nothing is valid unless he has himselfauthorised it. On the other hand, those of vulgar minds, who are swayedby all kinds of current opinions, authorities, and prejudices, are likethe people which in silence obey the law and commands. 

 * * * * *

The people who are so eager and impatient to settle disputed questions, by bringing forward authorities, are really glad when they can place theunderstanding and insight of some one else in the field in place oftheir own, which are deficient. Their number is legion. For, as Senecasays, "_Unusquisque mavult credere, quam judicare. _"

The weapon they commonly use in their controversies is that ofauthorities: they strike each other with it, and whoever is drawn intothe fray will do well not to defend himself with reason and arguments;for against a weapon of this kind they are like horned Siegfrieds, immersed in a flood of incapacity for thinking and judging. They willbring forward their authorities as an _argumentum ad verecundiam_ andthen cry _victoria_. 

 * * * * *

In the realm of reality, however fair, happy, and pleasant it may proveto be, we always move controlled by the law of gravity, which we must beunceasingly overcoming. While in the realm of thought we are disembodiedspirits, uncontrolled by the law of gravity and free from penury. 

This is why there is no happiness on earth like that which at thepropitious moment a fine and fruitful mind finds in itself. 

 * * * * *

The presence of a thought is like the presence of our beloved. Weimagine we shall never forget this thought, and that this loved onecould never be indifferent to us. But out of sight out of mind! Thefinest thought runs the risk of being irrevocably forgotten if it is notwritten down, and the dear one of being forsaken if we do not marry her. 

 * * * * *

There are many thoughts which are valuable to the man who thinks them;but out of them only a few which possess strength to produce eitherrepercussion or reflex action, that is, to win the reader's sympathyafter they have been written down. It is what a man has thought outdirectly _for himself_ that alone has true value. Thinkers may beclassed as follows: those who, in the first place, think for themselves, and those who think directly for others. The former thinkers are thegenuine, _they think for themselves_ in both senses of the word; theyare the true _philosophers_; they alone are in earnest. Moreover, theenjoyment and happiness of their existence consist in thinking. Theothers are the _sophists_; they wish to _seem_, and seek their happinessin what they hope to get from other people; their earnestness consistsin this. To which of these two classes a man belongs is soon seen by hiswhole method and manner. Lichtenberg is an example of the first class, while Herder obviously belongs to the second. 

 * * * * *

When one considers how great and how close to us the _problem ofexistence_ is, --this equivocal, tormented, fleeting, dream-likeexistence--so great and so close that as soon as one perceives it, itovershadows and conceals all other problems and aims;--and when one seeshow all men--with a few and rare exceptions--are not clearly consciousof the problem, nay, do not even seem to see it, but trouble themselvesabout everything else rather than this, and live on taking thought onlyfor the present day and the scarcely longer span of their own personalfuture, while they either expressly give the problem up or are ready toagree with it, by the aid of some system of popular metaphysics, and aresatisfied with this;--when one, I say, reflects upon this, so may one beof the opinion that man is a _thinking being_ only in a very remotesense, and not feel any special surprise at any trait of thoughtlessnessor folly; but know, rather, that the intellectual outlook of the normalman indeed surpasses that of the brute, --whose whole existence resemblesa continual present without any consciousness of the future or thepast--but, however, not to such an extent as one is wont to suppose. 

And corresponding to this, we find in the conversation of most men thattheir thoughts are cut up as small as chaff, making it impossible forthem to spin out the thread of their discourse to any length. If thisworld were peopled by really thinking beings, noise of every kind wouldnot be so universally tolerated, as indeed the most horrible and aimlessform of it is. [12] If Nature had intended man to think she would nothave given him ears, or, at any rate, she would have furnished them withair-tight flaps like the bat, which for this reason is to be envied. But, in truth, man is like the rest, a poor animal, whose powers arecalculated only to maintain him during his existence; therefore herequires to have his ears always open to announce of themselves, bynight as by day, the approach of the pursuer. 

FOOTNOTES:

[12] See Essay on Noise, p. 28. 

SHORT DIALOGUE ON

THE INDESTRUCTIBILITY OF OUR TRUE BEING BY DEATH. 

_Thrasymachos. _ Tell me briefly, what shall I be after my death? Beclear and precise. 

_Philalethes. _ Everything and nothing. 

_Thras. _ That is what I expected. You solve the problem by acontradiction. That trick is played out. 

_Phil. _ To answer transcendental questions in language that is made forimmanent knowledge must assuredly lead to a contradiction. 

_Thras. _ What do you call transcendental knowledge, and what immanent?It is true these expressions are known to me, for my professor usedthem, but only as predicates of God, and as his philosophy hadexclusively to do with God, their use was quite appropriate. Forinstance, if God was in the world, He was immanent; if He was somewhereoutside it, He was transcendent. That is clear and comprehensible. Oneknows how things stand. But your old-fashioned Kantian doctrine is nolonger understood. There has been quite a succession of great men in themetropolis of German learning----

_Phil. (aside). _ German philosophical nonsense!

_Thras. _----such as the eminent Schleiermacher and that gigantic mindHegel; and to-day we have left all that sort of thing behind, or ratherwe are so far ahead of it that it is out of date and known no more. Therefore, what good is it?

_Phil. _ Transcendental knowledge is that which, going beyond theboundary of possible experience, endeavours to determine the nature ofthings as they are in themselves; while immanent knowledge keeps itselfwithin the boundary of possible experience, therefore it can only applyto phenomena. As an individual, with your death there will be an end ofyou. But your individuality is not your true and final being, indeed itis rather the mere expression of it; it is not the thing-in-itself butonly the phenomenon presented in the form of time, and accordingly hasboth a beginning and an end. Your being in itself, on the contrary, knows neither time, nor beginning, nor end, nor the limits of a givenindividuality; hence no individuality can be without it, but it is therein each and all. So that, in the first sense, after death you becomenothing; in the second, you are and remain everything. That is why Isaid that after death you would be all and nothing. It is difficult togive you a more exact answer to your question than this and to be briefat the same time; but here we have undoubtedly another contradiction;this is because your life is in time and your immortality in eternity. Hence your immortality may be said to be something that isindestructible and yet has no endurance--which is again contradictory, you see. This is what happens when transcendental knowledge is broughtwithin the boundary of immanent knowledge; in doing this some sort ofviolence is done to the latter, since it is used for things for which itwas not intended. 

_Thras. _ Listen; without I retain my individuality I shall not give a_sou_ for your immortality. 

_Phil. _ Perhaps you will allow me to explain further. Suppose Iguarantee that you will retain your individuality, on condition, however, that you spend three months in absolute unconsciousness beforeyou awaken. 

_Thras. _ I consent to that. 

_Phil. _ Well then, as we have no idea of time when in a perfectlyunconscious state, it is all the same to us when we are dead whetherthree months or ten thousand years pass away in the world ofconsciousness. For in the one case, as in the other, we must accept onfaith and trust what we are told when we awake. Accordingly it will beall the same to you whether your individuality is restored to you afterthe lapse of three months or ten thousand years. 

_Thras. _ At bottom, that cannot very well be denied. 

_Phil. _ But if, at the end of those ten thousand years, some one hasquite forgotten to waken you, I imagine that you would have becomeaccustomed to that long state of non-existence, following such a veryshort existence, and that the misfortune would not be very great. However, it is quite certain that you would know nothing about it. Andagain, it would fully console you to know that the mysterious powerwhich gives life to your present phenomenon had never ceased for onemoment during the ten thousand years to produce other phenomena of alike nature and to give them life. 

_Thras. _ Indeed! And so it is in this way that you fancy you canquietly, and without my knowing, cheat me of my individuality? But youcannot cozen me in this way. I have stipulated for the retaining of myindividuality, and neither mysterious forces nor phenomena can consoleme for the loss of it. It is dear to me, and I shall not let it go. 

_Phil. _ That is to say, you regard your individuality as something sovery delightful, excellent, perfect, and incomparable that there isnothing better than it; would you not exchange it for another, accordingto what is told us, that is better and more lasting?

_Thras. _ Look here, be my individuality what it may, it is myself, "For God is God, and I am I. "

I--I--I want to exist! That is what I care about, and not an existencewhich has to be reasoned out first in order to show that it is mine. 

_Phil. _ Look what you are doing! When you say, _I--I--I want to exist_you alone do not say this, but everything, absolutely everything, thathas only a vestige of consciousness. Consequently this desire of yoursis just that which is _not_ individual but which is common to allwithout distinction. It does not proceed from individuality, but from_existence_ in general; it is the essential in everything that exists, nay, it is _that_ whereby anything has existence at all; accordingly itis concerned and satisfied only with existence _in general_ and not withany definite individual existence; this is not its aim. It has theappearance of being so because it can attain consciousness only in anindividual existence, and consequently looks as if it were entirelyconcerned with that. This is nothing but an illusion which has entangledthe individual; but by reflection, it can be dissipated and we ourselvesset free. It is only _indirectly_ that the individual has this greatlonging for existence; it is the will to live in general that has thislonging directly and really, a longing that is one and the same ineverything. Since, then, existence itself is the free work of the will, nay, the mere reflection of it, existence cannot be apart from will, andthe latter will be provisionally satisfied with existence in general, inso far, namely, as that which is eternally dissatisfied can besatisfied. The will is indifferent to individuality; it has nothing todo with it, although it appears to, because the individual is _only_directly conscious of will in himself. From this it is to be gatheredthat the individual carefully guards his own existence; moreover, ifthis were not so, the preservation of the species would not be assured. From all this it follows that individuality is not a state of perfectionbut of limitation; so that to be freed from it is not loss but rathergain. Don't let this trouble you any further, it will, forsooth, appearto you both childish and extremely ridiculous when you completely andthoroughly recognise what you are, namely, that your own existence isthe universal will to live. 

_Thras. _ You are childish yourself and extremely ridiculous, and so areall philosophers; and when a sedate man like myself lets himself in fora quarter of an hour's talk with such fools, it is merely for the sakeof amusement and to while away the time. I have more important mattersto look to now; so, adieu!

RELIGION. 

A DIALOGUE. 

_Demopheles. _ Between ourselves, dear old friend, I am sometimesdissatisfied with you in your capacity as philosopher; you talksarcastically about religion, nay, openly ridicule it. The religion ofevery one is sacred to him, and so it should be to you. 

_Philalethes. Nego consequentiam!_ I don't see at all why I should haverespect for lies and frauds because other people are stupid. I respecttruth everywhere, and it is precisely for that reason that I cannotrespect anything that is opposed to it. My maxim is, _Vigeat veritas, etpereat mundus_, the same as the lawyer's _Fiat justitia, et pereatmundus. _ Every profession ought to have an analogous device. 

_Demop. _ Then that of the medical profession would be, _Fiant pilulae, et pereat mundus_, which would be the easiest to carry out. 

_Phil. _ Heaven forbid! Everything must be taken _cum grano salis_. 

_Demop. _ Exactly; and it is just for that reason that I want you toaccept religion _cum grano salis_, and to see that the needs of thepeople must be met according to their powers of comprehension. Religionaffords the only means of proclaiming and making the masses of crudeminds and awkward intelligences, sunk in petty pursuits and materialwork, feel the high import of life. For the ordinary type of man, primarily, has no thought for anything else but what satisfies hisphysical needs and longings, and accordingly affords him a littleamusement and pastime. Founders of religion and philosophers come intothe world to shake him out of his torpidity and show him the highsignificance of existence: philosophers for the few, the emancipated;founders of religion for the many, humanity at large. For φιλοσοφονπληθος ἀδυνατον εἰναι, as your friend Plato has said, and you should notforget it. Religion is the metaphysics of the people, which by all meansthey must keep; and hence it must be eternally respected, for todiscredit it means taking it away. Just as there is popular poetry, popular wisdom in proverbs, so too there must be popular metaphysics;for mankind requires most certainly _an interpretation of life_, and itmust be in keeping with its power of comprehension. So that thisinterpretation is at all times an allegorical investiture of the truth, and it fulfils, as far as practical life and our feelings areconcerned--that is to say, as a guidance in our affairs, and as acomfort and consolation in suffering and death--perhaps just as much astruth itself could, if we possessed it. Don't be hurt at its unpolished, baroque, and apparently absurd form, for you, with your education andlearning, cannot imagine the roundabout ways that must be used in orderto make people in their crude state understand deep truths. The variousreligions are only various forms in which the people grasp andunderstand the truth, which in itself they could not grasp, and which isinseparable from these forms. Therefore, my dear fellow, don't bedispleased if I tell you that to ridicule these forms is bothnarrow-minded and unjust. 

_Phil. _ But is it not equally narrow-minded and unjust to require thatthere shall be no other metaphysics but this one cut out to meet theneeds and comprehension of the people? that its teachings shall be theboundary of human researches and the standard of all thought, so thatthe metaphysics of the few, the emancipated, as you call them, must aimat confirming, strengthening, and interpreting the metaphysics of thepeople? That is, that the highest faculties of the human mind mustremain unused and undeveloped, nay, be nipped in the bud, so that theiractivity may not thwart the popular metaphysics? And at bottom are notthe claims that religion makes just the same? Is it right to havetolerance, nay, gentle forbearance, preached by what is intolerance andcruelty itself? Let me remind you of the heretical tribunals, inquisitions, religious wars and crusades, of Socrates' cup of poison, of Bruno's and Vanini's death in the flames. And is all this to-daysomething belonging to the past? What can stand more in the way ofgenuine philosophical effort, honest inquiry after truth, the noblestcalling of the noblest of mankind, than this conventional system ofmetaphysics invested with a monopoly from the State, whose principlesare inculcated so earnestly, deeply, and firmly into every head inearliest youth as to make them, unless the mind is of miraculouselasticity, become ineradicable? The result is that the basis of healthyreasoning is once and for all deranged--in other words, its feeblecapacity for thinking for itself, and for unbiassed judgment in regardto everything to which it might be applied, is for ever paralysed andruined. 

_Demop, _ Which really means that the people have gained a convictionwhich they will not give up in order to accept yours in its place. 

_Phil. _ Ah! if it were only conviction based on insight, one would thenbe able to bring forward arguments and fight the battle with equalweapons. But religions admittedly do not lend themselves to convictionafter argument has been brought to bear, but to belief as brought aboutby revelation. The capacity for belief is strongest in childhood;therefore one is most careful to take possession of this tender age. Itis much more through this than through threats and reports of miraclesthat the doctrines of belief take root. If in early childhood certainfundamental views and doctrines are preached with unusual solemnity andin a manner of great earnestness, the like of which has never been seenbefore, and if, too, the possibility of a doubt about them is eithercompletely ignored or only touched upon in order to show that doubt isthe first step to everlasting perdition; the result is that theimpression will be so profound that, as a rule, that is to say in almostevery case, a man will be almost as incapable of doubting the truth ofthose doctrines as he is of doubting his own existence. Hence it isscarcely one in many thousands that has the strength of mind to honestlyand seriously ask himself--is that true? Those who are able to do thishave been more appropriately styled strong minds, _esprits forts_, thanis imagined. For the commonplace mind, however, there is nothing soabsurd or revolting but what, if inoculated in this way, the firmestbelief in it will take root. If, for example, the killing of a hereticor an infidel were an essential matter for the future salvation of thesoul, almost every one would make it the principal object of his life, and in dying get consolation and strength from the remembrance of hishaving succeeded; just as, in truth, in former times almost everySpaniard looked upon an _auto da f�_ as the most pious of acts and onemost pleasing to God. 

We have an analogy to this in India in the _Thugs_, a religious bodyquite recently suppressed by the English, who executed numbers of them. They showed their regard for religion and veneration for the goddessKali by assassinating at every opportunity their own friends andfellow-travellers, so that they might obtain their possessions, and theywere seriously convinced that thereby they had accomplished somethingthat was praiseworthy and would contribute to their eternal welfare. Thepower of religious dogma, that has been inculcated early, is so greatthat it destroys conscience, and finally all compassion and sense ofhumanity. But if you wish to see with your own eyes, and close at hand, what early inoculation of belief does, look at the English. Look at thisnation, favoured by nature before all others, endowed before all otherswith reason, intelligence, power of judgment, and firmness of character;look at these people degraded, nay, made despicable among all others bytheir stupid ecclesiastical superstition, which among their othercapacities appears like a fixed idea, a monomania. For this they have tothank the clergy in whose hands education is, and who take care toinculcate all the articles, of belief at the earliest age in such a wayas to result in a kind of partial paralysis of the brain; this thenshows itself throughout their whole life in a silly bigotry, making evenextremely intelligent and capable people among them degrade themselvesso that they become quite an enigma to us. If we consider how essentialto such a masterpiece is inoculation of belief in the tender age ofchildhood, the system of missions appears no longer merely as the heightof human importunity, arrogance, and impertinence, but also ofabsurdity; in so far as it does not confine itself to people who arestill in the stage of _childhood_, such as the Hottentots, Kaffirs, South Sea Islanders, and others like them, among whom it has been reallysuccessful. While, on the other hand, in India the Brahmans receive thedoctrines of missionaries either with a smile of condescending approvalor refuse them with a shrug of their shoulders; and among these peoplein general, notwithstanding the most favourable circumstances, themissionaries' attempts at conversion are usually wrecked. An authenticreport in vol. Xxi. Of the _Asiatic Journal_ of 1826 shows that after somany years of missionary activity in the whole of India (of which theEnglish possessions alone amount to one hundred and fifteen millioninhabitants) there are not more than three hundred living converts to befound; and at the same time it is admitted that the Christian convertsare distinguished for their extreme immorality. There are only threehundred venal and bribed souls out of so many millions. I cannot seethat it has gone better with Christianity in India since then, althoughthe missionaries are now trying, contrary to agreement, to work on thechildren's minds in schools exclusively devoted to secular Englishinstruction, in order to smuggle in Christianity, against which, however, the Hindoos are most jealously on their guard. For, as has beensaid, childhood is the time, and not manhood, to sow the seeds ofbelief, especially where an earlier belief has taken root. An acquiredconviction, however, that is assumed by matured converts serves, generally, as only the mask for some kind of personal interest. And itis the feeling that this could hardly be otherwise that makes a man, whochanges his religion at maturity, despised by most people everywhere; afact which reveals that they do not regard religion as a matter ofreasoned conviction but merely as a belief inoculated in earlychildhood, before it has been put to any test. That they are right inlooking at religion in this way is to be gathered from the fact that itis not only the blind, credulous masses, but also the clergy of everyreligion, who, as such, have studied its sources, arguments, dogmas anddifferences, who cling faithfully and zealously as a body to thereligion of their fatherland; consequently it is the rarest thing in theworld for a priest to change from one religion or creed to another. Forinstance, we see that the Catholic clergy are absolutely convinced ofthe truth of all the principles of their Church, and that theProtestants are also of theirs, and that both defend the principles oftheir confession with like zeal. And yet the conviction is the outcomemerely of the country in which each is born: the truth of the Catholicdogma is perfectly clear to the clergy of South Germany, the Protestantto the clergy of North Germany. If, therefore, these convictions rest onobjective reasons, these reasons must be climatic and thrive likeplants, some only here, some only there. The masses everywhere, however, accept on trust and faith the convictions of those who are _locallyconvinced_. 

_Demop. _ That doesn't matter, for essentially it makes no difference. For instance, Protestantism in reality is more suited to the north, Catholicism to the south. 

_Phil. _ So it appears. Still, I take a higher point of view, and havebefore me a more important object, namely, the progress of the knowledgeof truth among the human race. It is a frightful condition of thingsthat, wherever a man is born, certain propositions are inculcated in hisearliest youth, and he is assured that under penalty of forfeitingeternal salvation he may never entertain any doubt about them; in sofar, that is, as they are propositions which influence the foundation ofall our other knowledge and accordingly decide for ever our point ofview, and if they are false, upset it for ever. Further, as theinfluences drawn from these propositions make inroads everywhere intothe entire system of our knowledge, the whole of human knowledge isthrough and through affected by them. This is proved by everyliterature, and most conspicuously by that of the Middle Age, but also, in too great an extent, by that of the fifteenth and sixteenthcenturies. We see how paralysed even the minds of the first rank of allthose epochs were by such false fundamental conceptions; and howespecially all insight into the true substance and working of Nature washemmed in on every side. During the whole of the Christian period Theismlay like a kind of oppressive nightmare on all intellectual effort, andon philosophical effort in particular, hindering and arresting allprogress. For the men of learning of those epochs, God, devil, angels, demons, hid the whole of Nature; no investigation was carried out to theend, no matter sifted to the bottom; everything that was beyond the mostobvious _causal nexus_ was immediately attributed to these; so that, asPomponatius expressed himself at the time, _Certe philosophi nihilverisimile habent ad haec, quare necesse est, ad Deum, ad angelos etdaemones recurrere. _ It is true that there is a suspicion of irony inwhat this man says, as his malice in other ways is known, neverthelesshe has expressed the general way of thinking of his age. If any one, onthe other hand, possessed that rare elasticity of mind which aloneenabled him to free himself from the fetters, his writings, and hehimself with them, were burnt; as happened to Bruno and Vanini. But howabsolutely paralysed the ordinary mind is by that early metaphysicalpreparation may be seen most strikingly, and from its most ridiculousside, when it undertakes to criticise the doctrines of a foreign belief. One finds the ordinary man, as a rule, merely trying to carefully provethat the dogmas of the foreign belief do not agree with those of hisown; he labours to explain that not only do they not say the same, butcertainly do not mean the same thing as his. With that he fancies in hissimplicity that he has proved the falsity of the doctrines of the alienbelief. It really never occurs to him to ask the question which of thetwo is right; but his own articles of belief are to him as _� priori_certain principles. The Rev. Mr. Morrison has furnished an amusingexample of this kind in vol. Xx. Of the _Asiatic Journal_ wherein hecriticises the religion and philosophy of the Chinese. 

_Demop. _ So that's your higher point of view. But I assure you thatthere is a higher still. _Primum vivere, deinde philosophari_ is of morecomprehensive significance than one supposes at first sight. Beforeeverything else, the raw and wicked tendencies of the masses ought to berestrained, in order to protect them from doing anything that isextremely unjust, or committing cruel, violent, and disgraceful deeds. If one waited until they recognised and grasped the truth one wouldassuredly come too late. And supposing they had already found truth, itwould surpass their powers of comprehension. In any case it would be amere allegorical investiture of truth, a parable, or a myth that wouldbe of any good to them. There must be, as Kant has said, a publicstandard of right and virtue, nay, this must at all times flutter high. It is all the same in the end what kind of heraldic figures arerepresented on it, if they only indicate what is meant. Such anallegorical truth is at all times and everywhere, for mankind at large, a beneficial substitute for an eternally unattainable truth, and ingeneral, for a philosophy which it can never grasp; to say nothing ofits changing its form daily, and not having as yet attained any kind ofgeneral recognition. Therefore practical aims, my good Philalethes, havein every way the advantage of theoretical. 

_Phil. _ This closely resembles the ancient advice of Timaeus of Locrus, the Pythagorean: τας ψυχας ἀπειργομες ψευδεσι λογοις, εἰ κα μη ἀγηταιἀλαθεσι. [13] And I almost suspect that it is your wish, according to thefashion of to-day, to remind me--

 "Good friend, the time is near When we may feast off what is good in peace. "

And your recommendation means that we should take care in time, so thatthe waves of the dissatisfied, raging masses may not disturb us attable. But the whole of this point of view is as false as it is nowadaysuniversally liked and praised; this is why I make haste to put in aprotest against it. It is _false_ that state, justice, and law cannot bemaintained without the aid of religion and its articles of belief, andthat justice and police regulations need religion as a complement inorder to carry out legislative arrangements. It is _false_ if it wererepeated a hundred times. For the ancients, and especially the Greeks, furnish us with striking _instantia in contrarium_ founded on fact. Theyhad absolutely nothing of what we understand by religion. They had nosacred documents, no dogma to be learnt, and its acceptance advanced byevery one, and its principles inculcated early in youth. The servants ofreligion preached just as little about morals, and the ministersconcerned themselves very little about any kind of morality or ingeneral about what the people either did or left undone. No such thing. But the duty of the priests was confined merely to temple ceremonies, prayers, songs, sacrifices, processions, lustrations, and the like, allof which aimed at anything but the moral improvement of the individual. The whole of their so-called religion consisted, and particularly in thetowns, in some of the _deorum majorum gentium_ having temples here andthere, in which the aforesaid worship was conducted as an affair ofstate, when in reality it was an affair of police. No one, except thefunctionaries engaged, was obliged in any way to be present, or even tobelieve in it. In the whole of antiquity there is no trace of anyobligation to believe in any kind of dogma. It was merely any one whoopenly denied the existence of the gods or calumniated them that waspunished; because by so doing he insulted the state which served thesegods; beyond this every one was allowed to think what he chose of them. If any one wished to win the favour of these gods privately by prayer orsacrifice he was free to do so at his own cost and risk; if he did notdo it, no one had anything to say against it, and least of all theState. Every Roman had his own Lares and Penates at home, which were, however, at bottom nothing more than the revered portraits of hisancestors. The ancients had no kind of decisive, clear, and least of alldogmatically fixed ideas about the immortality of the soul and a lifehereafter, but every one in his own way had lax, vacillating, andproblematical ideas; and their ideas about the gods were just asvarious, individual, and vague. So that the ancients had really no_religion_ in our sense of the word. Was it for this reason that anarchyand lawlessness reigned among them? Is not law and civil order rather somuch their work, that it still constitutes the foundation of ours? Wasnot property perfectly secure, although it consisted of slaves for thegreater part? And did not this condition of things last longer than athousand years?

So I cannot perceive, and must protest against the practical aims andnecessity of religion in the sense which you have indicated, and in suchgeneral favour to-day, namely, as an indispensable foundation of alllegislative regulations. For from such a standpoint the pure and sacredstriving after light and truth, to say the least, would seem quixoticand criminal if it should venture in its feeling of justice to denouncethe authoritative belief as a usurper who has taken possession of thethrone of truth and maintained it by continuing the deception. 

_Demop. _ But religion is not opposed to truth; for it itself teachestruth. Only it must not allow truth to appear in its naked form, becauseits sphere of activity is not a narrow auditory, but the world andhumanity at large, and therefore it must conform to the requirements andcomprehension of so great and mixed a public; or, to use a medicalsimile, it must not present it pure, but must as a medium make use of amythical vehicle. Truth may also be compared in this respect to certainchemical stuffs which in themselves are gaseous, but which for officialuses, as also for preservation or transmission, must be bound to a firm, palpable base, because they would otherwise volatilise. For example, chlorine is for all such purposes applied only in the form of chlorides. But if truth, pure, abstract, and free from anything of a mythicalnature, is always to remain unattainable by us all, philosophersincluded, it might be compared to fluorine, which cannot be presented byitself alone, but only when combined with other stuffs. Or, to take asimpler simile, truth, which cannot be expressed in any other way thanby myth and allegory, is like water that cannot be transported without avessel; but philosophers, who insist upon possessing it pure, are like aperson who breaks the vessel in order to get the water by itself. Thisis perhaps a true analogy. At any rate, religion is truth allegoricallyand mythically expressed, and thereby made possible and digestible tomankind at large. For mankind could by no means digest it pure andunadulterated, just as we cannot live in pure oxygen but require anaddition of four-fifths of nitrogen. And without speaking figuratively, the profound significance and high aim of life can only be revealed andshown to the masses symbolically, because they are not capable ofgrasping life in its real sense; while philosophy should be like theEleusinian mysteries, for the few, the elect. 

_Phil. _ I understand. The matter resolves itself into truth putting onthe dress of falsehood. But in doing so it enters into a fatal alliance. What a dangerous weapon is given into the hands of those who have theauthority to make use of falsehood as the vehicle of truth! If such isthe case, I fear there will be more harm caused by the falsehood thangood derived from the truth. If the allegory were admitted to be such, Ishould say nothing against it; but in that case it would be deprived ofall respect, and consequently of all efficacy. Therefore the allegorymust assert a claim, which it must maintain, to be true in _sensuproprio_ while at the most it is true in _sensu allegorico_. Here liesthe incurable mischief, the permanent evil; and therefore religion isalways in conflict, and always will be with the free and noble strivingafter pure truth. 

_Demop_. Indeed, no. Care has been taken to prevent that. If religionmay not exactly admit its allegorical nature, it indicates it at anyrate sufficiently. 

_Phil_. And in what way does it do that?

_Demop_. In its mysteries. _Mystery_ is at bottom only the theological_terminus technicus_ for religious allegory. All religions have theirmysteries. In reality, a mystery is a palpably absurd dogma whichconceals in itself a lofty truth, which by itself would be absolutelyincomprehensible to the ordinary intelligence of the raw masses. Themasses accept it in this disguise on trust and faith, without allowingthemselves to be led astray by its absurdity, which is palpable to them;and thereby they participate in the kernel of the matter so far as theyare able. I may add as an explanation that the use of mystery has beenattempted even in philosophy; for example, when Pascal, who was pietest, mathematician, and philosopher in one, says in this threefold character:_God is everywhere centre and nowhere periphery_. Malebranche has alsotruly remarked, _La libert� est un myst�re_. One might go further, andmaintain that in religions everything is really mystery. For it isutterly impossible to impart truth in _sensu proprio_ to the multitudein its crudity; it is only a mythical and allegorical reflection of itthat can fall to its share and enlighten it. Naked truth must not appearbefore the eyes of the profane vulgar; it can only appear before themclosely veiled. And it is for this reason that it is unfair to demand ofa religion that it should be true in _sensu proprio_, and that, _enpassant_. Rationalists and Supernaturalists of to-day are so absurd. They both start with the supposition that religion must be the truth;and while the former prove that it is not, the latter obstinatelymaintain that it is; or rather the former cut up and dress the allegoryin such a way that it could be true in _sensu proprio_ but would in thatcase become a platitude. The latter wish to maintain, without furtherdressing, that it is true in _sensu proprio_, which, as they shouldknow, can only be carried into execution by inquisitions and the stake. While in reality, myth and allegory are the essential elements ofreligion, but under the indispensable condition (because of theintellectual limitations of the great masses) that it supplies enoughsatisfaction to meet those metaphysical needs of mankind which areineradicable, and that it takes the place of pure philosophical truth, which is infinitely difficult, and perhaps never attainable. 

_Phil. _ Yes, pretty much in the same way as a wooden leg takes the placeof a natural one. It supplies what is wanting, does very poor servicefor it, and claims to be regarded as a natural leg, and is more or lesscleverly put together. There is a difference, however, for, as a rule, the natural leg was in existence before the wooden one, while religioneverywhere has gained the start of philosophy. 

_Demop. _ That may be; but a wooden leg is of great value to those whohave no natural leg. You must keep in view that the metaphysicalrequirements of man absolutely demand satisfaction; because the horizonof his thoughts must be defined and not remain unlimited. A man, as arule, has no faculty of judgment for weighing reasons, anddistinguishing between what is true and what is false. Moreover, thework imposed upon him by nature and her requirements leaves him no timefor investigations of that kind, or for the education which theypresuppose. Therefore it is entirely out of the question to imagine hewill be convinced by reasons; there is nothing left for him but beliefand authority. Even if a really true philosophy took the place ofreligion, at least nine-tenths of mankind would only accept it onauthority, so that it would be again a matter of belief; for Plato'sφιλοσοφον πληθος ἀδυνατον εἰναι will always hold good. Authority, however, is only established by time and circumstances, so that wecannot bestow it on that which has only reason to commend it;accordingly, we must grant it only to that which has attained it in thecourse of history, even if it is only truth represented allegorically. This kind of truth, supported by authority, appeals directly to theessentially metaphysical temperament of man--that is, to his need of atheory concerning the riddle of existence, which thrusts itself uponhim, and arises from the consciousness that behind the physical in theworld there must be a metaphysical, an unchangeable something, whichserves as the foundation of constant change. It also appeals to thewill, fears, and hopes of mortals living in constant need; religionprovides them with gods, demons, to whom they call, appease, andconciliate. Finally, it appeals to their moral consciousness, which isundeniably present, and lends to it that authenticity and support fromwithout--a support without which it would not easily maintain itself inthe struggle against so many temptations. It is exactly from this sidethat religion provides an inexhaustible source of consolation andcomfort in the countless and great sorrows of life, a comfort which doesnot leave men in death, but rather then unfolds its full efficacy. Sothat religion is like some one taking hold of the hand of a blind personand leading him, since he cannot see for himself; all that the blindperson wants is to attain his end, not to see everything as he walksalong. 

_Phil. _ This side is certainly the brilliant side of religion. If it isa _fraus_ it is indeed a _pia fraus_; that cannot be denied. Thenpriests become something between deceivers and moralists. For they darenot teach the real truth, as you yourself have quite correctlyexplained, even if it were known to them; which it is not. There can, atany rate, be a true philosophy, but there can be no true religion: Imean true in the real and proper understanding of the word, not merelyin that flowery and allegorical sense which you have described, a sensein which every religion would be true only in different degrees. It iscertainly quite in harmony with the inextricable admixture of good andevil, honesty and dishonesty, goodness and wickedness, magnanimity andbaseness, which the world presents everywhere, that the most important, the most lofty, and the most sacred truths can make their appearanceonly in combination with a lie, nay, can borrow strength from a lie assomething that affects mankind more powerfully; and as revelation mustbe introduced by a lie. One might regard this fact as the _monogram_ ofthe moral world. Meanwhile let us not give up the hope that mankind willsome day attain that point of maturity and education at which it is ableto produce a true philosophy on the one hand, and accept it on theother. _Simplex sigillum veri_: the naked truth must be so simple andcomprehensible that one can impart it to all in its true form withoutany admixture of myth and fable (a pack of lies)--in other words, without masking it as _religion_. 

_Demop. _ You have not a sufficient idea of the wretched capacities ofthe masses. 

_Phil. _ I express it only as a hope; but to give it up is impossible. Inthat case, if truth were in a simpler and more comprehensible form, itwould surely soon drive religion from the position of vicegerent whichit has so long held. Then religion will have fulfilled her mission andfinished her course; she might then dismiss the race which she hasguided to maturity and herself retire in peace. This will be the_euthanasia_ of religion. However, as long as she lives she has twofaces, one of truth and one of deceit. According as one looksattentively at one or the other one will like or dislike her. Hencereligion must be regarded as a necessary evil, its necessity resting onthe pitiful weak-mindedness of the great majority of mankind, incapableof grasping the truth, and consequently when in extremity requires asubstitute for truth. 

_Demop. _ Really, one would think that you philosophers had truth lyingin readiness, and all that one had to do was to lay hold of it. 

_Phil. _ If we have not got it, it is principally to be ascribed to thepressure under which philosophy, at all periods and in all countries, has been held by religion. We have tried to make not only the expressionand communication of truth impossible, but even the contemplation anddiscovery of it, by giving the minds of children in earliest childhoodinto the hands of priests to be worked upon; to have the groove in whichtheir fundamental thoughts are henceforth to run so firmly imprinted, asin principal matters, to become fixed and determined for a lifetime. Iam sometimes shocked to see when I take into my hand the writings ofeven the most intelligent minds of the sixteenth and seventeenthcenturies, and especially if I have just left my oriental studies, howparalysed and hemmed in on all sides they are by Jewish notions. Prepared in this way, one cannot form any idea of the true philosophy!

_Demop. _ And if, moreover, this true philosophy were discovered, religion would not cease to exist, as you imagine. There cannot be onesystem of metaphysics for everybody; the natural differences ofintellectual power in addition to those of education make thisimpossible. The great majority of mankind must necessarily be engaged inthat arduous bodily labour which is requisite in order to furnish theendless needs of the whole race. Not only does this leave the majorityno time for education, for learning, or for reflection; but by virtue ofthe strong antagonism between merely physical and intellectualqualities, much excessive bodily labour blunts the understanding andmakes it heavy, clumsy, and awkward, and consequently incapable ofgrasping any other than perfectly simple and palpable matters. At leastnine-tenths of the human race comes under this category. People requirea system of metaphysics, that is, an account of the world and ourexistence, because such an account belongs to the most naturalrequirements of mankind. They require also a popular system ofmetaphysics, which, in order for it to be this, must combine many rarequalities; for instance, it must be exceedingly lucid, and yet in theright places be obscure, nay, to a certain extent, impenetrable; then acorrect and satisfying moral system must be combined with its dogmas;above everything, it must bring inexhaustible consolation in sufferingand death. It follows from this that it can only be true in _sensuallegorico_ and not in _sensu proprio_. Further, it must have thesupport of an authority which is imposing by its great age, by itsgeneral recognition, by its documents, together with their tone andstatements--qualities which are so infinitely difficult to combine thatmany a man, if he stopped to reflect, would not be so ready to help toundermine a religion, but would consider it the most sacred treasure ofthe people. If any one wants to criticise religion he should always bearin mind the nature of the great masses for which it is destined, andpicture to himself their complete moral and intellectual inferiority. Itis incredible how far this inferiority goes and how steadily a spark oftruth will continue to glimmer even under the crudest veiling ofmonstrous fables and grotesque ceremonies, adhering indelibly, like theperfume of musk, to everything which has come in contact with it. As anillustration of this, look at the profound wisdom which is revealed inthe Upanishads, and then look at the mad idolatry in the India ofto-day, as is revealed in its pilgrimages, processions, and festivities, or at the mad and ludicrous doings of the Saniassi of the present time. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that in all this madness and absurditythere yet lies something that is hidden from view, something that is inaccordance with, or a reflection of the profound wisdom that has beenmentioned. It requires this kind of dressing-up for the great brutemasses. In this antithesis we have before us the two poles ofhumanity:--the wisdom of the individual and the bestiality of themasses, both of which, however, find their point of harmony in the moralkingdom. Who has not thought of the saying from the Kurral--"Vulgarpeople look like men; but I have never seen anything like them. " Themore highly cultured man may always explain religion to himself _cumgrano salis_; the man of learning, the thoughtful mind, may, in secret, exchange it for a philosophy. And yet _one_ philosophy would not do foreverybody; each philosophy by the laws of affinity attracts a public towhose education and mental capacities it is fitted. So there is alwaysan inferior metaphysical system of the schools for the educatedplebeians, and a higher system for the _�lite_. Kant's lofty doctrine, for example, was degraded to meet the requirements of the schools, andruined by Fries, Krug, Salat, and similar people. In short, Goethe'sdictum is as applicable here as anywhere: _One does not suit all_. Purebelief in revelation and pure metaphysics are for the two extremes; andfor the intermediate steps mutual modifications of both in countlesscombinations and gradations. The immeasurable differences which natureand education place between men have made this necessary. 

_Phil. _ This point of view reminds me seriously of the mysteries of theancients which you have already mentioned; their aim at bottom seems tohave lain in remedying the evil arising out of the differences of mentalcapacities and education. Their plan was to single out of the greatmultitude a few people, to whom the unveiled truth was absolutelyincomprehensible, and to reveal the truth to them up to a certain point;then out of these they singled out others to whom they revealed more, asthey were able to grasp more; and so on up to the Epopts. And so we gotμικρα, και μειζονα, και μεγιστα μυστηρια. The plan was based on acorrect knowledge of the intellectual inequality of mankind. 

_Demop_. To a certain extent the education in our lower, middle, andhigh schools represents the different forms of initiation into themysteries. 

_Phil_. Only in a very approximate way, and this only in so far assubjects of higher knowledge were written about exclusively in Latin. But since that has ceased to be so all the mysteries are profaned. 

_Demop_. However that may be, I wish to remind you, in speaking ofreligion, that you should grasp it more from the practical and less fromthe theoretical side. Personified metaphysics may be religion's enemy, yet personified morality will be its friend. Perhaps the metaphysics inall religions is false; but the morality in all is true. This is to besurmised from the fact that in their metaphysics they contradict eachother, while in their morality they agree. 

_Phil_. Which furnishes us with a proof of the rule of logic, that atrue conclusion may follow from false premises. 

_Demop_. Well, stick to your conclusion, and be always mindful thatreligion has two sides. If it can't stand when looked at merely from thetheoretical--in other words, from its intellectual side, it appears, onthe other hand, from the moral side as the only means of directing, training, and pacifying those races of animals gifted with reason, whosekinship with the ape does not exclude a kinship with the tiger. At thesame time religion is, in general, a sufficient satisfaction for theirdull metaphysical needs. You appear to me to have no proper idea of thedifference, wide as the heavens apart, of the profound breach betweenyour learned man, who is enlightened and accustomed to think, and theheavy, awkward, stupid, and inert consciousness of mankind's beasts ofburden, whose thoughts have taken once and for all the direction of fearabout their maintenance, and cannot be put in motion in any other; andwhose muscular power is so exclusively exercised that the nervous powerwhich produces intelligence is thereby greatly reduced. People of thiskind must absolutely have something that they can take hold of on theslippery and thorny path of their life, some sort of beautiful fable bymeans of which things can be presented to them which their crudeintelligence could most certainly only understand in picture andparable. It is impossible to approach them with subtle explanations andfine distinctions. If you think of religion in this way, and bear inmind that its aims are extremely practical and only subordinatelytheoretical, it will seem to you worthy of the highest respect. 

_Phil_. A respect which would finally rest on the principle that the endsanctifies the means. However, I am not in favour of a compromise on abasis of that sort. Religion may be an excellent means of curbing andcontrolling the perverse, dull, and malicious creatures of the bipedrace; in the eyes of the friend of truth every _fraus_, be it ever so_pia_, must be rejected. It would be an odd way to promote virtuethrough the medium of lies and deception. The flag to which I have swornis truth. I shall remain faithful to it everywhere, and regardless ofsuccess, I shall fight for light and truth. If I see religion hostile, Ishall--

_Demop_. But you will not! Religion is not a deception; it is true, andthe most important of all truths. But because, as has already been said, its doctrines are of such a lofty nature that the great masses cannotgrasp them immediately; because, I say, its light would blind theordinary eye, does it appear concealed in the veil of allegory and teachthat which is not exactly true in itself, but which is true according tothe meaning contained in it: and understood in this way religion is thetruth. 

_Phil_. That would be very probable, if it were allowed to be true onlyin an allegorical sense. But it claims to be exactly true, and true inthe proper sense of the word: herein lies the deception, and it is herethat the friend of truth must oppose it. 

_Demop_. But this deception is a _conditio sine qua non_. If religionadmitted that it was merely the allegorical meaning in its doctrinesthat was true, it would be deprived of all efficacy, and such rigoroustreatment would put an end to its invaluable and beneficial influence onthe morals and feelings of mankind. Instead of insisting on that withpedantic obstinacy, look at its great achievements in a practical wayboth as regards morality and feelings, as a guide to conduct, as asupport and consolation to suffering humanity in life and death. Howgreatly you should guard against rousing suspicion in the masses bytheoretical wrangling, and thereby finally taking from them what is aninexhaustible source of consolation and comfort to them; which in theirhard lot they need very much more than we do: for this reason alone, religion ought not to be attacked. 

_Phil_. With this argument Luther could have been beaten out of thefield when he attacked the selling of indulgences; for the letters ofindulgence have furnished many a man with irreparable consolation andperfect tranquillity, so that he joyfully passed away with perfectconfidence in the little packet of them which he firmly held in his handas he lay dying, convinced that in them he had so many cards ofadmission into all the nine heavens. What is the use of grounds ofconsolation and peacefulness over which is constantly hanging theDamocles-sword of deception? The truth, my friend, the truth alone holdsgood, and remains constant and faithful; it is the only solidconsolation; it is the indestructible diamond. 

_Demop_. Yes, if you had truth in your pocket to bless us with wheneverwe asked for it. But what you possess are only metaphysical systems inwhich nothing is certain but the headaches they cost. Before one takesanything away one must have something better to put in its place. 

_Phil_. I wish you would not continually say that. To free a man fromerror does not mean to take something from him, but to give himsomething. For knowledge that something is wrong is a truth. No error, however, is harmless; every error will cause mischief sooner or later tothe man who fosters it. Therefore do not deceive any one, but ratheradmit you are ignorant of what you do not know, and let each man formhis own dogmas for himself. Perhaps they will not turn out so bad, especially as they will rub against each other and mutually rectifyerrors; at any rate the various opinions will establish tolerance. Thosemen who possess both knowledge and capacity may take up the study ofphilosophy, or even themselves advance the history of philosophy. 

_Demop_. That would be a fine thing! A whole nation of naturalisedmetaphysicians quarrelling with each other, and _eventualiter_ strikingeach other. 

_Phil_. Well, a few blows here and there are the sauce of life, or atleast a very slight evil compared with priestly government--prosecutionof heretics, plundering of the laity, courts of inquisition, crusades, religious wars, massacres of St. Bartholomew, and the like. They havebeen the results of chartered popular metaphysics: therefore I stillhold that one cannot expect to get grapes from thistles, or good fromlies and deception. 

_Demop_. How often must I repeat that religion is not a lie, but thetruth itself in a mythical, allegorical dress? But with respect to yourplan of each man establishing his own religion, I had still something tosay to you, that a particularism like this is totally and absolutelyopposed to the nature of mankind, and therefore would abolish all socialorder. Man is an _animal metaphysicum_--in other words, he hassurpassingly great metaphysical requirements; accordingly he conceiveslife above all in its metaphysical sense, and from that standpointwishes to grasp everything. Accordingly, odd as it may sound with regardto the uncertainty of all dogmas, accord in the fundamental elements ofmetaphysics is the principal thing, in so much as it is only amongpeople who hold the same views on this question that a genuine andlasting fellowship is possible. As a result of this, nations resembleand differ from each other more in religion than in government, or evenlanguage. Consequently, the fabric of society, the State, will only beperfectly firm when it has for a basis a system of metaphysicsuniversally acknowledged. Such a system, naturally, can only be apopular metaphysical one--that is, a religion. It then becomesidentified with the government, with all the general expressions of thenational life, as well as with all sacred acts of private life. This wasthe case in ancient India, among the Persians, Egyptians, Jews, also theGreeks and Romans, and it is still the case among the Brahman, Buddhist, and Mohammedan nations. There, are three doctrines of faith in China, itis true, and the one that has spread the most, namely, Buddhism, isexactly the doctrine that is least protected by the State; yet there isa saying in China that is universally appreciated and daily applied, _the three doctrines are only one_--in other words, they agree in themain thing. The Emperor confesses all three at the same time, and agreeswith them all. Europe is the confederacy of _Christian_ States;Christianity is the basis of each of its members and the common bond ofall; hence Turkey, although it is in Europe, is really not to bereckoned in it. Similarly the European princes are such "by the grace ofGod, " and the Pope is the delegate of God; accordingly, as his thronewas the highest, he wished all other thrones to be looked upon only asheld in fee from him. Similarly Archbishops and Bishops, as such, hadtemporal authority, just as they have still in England a seat and voicein the Upper House; Protestant rulers are, as such, heads of theirchurches; in England a few years ago this was a girl of eighteen. By therevolt from the Pope, the Reformation shattered the European structure, and, in particular, dissolved the true unity of Germany by abolishingits common faith; this unity, which had as a matter of fact come togrief, had accordingly to be replaced later by artificial and purelypolitical bonds. So you see how essentially connected is unity of faithwith common order and every state. It is everywhere the support of thelaws and the constitution--that is to say, the foundation of the socialstructure, which would stand with difficulty if faith did not lend powerto the authority of the government and the importance of the ruler. 

_Phil_. Oh, yes, princes look upon God as a goblin, wherewith tofrighten grown-up children to bed when nothing else is of any avail; itis for this reason that they depend so much on God. All right; meanwhileI should like to advise every ruling lord to read through, on a certainday every six months, the fifteenth chapter of the First Book of Samuel, earnestly and attentively; so that he may always have in mind what itmeans to support the throne on the altar. Moreover, since burning at thestake, that _ultima ratio theologorum_, is a thing of the past, thismode of government has lost its efficacy. For, as you know, religionsare like glowworms: before they can shine it must be dark. A certaindegree of general ignorance is the condition of every religion, and isthe element in which alone it is able to exist. While, as soon asastronomy, natural science, geology, history, knowledge of countries andnations have spread their light universally, and philosophy is finallyallowed to speak, every faith which is based on miracle and revelationmust perish, and then philosophy will take its place. In Europe the dayof knowledge and science dawned towards the end of the fifteenth centurywith the arrival of the modern Greek philosophers, its sun rose higherin the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, which were so productive, and scattered the mists of the Middle Age. In the same proportion, bothChurch and Faith were obliged to gradually disappear; so that in theeighteenth century English and French philosophers became directantagonists, until finally, under Frederick the Great, Kant came andtook away from religious belief the support it had formerly receivedfrom philosophy, and emancipated the _ancilla theologiae_ in that heattacked the question with German thoroughness and perseverance, wherebyit received a less frivolous, that is to say, a more earnest tone. As aresult of this we see in the nineteenth century Christianity very muchweakened, almost stripped entirely of serious belief, nay, fighting forits own existence; while apprehensive princes try to raise it up by anartificial stimulant, as the doctor tries to revive a dying man by theaid of a drug. There is a passage from Condorcet's _Des Progr�s del'esprit humain_, which seems to have been written as a warning to ourepoch: _Le z�le religieux des philosophes et des grands n'�tait qu'uned�votion politique: et toute religion, qu'on se permet de d�fendre commeune croyance qu'il est utile de laisser au peuple, ne peut plus esp�rerqu'une agonie plus ou moins prolong�e_. In the whole course of theevents which I have pointed out you may always observe that belief andknowledge bear the same relation to each other as the two scales of abalance: when the one rises the other must fall. The balance is sosensitive that it indicates momentary influences. For example, in thebeginning of this century the predatory excursions of French robbersunder their leader Buonaparte, and the great efforts that were requisiteto drive them out and to punish them, had led to a temporary neglect ofscience, and in consequence to a certain decrease in the generalpropagation of knowledge; the Church immediately began to raise her headagain and Faith to be revived, a revival partly of a poetical nature, inkeeping with the spirit of the times. On the other hand, in the morethan thirty years' peace that followed, leisure and prosperity promotedthe building up of science and the spread of knowledge in an exceptionaldegree, so that the result was what I have said, the dissolution andthreatened fall of religion. Perhaps the time which has been so oftenpredicted is not far distant, when religion will depart from Europeanhumanity, like a nurse whose care the child has outgrown; it is nowplaced in the hands of a tutor for instruction. For without doubtdoctrines of belief that are based only on authority, miracles, andrevelation are only of use and suitable to the childhood of humanity. That a race, which all physical and historical data confirm as havingbeen in existence only about a hundred times the life of a man sixtyyears old, is still in its first childhood is a fact that every one willadmit. 

_Demop_. If instead of prophesying with undisguised pleasure thedownfall of Christianity, you would only consider how infinitelyindebted European humanity is to it, and to the religion which, afterthe lapse of some time, followed Christianity from its old home in theEast! Europe received from it a drift which had hitherto been unknown toit--it learnt the fundamental truth that life cannot be anend-in-itself, but that the true end of our existence lies beyond it. The Greeks and Romans had placed this end absolutely in life itself, sothat, in this sense, they may most certainly be called blind heathens. Correspondingly, all their virtues consist in what is serviceable to thepublic, in what is useful; and Aristotle says quite na�vely, "_Thosevirtues must necessarily be the greatest which are the most useful toothers_" (ἀναγκη δε μεγιστας εἰναι ἀρετας τας τοις ἀλλοις χρησιμωτατας, _Rhetor_. I. C. 9). This is why the ancients considered love for one'scountry the greatest virtue, although it is a very doubtful one, as itis made up of narrowness, prejudice, vanity, and an enlightenedself-interest. Preceding the passage that has just been quoted, Aristotle enumerates all the virtues in order to explain themindividually. They are _Justice, Courage, Moderation, Magnificence_(μεγαλοπρεπεια), _Magnanimity, Liberality, Gentleness, Reasonableness, and Wisdom_. How different from the Christian virtues! Even Plato, without comparison the most transcendental philosopher of pre-Christianantiquity, knows no higher virtue than _Justice_; he alone recommends itunconditionally and for its own sake, while all the other philosophersmake a happy life--_vita beata_--the aim of all virtue; and it isacquired through the medium of moral behaviour. Christianity releasedEuropean humanity from its superficial and crude absorption in anephemeral, uncertain, and hollow existence. 

 . . . _coelumque tueri Jussit, et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus_. 

Accordingly, Christianity does not only preach Justice, but the _Love ofMankind, Compassion, Charity, Reconciliation, Love of one's Enemies, Patience, Humility, Renunciation, Faith, and Hope_. Indeed, it went evenfurther: it taught that the world was of evil and that we neededdeliverance; consequently it preached contempt of the world, self-denial, chastity, the giving up of one's own will, that is to say, turning away from life and its phantom-like pleasures; it taught furtherthe healing power of suffering, and that an instrument of torture is thesymbol of Christianity, I willingly admit that this serious and onlycorrect view of life had spread in other forms throughout Asia thousandsof years previously, independently of Christianity as it is still; butthis view of life was a new and tremendous revelation to Europeanhumanity. For it is well known that the population of Europe consists ofAsiatic races who, driven out from their own country, wandered away, andby degrees hit upon Europe: on their long wanderings they lost theoriginal religion of their homes, and with it the correct view of life;and this is why they formed in another climate religions for themselveswhich were somewhat crude; especially the worship of Odin, the Druidicand the Greek religions, the metaphysical contents of which were smalland shallow. Meanwhile there developed among the Greeks a quite special, one might say an instinctive, sense of beauty, possessed by them aloneof all the nations of the earth that have ever existed--a peculiar, fine, and correct sense of beauty, so that in the mouths of their poetsand in the hands of their artists, their mythology took an exceptionallybeautiful and delightful form. On the other hand, the earnest, true, andprofound import of life was lost to the Greeks and Romans; they livedlike big children until Christianity came and brought them back to theserious side of life. 

_Phil_. And to form an idea of the result we need only compare antiquitywith the Middle Age that followed--that is, the time of Pericles withthe fourteenth century. It is difficult to believe that we have the samekind of beings before us. There, the finest development of humanity, excellent constitutional regulations, wise laws, cleverly distributedoffices, rationally ordered freedom, all the arts, as well as poetry andphilosophy, at their best; the creation of works which after thousandsof years have never been equalled and are almost works of a higher orderof beings, whom we can never approach; life embellished by the noblestfellowship, as is portrayed in the _Banquet_ of Xenophon. And now lookat this side, if you can. Look at the time when the Church hadimprisoned the minds, and violence the bodies of men, whereby knightsand priests could lay the whole weight of life on the common beast ofburden--the third estate. There you have club-law, feudalism, andfanaticism in close alliance, and in their train shocking uncertaintyand darkness of mind, a corresponding intolerance, discord of faiths, religious wars, crusades, persecution of heretics and inquisitions; asthe form of fellowship, chivalry, an amalgam of savagery andfoolishness, with its pedantic system of absurd affectations, itsdegrading superstitions, and apish veneration for women; the survival ofwhich is gallantry, deservedly requited by the arrogance of women; itaffords to all Asiatics continual material for laughter, in which theGreeks would have joined. In the golden Middle Age the matter went asfar as a formal and methodical service of women and enjoined deeds ofheroism, _cours d'amour_, bombastic Troubadour songs and so forth, although it is to be observed that these last absurdities, which have anintellectual side, were principally at home in France; while among thematerial phlegmatic Germans the knights distinguished themselves more bydrinking and robbing. Drinking and hoarding their castles with plunderwere the occupations of their lives; and certainly there was no want ofstupid love-songs in the courts. What has changed the scene so?Migration and Christianity. 

_Demop_. It is a good thing you reminded me of it. Migration was thesource of the evil, and Christianity the dam on which it broke. Christianity was the means of controlling and taming those raw, wildhordes who were washed in by the flood of migration. The savage man mustfirst of all learn to kneel, to venerate, and to obey; it is only afterthat, that he can be civilised. This was done in Ireland by St. Patrick, in Germany by Winifred the Saxon, who was a genuine Boniface. It wasmigration of nations, this last movement of Asiatic races towardsEurope, followed only by their fruitless attempts under Attila, GengisKhan, and Timur, and, as a comic after-piece, by the gipsies: it wasmigration of nations which swept away the humanity of the ancients. Christianity was the very principle which worked against this savagery, just as later, through the whole of the Middle Age, the Church and itshierarchy were extremely necessary to place a limit to the savagery andbarbarism of those lords of violence, the princes and knights: it wasthe ice-breaker of this mighty flood. Still, the general aim ofChristianity is not so much to make this life pleasant as to make usworthy of a better. It looks beyond this span of time, this fleetingdream, in order to lead us to eternal salvation. Its tendency is ethicalin the highest sense of the word, a tendency which had hitherto beenunknown in Europe; as I have already pointed out to you by comparing themorality and religion of the ancients with those of Christianity. 

_Phil_. That is right so far as theory is concerned; but look at thepractice. In comparison with the Christian centuries that followed, theancient world was undoubtedly less cruel than the Middle Age, with itsdeaths by frightful torture, its countless burnings at the stake;further, the ancients were very patient, thought very highly of justice, and frequently sacrificed themselves for their country, showed traits ofmagnanimity of every kind, and such genuine humanity, that, up to thepresent time, an acquaintance with their doings and thoughts is calledthe study of Humanity. Religious wars, massacres, crusades, inquisitions, as well as other persecutions, the extermination of theoriginal inhabitants of America and the introduction of African slavesin their place, were the fruits of Christianity, and among the ancientsone cannot find anything analogous to this, anything to counterpoise it;for the slaves of the ancients, the _familia_, the _vernae_, were asatisfied race and faithfully devoted to their masters, and as widelydistinct from the miserable negroes of the sugar plantations, which area disgrace to humanity, as they were in colour. The censurabletoleration of pederasty, for which one chiefly reproaches the moralityof the ancients, is a trifle compared with the Christian horrors I havecited, and is not so rare among people of to-day as it appears to be. Can you then, taking everything into consideration, maintain thathumanity has really become morally better by Christianity?

_Demop_. If the result has not everywhere corresponded with the purityand accuracy of the doctrine, it may be because this doctrine has beentoo noble, too sublime for humanity, and its aim set too high: to besure, it was much easier to comply with heathen morality or with theMohammedan. It is precisely what is most elevated that is the most opento abuse and deception--_abusus optimi pessimus_; and therefore thoselofty doctrines have sometimes served as a pretext for the mostdisgraceful transactions and veritable crimes. The downfall of theancient institutions, as well as of the arts and sciences of the oldworld, is, as has been said, to be ascribed to the invasion of foreignbarbarians. Accordingly, it was inevitable that ignorance and savagerygot the upper hand; with the result that violence and fraud usurpedtheir dominion, and knights and priests became a burden to mankind. Thisis partly to be explained by the fact that the new religion taught thelesson of eternal and not temporal welfare, that simplicity of heart waspreferable to intellectual knowledge, and it was averse to all worldlypleasures which are served by the arts and sciences. However, in so faras they could be made serviceable to religion they were promoted, and soflourished to a certain extent. 

_Phil_. In a very narrow sphere. The sciences were suspiciouscompanions, and as such were placed under restrictions; while fondignorance, that element so necessary to the doctrines of faith, wascarefully nourished. 

_Demop_. And yet what humanity had hitherto acquired in the shape ofknowledge, and handed down in the works of the ancients, was saved fromruin by the clergy, especially by those in the monasteries. What wouldhave happened if Christianity had not come in just before the migrationof nations?

_Phil_. It would really be an extremely useful inquiry if some one, withthe greatest frankness and impartiality, tried to weigh exactly andaccurately the advantages and disadvantages derived from religions. Todo this, it would be necessary to have a much greater amount ofhistorical and psychological data than either of us has at our command. Academies might make it a subject for a prize essay. 

_Demop_. They will take care not to do that. 

_Phil_. I am surprised to hear you say that, for it is a bad look-outfor religion. Besides, there are also academies which make it a secretcondition in submitting their questions that the prize should be givento the competitor who best understands the art of flattering them. Ifwe, then, could only get a statistician to tell us how many crimes areprevented yearly by religious motives, and how many by other motives. There would be very few of the former. If a man feels himself tempted tocommit a crime, certainly the first thing which presents itself to hismind is the punishment he must suffer for it, and the probability thathe will be punished; after that comes the second consideration, that hisreputation is at stake. If I am not mistaken, he will reflect by thehour on these two obstacles before religious considerations ever comeinto his mind. If he can get away from these two first safeguardsagainst crime, I am convinced that religion _alone_ will very rarelykeep him back from it. 

_Demop_. I believe, however, that it will do so very often; especiallywhen its influence works through the medium of custom, and therebyimmediately makes a man shrink from the idea of committing a crime. Early impressions cling to him. As an illustration of what I mean, consider how many a man, and especially if he is of noble birth, willoften, in order to fulfil some promise, make great sacrifices, which areinstigated solely by the fact that his father has often impressed itupon him in childhood that "a man of honour, or a gentleman, or acavalier, always keeps his word inviolate. "

_Phil_. And that won't work unless there is a certain innate _probitas_. You must not ascribe to religion what is the result of innate goodnessof character, by which pity for the one who would be affected by thecrime prevents a man from committing it. This is the genuine moralmotive, and as such it is independent of all religions. 

_Demop_. But even this moral motive has no effect on the masses unlessit is invested with a religious motive, which, at any rate, strengthensit. However, without any such natural foundation, religious motivesoften in themselves alone prevent crime: this is not a matter ofsurprise to us in the case of the multitude, when we see that evenpeople of good education sometimes come under the influence, not indeedof religious motives, which fundamentally are at least allegoricallytrue, but of the most absurd superstitions, by which they are guidedthroughout the whole of their lives; as, for instance, undertakingnothing on a Friday, refusing to sit down thirteen at table, obeyingchance omens, and the like: how much more likely are the masses to beguided by such things. You cannot properly conceive the greatlimitations of the raw mind; its interior is entirely dark, especiallyif, as is often the case, a bad, unjust, and wicked heart is itsfoundation. Men like these, who represent the bulk of humanity, must bedirected and controlled meanwhile, as well as possible, even if it be byreally superstitious motives, until they become susceptible to truer andbetter ones. Of the direct effect of religion, one may give as aninstance a common occurrence in Italy, namely, that of a thief beingallowed to replace what he has stolen through the medium of hisconfessor, who makes this the condition of his absolution. Then think ofthe case of an oath, where religion shows a most decided influence:whether it be because a man places himself expressly in the position ofa mere _moral being_, and as such regards himself as solemnly appealedto, --as seems to be the case in France, where the form of the oath ismerely "_je le jure_"; and among the Quakers, whose solemn "yea" or"nay" takes the place of the oath;--or whether it is because a manreally believes he is uttering something that will forfeit his eternalhappiness, --a belief which is obviously only the investiture of theformer feeling. At any rate, religious motives are a means of awakeningand calling forth his moral nature. A man will frequently consent totake a false oath, but suddenly refuse to do so when it comes to thepoint; whereby truth and right come off victorious. 

_Phil_. But false oaths are still oftener sworn, whereby truth and rightare trodden underfoot with the clear knowledge of all the witnesses ofthe act. An oath is the jurist's metaphysical _pons asinorum_, and likethis should be used as seldom as ever possible. When it cannot beavoided, it should be taken with great solemnity, always in the presenceof the clergy--nay, even in a church or in a chapel adjoining the courtof justice. . . . This is precisely why the French abstract formulary ofthe oath is of no value. By the way, you are right to cite the oath asan undeniable example of the practical efficacy of religion. I must, inspite of everything you have said, doubt whether the efficacy ofreligion goes much beyond this. Just think, if it were suddenly declaredby public proclamation that all criminal laws were abolished; I believethat neither you nor I would have the courage to go home from here aloneunder the protection of religious motives. On the other hand, if in asimilar way all religions were declared to be untrue; we would, underthe protection of the laws alone, live on as formerly, without anyspecial increase in our fears and measures of precaution. But I willeven go further: religions have very frequently a decidedly demoralisinginfluence. It may be said generally that duties towards God are thereverse of duties towards mankind; and that it is very easy to make upfor lack of good behaviour towards men by adulation of God. Accordingly, we see in all ages and countries that the great majority of mankind findit much easier to beg admission into Heaven by prayers than to deserveit by their actions. In every religion it soon comes to be proclaimedthat it is not so much moral actions as faith, ceremonies, and rites ofevery kind that are the immediate objects of the Divine will; and indeedthe latter, especially if they are bound up with the emoluments of theclergy, are considered a substitute for the former. The sacrifice ofanimals in temples, or the saying of masses, the erection of chapels orcrosses by the roadside, are soon regarded as the most meritoriousworks; so that even a great crime may be expiated by them, as also bypenance, subjection to priestly authority, confessions, pilgrimages, donations to the temple and its priests, the building of monasteries andthe like; until finally the clergy appear almost only as mediators inthe corruption of the gods. And if things do not go so far as that, where is the religion whose confessors do not consider prayers, songs ofpraise, and various kinds of devotional exercise, at any rate, a partialsubstitute for moral conduct? Look at England, for instance, where theaudacious priestcraft has mendaciously identified the Christian Sundaywith the Jewish Sabbath, in spite of the fact that it was ordained byConstantine the Great in opposition to the Jewish Sabbath, and even tookits name, so that Jehovah's ordinances for the Sabbath--_i. E. _, the dayon which the Almighty rested, tired after His six days' work, making ittherefore _essentially the last day_ of the week--might be conferred onthe Christian Sunday, the _dies solis_, the first day of the week whichthe sun opens in glory, the day of devotion and joy. The result of thisfraud is that in England "Sabbath breaking, " or the "desecration of theSabbath, " that is, the slightest occupation, whether it be of a usefulor pleasurable nature, and any kind of game, music, knitting, or worldlybook, are on Sundays regarded as great sins. Must not the ordinary manbelieve that if, as his spiritual guides impress upon him, he neverfails in a "strict observance of the holy Sabbath and a regularattendance on Divine Service, "--in other words, if he invariably whilesaway his time on a Sunday, and never fails to sit two hours in church tolisten to the same Litany for the thousandth time, and to babble it withthe rest _a tempo_, he may reckon on indulgence in here and there littlesins which he at times allows himself? Those devils in human form, theslave-owners and slave-traders in the Free States of North America (theyshould be called the Slave States), are, in general, orthodox, piousAnglicans, who look upon it as a great sin to work on Sundays; andconfident in this, and their regular attendance at church, they expectto gain eternal happiness. The demoralising influence of religion isless problematical than its moral influence. On the other hand, howgreat and how certain that moral influence must be to make amends forthe horrors and misery which religions, especially the Christian andMohammedan religions, have occasioned and spread over the earth! Thinkof the fanaticism, of the endless persecutions, the religious wars, thatsanguinary frenzy of which the ancients had no idea; then, think of theCrusades, a massacre lasting two hundred years, and perfectlyunwarrantable, with its war-cry, _It is God's will_, so that it mightget into its possession the grave of one who had preached love andendurance; think of the cruel expulsion and extermination of the Moorsand Jews from Spain; think of the massacres, of the inquisitions andother heretical tribunals, the bloody and terrible conquests of theMohammedans in three different parts of the world, and the conquest ofthe Christians in America, whose inhabitants were for the most part, andin Cuba entirely, exterminated; according to Las Casas, within fortyyears twelve million persons were murdered--of course, all _in majoremDei gloriam_, and for the spreading of the Gospel, and because, moreover, what was not Christian was not looked upon as human. It istrue I have already touched upon these matters; but when in our day "theLatest News from the Kingdom of God" is printed, we shall not be tiredof bringing older news to mind. And in particular, let us not forgetIndia, that sacred soil, that cradle of the human race, at any rate ofthe race to which we belong, where first Mohammedans, and laterChristians, were most cruelly infuriated against the followers of theoriginal belief of mankind; and the eternally lamentable, wanton, andcruel destruction and disfigurement of the most ancient temples andimages, still show traces of the monotheistic rage of the Mohammedans, as it was carried on from Marmud the Ghaznevid of accursed memory, downto Aureng Zeb, the fratricide, whom later the Portuguese Christiansfaithfully tried to imitate by destroying the temples and the _auto daf�_ of the inquisition at Goa. Let us also not forget the chosen peopleof God, who, after they had, by Jehovah's express and special command, stolen from their old and faithful friends in Egypt the gold and silvervessels which had been lent to them, made a murderous and predatoryexcursion into the Promised Land, with Moses at their head, in order totear it from the rightful owners, also at Jehovah's express and repeatedcommands, knowing no compassion, and relentlessly murdering andexterminating all the inhabitants, even the women and children (Joshuax. , xi. ); just because they were not circumcised and did not knowJehovah, which was sufficient reason to justify every act of crueltyagainst them. For the same reason, in former times the infamous rogueryof the patriarch Jacob and his chosen people against Hamor, King ofShalem, and his people is recounted to us with glory, precisely becausethe people were unbelievers. Truly, it is the worst side of religionsthat the believers of one religion consider themselves allowedeverything against the sins of every other, and consequently treat themwith the utmost viciousness and cruelty; the Mohammedans against theChristians and Hindoos; the Christians against the Hindoos, Mohammedans, Americans, Negroes, Jews, heretics, and the like. Perhaps I go too farwhen I say _all_ religions; for in compliance with truth, I must addthat the fanatical horrors, arising from religion, are only perpetratedby the followers of the monotheistic religions, that is, of Judaism andits two branches, Christianity and Islamism. The same is not reported ofthe Hindoos and Buddhists, although we know, for instance, that Buddhismwas driven out about the fifth century of our era by the Brahmans fromits original home in the southernmost part of the Indian peninsula, andafterwards spread over the whole of Asia; yet we have, so far as I know, no definite information of any deeds of violence, of wars and crueltiesby which this was brought about. This may, most certainly, be ascribedto the obscurity in which the history of those countries is veiled; butthe extremely mild character of their religion, which continuallyimpresses upon us to be forbearing towards _every living thing_, as wellas the circumstance that Brahmanism properly admits no proselytes byreason of its caste system, leads us to hope that its followers mayconsider themselves exempt from shedding blood to any great extent, andfrom cruelty in any form. Spence Hardy, in his excellent book on_Eastern Monachism_, p. 412, extols the extraordinary tolerance of theBuddhists, and adds his assurance that the annals of Buddhism furnishfewer examples of religious persecution than those of any otherreligion. As a matter of fact, intolerance is only essential tomonotheism: an only god is by his nature a jealous god, who cannotpermit any other god to exist. On the other hand, polytheistic gods areby their nature tolerant: they live and let live; they willinglytolerate their colleagues as being gods of the same religion, and thistolerance is afterwards extended to alien gods, who are, accordingly, hospitably received, and later on sometimes attain even the same rightsand privileges; as in the case of the Romans, who willingly accepted andvenerated Phrygian, Egyptian, and other foreign gods. Hence it is themonotheistic religions alone that furnish us with religious wars, persecutions, and heretical tribunals, and also with the breaking ofimages, the destruction of idols of the gods; the overthrowing of Indiantemples and Egyptian colossi, which had looked on the sun three thousandyears; and all this because a jealous God had said: "_Thou shalt make nograven image_, " etc. To return to the principal part of the matter: youare certainly right in advocating the strong metaphysical needs ofmankind; but religions appear to me to be not so much a satisfaction asan abuse of those needs. At any rate we have seen that, in view of theprogress of morality, its advantages are for the most partproblematical, while its disadvantages, and especially the enormitieswhich have appeared in its train, are obvious. Of course the matterbecomes quite different if we consider the utility of religion as amainstay of thrones; for in so far as these are bestowed "by the graceof God, " altar and throne are closely related. Accordingly, every wiseprince who loves his throne and his family will walk before his peopleas a type of true religion; just as even Machiavelli, in the eighteenthchapter of his book, urgently recommended religion to princes. Moreover, it may be added that revealed religions are related to philosophy, exactly as the sovereigns by the grace of God are to the sovereignty ofthe people; and hence the two former terms of the parallel are innatural alliance. 

_Demop_. Oh, don't adopt that tone! But consider that in doing so youare blowing the trumpet of ochlocracy and anarchy, the arch-enemy of alllegislative order, all civilisation, and all humanity. 

_Phil_. You are right. It was only a sophism, or what the fencing-mastercalls a feint. I withdraw it therefore. But see how disputing can makeeven honest men unjust and malicious. So let us cease. 

_Demop_. It is true I regret, after all the trouble I have taken, that Ihave not altered your opinion in regard to religion; on the other hand, I can assure you that everything you have brought forward has not shakenmy conviction of its high value and necessity. 

_Phil_. I believe you; for as it is put in Hudibras:

 "He that complies against his will Is of his own opinion still. "

I find consolation, however, in the fact that in controversies and intaking mineral waters, it is the after-effects that are the true ones. 

_Demop_. I hope the after-effect may prove to be beneficial in yourcase. 

_Phil_. That might be so if I could only digest a Spanish proverb. 

_Demop_. And that is?

_Phil. _ _Detras de la cruz est� el Diablo_. 

_Demop_. Which means?

_Phil_ Wait--"Behind the cross stands the devil. "

_Demop_. Come, don't let us separate from each other with sarcasms, butrather let us allow that religion, like Janus, or, better still, likethe Brahman god of death, Yama, has two faces, and like him, one veryfriendly and one very sullen. Each of us, however, has only fixed hiseyes on one. 

_Phil_. You are right, old fellow. 

FOOTNOTES:

[13] _De Anim. Mundi_, p. 104, d. Steph. 

PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. 

Every animal, and especially man, requires, in order to exist and get onin the world, a certain fitness and proportion between his will and hisintellect. The more exact and true this fitness and proportion are bynature, the easier, safer, and pleasanter it will be for him to getthrough the world. At the same time, a mere approximation to this exactpoint will protect him from destruction. There is, in consequence, acertain scope within the limits of exactness and fitness of thisso-called proportion. The normal proportion is as follows. As the objectof the intellect is to be the light and guide of the will on its path, the more violent, impetuous, and passionate the inner force of the will, the more perfect and clear must be the intellect which belongs to it; sothat the ardent efforts of the will, the glow of passion, the vehemenceof affection, may not lead a man astray or drive him to do things thathe has not given his consideration or are wrong or will ruin him; whichwill infallibly be the case when a very strong will is combined with avery weak intellect. On the other hand, a phlegmatic character, that isto say, a weak and feeble will, can agree and get on with littleintellect; a moderate will only requires a moderate intellect. Ingeneral, any disproportion between the will and intellect--that is tosay, any deviation from the normal proportion referred to--tends to makea man unhappy; and the same thing happens when the disproportion isreversed. The development of the intellect to an abnormal degree ofstrength and superiority, thereby making it out of all proportion to thewill, a condition which constitutes the essence of true genius, is notonly superfluous but actually an impediment to the needs and purposes oflife. This means that, in youth, excessive energy in grasping theobjective world, accompanied by a lively imagination and littleexperience, makes the mind susceptible to exaggerated ideas and a preyeven to chimeras; and this results in an eccentric and even fantasticcharacter. And when, later, this condition of mind no longer exists andsuccumbs to the teaching of experience, the genius will never feel somuch at home or take up his position in the everyday world or in civiclife, and move with the ease of a man of normal intellect; indeed, he isoften more apt to make curious mistakes. For the ordinary mind is soperfectly at home in the narrow circle of its own ideas and way ofgrasping things that no one can control it in that circle; itscapacities always remain true to their original purpose, namely, to lookafter the service of the will; therefore it applies itself unceasinglyto this end without ever going beyond it. While the genius, as I havestated, is at bottom a _monstrum per excessum_; just as conversely thepassionate, violent, and unintelligent man, the brainless savage, is a_monstrum per dejectum_. 

 * * * * *

The _will_ to _live_, which forms the innermost kernel of every livingbeing, is most distinctly apparent in the highest, that is to say in thecleverest, order of animals, and therefore in them we may see andconsider the nature of the will most clearly. For _below_ this order ofanimals the will is not so prominent, and has a less degree ofobjectivation; but _above_ the higher order of animals, I mean in men, we get reason, and with reason reflection, and with this the faculty fordissimulation, which immediately throws a veil over the actions of thewill. But in outbursts of affection and passion the will exhibits itselfunveiled. This is precisely why passion, when it speaks, always carriesconviction, whatever the passion may be; and rightly so. For the samereason, the passions are the principal theme of poets and thestalking-horse of actors. And it is because the will is most striking inthe lower class of animals that we may account for our delight in dogs, apes, cats, etc. ; it is the absolute _na�vet�_ of all their expressionswhich charms us so much. 

What a peculiar pleasure it affords us to see any free animal lookingafter its own welfare unhindered, finding its food, or taking care ofits young, or associating with others of its kind, and so on! This isexactly what ought to be and can be. Be it only a bird, I can look at itfor some time with a feeling of pleasure; nay, a water-rat or a frog, and with still greater pleasure a hedgehog, a weazel, a roe, or a deer. The contemplation of animals delights us so much, principally because wesee in them our own existence very _much simplified_. 

There is only one mendacious creature in the world--man. Every other istrue and genuine, for it shows itself as it is, and expresses itselfjust as it feels. An emblematical or allegorical expression of thisfundamental difference is to be found in the fact that all animals goabout in their natural state; this largely accounts for the happyimpression they make on us when we look at them; and as far as I myselfam concerned, my heart always goes out to them, particularly if they arefree animals. Man, on the other hand, by his silly dress becomes amonster; his very appearance is objectionable, enhanced by the unnaturalpaleness of his complexion, --the nauseating effect of his eating meat, of his drinking alcohol, his smoking, dissoluteness, and ailments. Hestands out as a blot on Nature. And it was because the Greeks wereconscious of this that they restricted themselves as far as possible inthe matter of dress. 

 * * * * *

Much that is attributed to _force of habit_ ought rather to be put downto the constancy and immutability of original, innate character, wherebywe always do the _same_ thing under the same circumstances; whichhappens the first as for the hundredth time in consequence of the samenecessity. While _force of habit_, in reality, is solely due to_indolence_ seeking to save the intellect and will the work, difficulty, and danger of making a fresh choice; so that we are made to do to-daywhat we did yesterday and have done a hundred times before, and of whichwe know that it will gain its end. 

But the truth of the matter lies deeper; for it can be explained moreclearly than appears at first sight. The _power of inertia_ applied tobodies which may be moved by mechanical means only, becomes _force ofhabit_ when applied to bodies which are moved by motives. The actionswhich we do out of sheer force of habit occur, as a matter of fact, without any individual separate motive exercised for the particularcase; hence we do not really think of them. It was only when each actionat first took place that it had a motive; after that it became a habit;the secondary after-effect of this motive is the present habit, which issufficient to carry on the action; just as a body, set in motion by apush, does not need another push in order to enable it to continue itsmotion; it will continue in motion for ever if it is not obstructed inany way. The same thing applies to animals; training is a habit which isforced upon them. The horse draws a cart along contentedly without beingurged to do so; this motion is still the effect of those lashes with thewhip which incited him at first, but which by the law of inertia havebecome perpetuated as habit. There is really something more in all thisthan a mere parable; it is the identity of the thing in question, thatis to say of the will, at very different degrees of its objectivation, by which the same law of motion takes such different forms. 

 * * * * *

_Viva muchos a�os!_ is the ordinary greeting in Spain, and it is usualthroughout the whole world to wish people a long life. It is not aknowledge of what life is that explains the origin of such a wish, butrather knowledge of what man is in his real nature: namely, _the will tolive_. 

The wish which every one has, that he may be _remembered_ after hisdeath, and which those people with aspirations have for _posthumous_fame, seems to me to arise from this tenacity to life. When they seethemselves cut off from every possibility of real existence theystruggle after a life which is still within their reach, even if it isonly an ideal--that is to say, an unreal one. 

 * * * * *

We wish, more or less, to get to the end of everything we are interestedin or occupied with; we are impatient to get to the end of it, and gladwhen it is finished. It is only the general end, the end of all ends, that we wish, as a rule, as far off as possible. 

 * * * * *

Every separation gives a foretaste of death, and every meeting aforetaste of the resurrection. This explains why even people who wereindifferent to each other, rejoice so much when they meet again afterthe lapse of twenty or thirty years. 

 * * * * *

The deep sorrow we feel on the death of a friend springs from thefeeling that in every individual there is a something which we cannotdefine, which is his alone and therefore _irreparable. Omne individuumineffabile_. The same applies to individual animals. A man who has byaccident fatally wounded a favourite animal feels the most acute sorrow, and the animal's dying look causes him infinite pain. 

 * * * * *

It is possible for us to grieve over the death of our enemies andadversaries, even after the lapse of a long time, almost as much as overthe death of our friends--that is to say, if we miss them as witnessesof our brilliant success. 

 * * * * *

That the sudden announcement of some good fortune may easily have afatal effect on us is due to the fact that our happiness and unhappinessdepend upon the relation of our demands to what we get; accordingly, thegood things we possess, or are quite sure of possessing, are not felt tobe such, because the nature of all enjoyment is really only _negative_, and has only the effect of annulling pain; whilst, on the other hand, the nature of pain or evil is really positive and felt immediately. Withthe possession, or the certain prospect of it, our demands instantlyrise and increase our desire for further possession and greaterprospects. But if the mind is depressed by continual misfortune, and theclaims reduced to a _minimum_, good fortune that comes suddenly finds nocapacity for its acceptance. Neutralised by no previous claims, it nowhas apparently a positive effect, and accordingly its whole power isexercised; hence it may disorganise the mind--that is to say, be fatalto it. This is why, as is well known, one is so careful to get a manfirst to hope for happiness before announcing it, then to suggest theprospect of it, then little by little make it known, until gradually allis known to him; every portion of the revelation loses the strength ofits effect because it is anticipated by a demand, and room is still leftfor more. In virtue of all this, it might be said that our stomach forgood fortune is bottomless, but the entrance to it is narrow. What hasbeen said does not apply to sudden misfortunes in the same way. Sincehope always resists them, they are for this reason rarely fatal. Thatfear does not perform an analogous office in cases of good fortune isdue to the fact that we are instinctively more inclined to hope than tofear; just as our eyes turn of themselves to light in preference todarkness. 

 * * * * *

_Hope_ is to confuse the desire that something should occur with theprobability that it will. Perhaps no man is free from this folly of theheart, which deranges the intellect's correct estimation of probabilityto such a degree as to make him think the event quite possible, even ifthe chances are only a thousand to one. And still, an unexpectedmisfortune is like a speedy death-stroke; while a hope that is alwaysfrustrated, and yet springs into life again, is like death by slowtorture. 

He who has given up hope has also given up fear; this is the meaning ofthe expression _desperate_. It is natural for a man to have faith inwhat he wishes, and to have faith in it because he wishes it. If thispeculiarity of his nature, which is both beneficial and comforting, iseradicated by repeated hard blows of fate, and he is brought to aconverse condition, when he believes that something must happen becausehe does not wish it, and what he wishes can never happen just because hewishes it; this is, in reality, the state which has been called_desperation_. 

 * * * * *

That we are so often mistaken in others is not always precisely due toour faulty judgment, but springs, as a rule as Bacon says, from_intellectus luminis sicci non est, sec recipit infusionem a voluntateet affectibus_: for without knowing it, we are influenced for or againstthem by trifles from the very beginning. It also often lies in the factthat we do not adhere to the qualities which we really discover in them, but conclude from these that there are others which we considerinseparable from, or at any rate incompatible with, them. For instance, when we discern generosity, we conclude there is honesty; from lying weconclude there is deception; from deception, stealing, and so on; andthis opens the door to many errors, partly because of the peculiarity ofhuman nature, and partly because of the one-sidedness of our point ofview. It is true that character is always consistent and connected; butthe roots of all its qualities lies too deep to enable one to decidefrom special data in a given case which qualities can, and which cannotexist together. 

 * * * * *

The use of the word _person_ in every European language to signify ahuman individual is unintentionally appropriate; _persona_ really meansa player's mask, and it is quite certain that no one shows himself as heis, but that each wears a mask and plays a _r�le_. In general, the wholeof social life is a continual comedy, which the worthy find insipid, whilst the stupid delight in it greatly. 

 * * * * *

It often happens that we blurt out things that may in some kind of waybe harmful to us, but we are silent about things that may make us lookridiculous; because in this case effect follows very quickly on cause. 

 * * * * *

The ordinary man who has suffered injustice burns with a desire forrevenge; and it has often been said that revenge is sweet. This isconfirmed by the many sacrifices made merely for the sake of enjoyingrevenge, without any intention of making good the injury that one hassuffered. The centaur Nessus utilised his last moments in devising anextremely clever revenge, and the fact that it was certain to beeffective sweetened an otherwise bitter death. The same idea, presentedin a more modern and plausible way, occurs in Bertolotti's novel, _Ledue Sorelle_ which has been translated into three languages. WalterScott expresses mankind's proneness to revenge in words as powerful asthey are true: "Vengeance is the sweetest morsel to the mouth that everwas cooked in hell!" I shall now attempt a psychological explanation ofrevenge. All the suffering that nature, chance, or fate have assigned tous does not, _ceteris paribus_, pain us so much as suffering which isbrought upon us by the arbitrary will of another. This is due to thefact that we regard nature and fate as the original rulers of the world;we look upon what befalls us, through them, as something that might havebefallen every one else. Therefore in a case of suffering which arisesfrom this source, we bemoan the fate of mankind in general more than wedo our own. On the other hand, suffering inflicted on us through thearbitrary will of another is a peculiarly bitter addition to the pain orinjury caused, as it involves the consciousness of another'ssuperiority, whether it be in strength or cunning, as opposed to our ownweakness. If compensation is possible, it wipes out the injury; but thatbitter addition, "I must submit to that from you, " which often hurtsmore than the injury itself, is only to be neutralised by vengeance. Forby injuring the man who has injured us, whether it be by force orcunning, we show our superiority, and thereby annul the proof of his. This gives that satisfaction to the mind for which it has beenthirsting. Accordingly, where there is much pride or vanity there willbe a great desire for revenge. But as the fulfilment of every wishproves to be more or less a delusion, so is also the wish for revenge. The expected enjoyment is mostly embittered by pity; nay, gratifiedrevenge will often lacerate the heart and torment the mind, for themotive which prompts the feeling of it is no longer active, and what isleft is the testimony of our wickedness. 

 * * * * *

The pain of an ungratified desire is small compared with that ofrepentance; for the former has to face the immeasurable, open future;the latter the past, which is closed irrevocably. 

 * * * * *

Money is human happiness _in abstracto_; so that a man who is no longercapable of enjoying it _in concrete_ gives up his whole heart to it. 

 * * * * *

Moroseness and melancholy are very opposite in nature; and melancholy ismore nearly related to happiness than to moroseness. Melancholyattracts; moroseness repels. Hypochondria not only makes us unreasonablycross and angry over things concerning the present; not only fills uswith groundless fears of imaginative mishaps for the future; but alsocauses us to unjustly reproach ourselves concerning our actions in thepast. 

Hypochondria causes a man to be always searching for and racking hisbrain about things that either irritate or torment him. The cause of itis an internal morbid depression, combined often with an inwardrestlessness which is temperamental; when both are developed to theirutmost, suicide is the result. 

 * * * * *

What makes a man hard-hearted is this, that each man has, or fancies hehas, sufficient in his own troubles to bear. This is why people placedin happier circumstances than they have been used to are sympathetic andcharitable. But people who have always been placed in happycircumstances are often the reverse; they have become so estranged tosuffering that they have no longer any sympathy with it; and hence ithappens that the poor sometimes show themselves more benevolent than therich. 

On the other hand, what makes a man so very _curious_, as may be seen inthe way he will spy into other people's affairs, is boredom, a conditionwhich is diametrically opposed to suffering;--though envy also oftenhelps in creating curiosity. 

 * * * * *

At times, it seems as though we wish for something, and at the same timedo not wish for it, so that we are at once both pleased and troubledabout it. For instance, if we have to undergo some decisive test in someaffair or other, in which to come off victorious is of great importanceto us; we both wish that the time to be tested were here, and yet dreadthe idea of its coming. If it happens that the time, for once in a way, is postponed, we are both pleased and sorry, for although thepostponement was unexpected, it, however, gives us momentary relief. Wehave the same kind of feeling when we expect an important lettercontaining some decision of moment, and it fails to come. 

In cases like these we are really controlled by two different motives;the stronger but more remote being the desire to stand the test, and tohave the decision given in our favour; the weaker, which is closer athand, the desire to be left in peace and undisturbed for the present, and consequently in further enjoyment of the advantage that hoping on inuncertainty has over what might possibly be an unhappy issue. Consequently, in this case the same happens to our moral vision as toour physical, when a smaller object near at hand conceals from view abigger object some distance away. 

 * * * * *

The course and affairs of our individual life, in view of their truemeaning and connection, are like a piece of crude work in mosaic. Solong as one stands close in front of it, one cannot correctly see theobjects presented, or perceive their importance and beauty; it is onlyby standing some distance away that both come into view. And in the sameway one often understands the true connection of important events inone's own life, not while they are happening, or even immediately afterthey have happened, but only a long time afterwards. 

Is this so, because we require the magnifying power of imagination, orbecause a general view can only be got by looking from a distance? orbecause one's emotions would otherwise carry one away? or because it isonly the school of experience that ripens our judgment? Perhaps allthese combined. But it is certain that it is only after many years thatwe see the actions of others, and sometimes even our own, in their truelight. And as it is in one's own life, so it is in history. 

 * * * * *

Why is it, in spite of all the mirrors in existence, no man really knowswhat he looks like, and, therefore, cannot picture in his mind his ownperson as he pictures that of an acquaintance? This is a difficultywhich is thwarted at the very outset by _gnothi sauton--know thyself_. 

This is undoubtedly partly due to the fact that a man can only seehimself in the glass by looking straight towards it and remaining quitestill; whereby the play of the eye, which is so important, and the realcharacteristic of the face is, to a great extent, lost. But co-operatingwith this physical impossibility, there appears to be an ethicalimpossibility analogous to it. A man cannot regard the reflection of hisown face in the glass as if it were the face of _some one else_--whichis the condition of his seeing himself _objectively_. This objectiveview rests with a profound feeling on the egoist's part, as a moralbeing, that what he is looking at is _not himself_; which is requisitefor his perceiving all his defects as they really are from a purelyobjective point of view; and not until, then can he see his facereflected as it really and truly is. Instead of that, when a man seeshis own person in the glass the egoistic side of him always whispers, _It is not somebody else, but I myself_, which has the effect of a _nolime tangere_, and prevents his taking a purely objective view. Withoutthe leaven of a grain of malice, it does not seem possible to look atoneself objectively. 

 * * * * *

No one knows what capacities he possesses for suffering and doing untilan opportunity occurs to bring them into play; any more than he imagineswhen looking into a perfectly smooth pond with a mirror-like surface, that it can tumble and toss and rush from rock to rock, or leap as highinto the air as a fountain;--any more than in ice-cold water he suspectslatent warmth. 

 * * * * *

That line of Ovid's, "_Pronaque cum spectent animalia cetera terram_, "

is only applicable in its true physical sense to animals; but in afigurative and spiritual sense, unfortunately, to the great majority ofmen too. Their thoughts and aspirations are entirely devoted to physicalenjoyment and physical welfare, or to various personal interests whichreceive their importance from their relation to the former; but theyhave no interests beyond these. This is not only shown in their way ofliving and speaking, but also in their look, the expression of theirphysiognomy, their gait and gesticulations; everything about themproclaims _in terram prona!_ Consequently it is not to them, but only tothose nobler and more highly endowed natures, those men who really thinkand observe things round them, and are the exceptions in the human race, that the following lines are applicable:

 "_Os homini sublime dedit coelumque tueri Jussitt et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus_. "

 * * * * *

Why is "_common_" an expression of contempt? And why are _"uncommon, ""extraordinary, " "distinguished, "_ expressions of approbation? Why iseverything that is common contemptible?

_Common_, in its original sense, means that which is peculiar and commonto the whole species, that is to say that which is innate in thespecies. Accordingly, a man who has no more qualities than those of thehuman species in general is a "_common man_" "Ordinary man" is a muchmilder expression, and is used more in reference to what isintellectual, while _common_ is used more in a moral sense. 

What value can a being have that is nothing more than like millions ofits kind? Millions? Nay, an infinitude, an endless number of beings, which Nature in _secula seculorum_ unceasingly sends bubbling forth fromher inexhaustible source; as generous with them as the smith with thedross that flies round his anvil. 

So it is evidently only right that a being which has no other qualitiesthan those of the species, should make no claim to any other existencethan that confined to and conditioned by the species. 

I have already several times explained[14] that whilst animals have onlythe generic character, it falls to man's share alone to have anindividual character. Nevertheless, in most men there is in reality verylittle individual character; and they may be almost all classified. _Cesont des esp�ces_. Their desires and thoughts, like their faces, arethose of the whole species--at any rate, those of the class of men towhich they belong, and they are therefore of a trivial, common nature, and exist in thousands. Moreover, as a rule one can tell pretty exactlybeforehand what they will say and do. They have no individual stamp:they are like manufactured goods. If, then, their nature is absorbed inthat of the species, must not their existence be too? The curse ofvulgarity reduces man to the level of animals, for his nature andexistence are merged in that of the species only. It is taken forgranted that anything that is high, great, or noble by its very naturestands isolated in a world where no better expression can be found tosignify what is base and paltry than the term which I have mentioned asbeing generally used--namely, _common_. 

 * * * * *

According as our intellectual energy is strained or relaxed will lifeappear to us either so short, petty, and fleeting, that nothing canhappen of sufficient importance to affect our feelings; nothing is ofany importance to us--be it pleasure, riches, or even fame, and howevermuch we may have failed, we cannot have lost much; or _vice vers�, _ lifewill appear so long, so important, so all in all, so grave, and sodifficult that we throw ourselves into it with our whole soul, so thatwe may get a share of its possessions, make ourselves sure of itsprizes, and carry out our plans. The latter is the immanent view oflife; it is what Gracian means by his expression, _tomar muy de veras elvivir_ (life is to be taken seriously); while for the former, thetranscendental view, Ovid's _non est tanti_ is a good expression;Plato's a still better, οὔτε τι των ἀνθρωπινων ἀξιον ἑστι, μεγαληςσπουδης (_nihil, in rebus humanis, magno studio dignum est_). 

The former state of mind is the result of the intellect having gainedascendency over consciousness, where, freed from the mere service of thewill, it grasps the phenomena of life objectively, and so cannot fail tosee clearly the emptiness and futility of it. On the other hand, it isthe _will_ that rules in the other condition of mind, and it is onlythere to lighten the way to the object of its desires. A man is great orsmall according to the predominance of one or the other of these viewsof life. 

 * * * * *

It is quite certain that many a man owes his life's happiness solely tothe circumstance that he possesses a pleasant smile, and so wins thehearts of others. However, these hearts would do better to take care toremember what Hamlet put down in his tablets--_that one may smile, andsmile, and be a villain_. 

 * * * * *

People of great and brilliant capacities think little of admitting orexposing their faults and weaknesses. They regard them as something forwhich they have paid, and even are of the opinion that these weaknesses, instead of being a disgrace to them, do them honour. This is especiallythe case when they are errors that are inseparable from their brilliantcapacities--_conditiones sine quibus non_, or, as George Sand expressedit, _chacun a les d�fauts de ses vertus_. 

On the contrary, there are people of good character and irreproachableminds, who, rather than admit their few little weaknesses, carefullyconceal them, and are very sensitive if any reference is made to them;and this just because their whole merit consists in the absence oferrors and defects; and hence when these errors come to light they areimmediately held in less esteem. 

 * * * * *

Modesty, in people of moderate ability, is merely honesty, but in peopleof great talent it is hypocrisy. Hence it is just as becoming in thelatter to openly admit the regard they have for themselves, and not toconceal the fact that they are conscious of possessing exceptionalcapabilities, as it is in the former to be modest. Valerius Maximusgives some very good examples of this in his chapter _de fiducia sui_. 

 * * * * *

Man even surpasses all the lower order of animals in his capacity forbeing trained. Mohammedans are trained to pray five times a day withtheir faces turned towards Mecca; and they do it regularly. Christiansare trained to make the sign of the Cross on certain occasions, and tobow, and so forth; so that religion on the whole is a real masterpieceof training--that is to say, it trains people what they are to think;and the training, as is well known, cannot begin too early. There is noabsurdity, however palpable it may be, which may not be fixed in theminds of all men, if it is inculcated before they are six years old bycontinual and earnest repetition. For it is the same with men as withanimals, to train them with perfect success one must begin when they arevery young. 

Noblemen are trained to regard nothing more sacred than their word ofhonour, to believe earnestly, rigidly, and firmly in the inane code ofknight-errantry, and if necessary to seal their belief by death, and tolook upon a king as a being of a higher order. Politeness andcompliments, and particularly our courteous attitude towards ladies, arethe result of training; and so is our esteem for birth, position, andtitle. And so is our displeasure at certain expressions directed againstus, our displeasure being proportionate to the expression used. TheEnglishman has been trained to consider his being called no gentleman acrime worthy of death--a liar, a still greater crime; and so, theFrenchman, if he is called a coward; a German, if he is called a stupid. Many people are trained to be honest in some particular direction, whilst in everything else they exhibit very little honesty; so that manya man will not steal money, but he will steal everything that willafford him enjoyment in an indirect way. Many a shopkeeper will deceivewithout scruple, but he will on no condition whatever steal. 

 * * * * *

The doctor sees mankind in all its weakness; the lawyer in all itswickedness; the theologian in all its stupidity. 

 * * * * *

_Opinion_ obeys the same law as the swing of the pendulum: if it goesbeyond the centre of gravity on one side, it must go as far beyond onthe other. It is only after a time that it finds the true point of restand remains stationary. 

 * * * * *

Distance in space decreases the size of things, for it contracts themand so makes their defects and deficiencies disappear. This is whyeverything looks so much finer in a contracting mirror or in a _cameraobscura_ than it is in reality; and the past is affected in the same wayin the course of time. The scenes and events that happened long ago, aswell as the persons who took part in them, become a delight to thememory, which ignores everything that is immaterial and disagreeable. The present possesses no such advantage; it always seems to bedefective. And in space, small objects near at hand appear to be big, and if they are very near, they cover the whole of our field of vision;but as soon as we stand some little distance away they become minute andfinally invisible. And so it is with time: the little affairs andmisfortunes of everyday life excite in us emotion, anxiety, vexation, passion, for so long as they are quite near us, they appear big, important, and considerable; but as soon as the inexhaustible stream oftime has carried them into the distance they become unimportant; theyare not worth remembering and are soon forgotten, because theirimportance merely consisted in being near. 

 * * * * *

It is only now and then that a man learns something; but he forgets thewhole day long. 

Our memory is like a sieve, that with time and use holds less and less;in so far, namely, as the older we get, the quicker anything we haveentrusted to our memory slips through it, while anything that was fixedfirmly in it, when we were young, remains. This is why an old man'srecollections are the clearer the further they go back, and the lessclear the nearer they approach the present; so that his memory, like hiseyes, becomes long-sighted (πρεσβυς). 

That sometimes, and apparently without any reason, long-forgotten scenessuddenly come into the memory, is, in many cases, due to the recurrenceof a scarcely perceptible odour, of which we were conscious when thosescenes actually took place; for it is well known that odours more easilythan anything else awaken memories, and that, in general, something ofan extremely trifling nature is all that is necessary to call up a_nexus idearum_. 

And by the way, I may say that the sense of sight has to do with theunderstanding, [15] the sense of hearing with reason, [16] and the senseof smell with memory, as we see in the present case. Touch and taste aresomething real, and dependent on contact; they have no ideal side. 

 * * * * *

Memory has also this peculiarity attached to it, that a slight state ofintoxication very often enhances the remembrance of past times andscenes, whereby all the circumstances connected with them are recalledmore distinctly than they could be in a state of sobriety; on the otherhand, the recollection of what one said or did while in a state ofintoxication is less clear than usual, nay, one does not recollect atall if one has been very drunk. Therefore, intoxication enhances one'srecollection of the past, while, on the other hand, one remembers littleof the present, while in that state. 

 * * * * *

That arithmetic is the basest of all mental activities is proved by thefact that it is the only one that can be accomplished by means of amachine. Take, for instance, the reckoning machines that are so commonlyused in England at the present time, and solely for the sake ofconvenience. But all _analysis finitorum et infinitorum_ isfundamentally based on calculation. Therefore we may gauge the "profoundsense of the mathematician, " of whom Lichtenberg has made fun, in thathe says: "These so-called professors of mathematics have taken advantageof the ingenuousness of other people, have attained the credit ofpossessing profound sense, which strongly resembles the theologians'profound sense of their own holiness. "

 * * * * *

As a rule, people of very great capacities will get on better with a manof extremely limited intelligence than with a man of ordinaryintelligence; and it is for the same reason that the despot and theplebeians, the grandparents and the grandchildren, are natural allies. 

 * * * * *

I am not surprised that people are bored when they are alone; theycannot laugh when they are alone, for such a thing seems foolish tothem. Is laughter, then, to be regarded as merely a signal for others, amere sign, like a word? It is a want of imagination and dulness of mindgenerally (ἀναισθησια και βραδυτης ψυχης), as Theophrastus puts it, thatprevents people from laughing when they are alone. The lower animalsneither laugh when they are alone nor in company. 

Nyson, the misanthropist, was surprised as he was laughing to himself byone of these people, who asked him why he laughed when he was alone. "That is just why I was laughing, " was the answer. 

 * * * * *

People who do not go to the theatre are like those who make their toiletwithout a looking-glass;--but it is still worse to come to a decisionwithout seeking the advice of a friend. For a man may have the mostcorrect and excellent judgment in everything else but in his ownaffairs; because here the will at once deranges the intellect. Thereforea man should seek counsel. A doctor can cure every one but himself; thisis why he calls in a colleague when he is ill. 

 * * * * *

The natural gesticulation of everyday life, such as accompanies any kindof lively conversation, is a language of its own, and, moreover, is muchmore universal than the language of words; so far as it is independentof words, and the same in all nations; although each nation makes use ofgesticulation in proportion to its vivacity, and in individual nations, the Italian, for instance, it is supplemented by some few gesticulationswhich are merely conventional, and have therefore only local value. 

Its universal use is analogous to logic and grammar, since it expressesthe form and not the matter of conversation. However, it is to bedistinguished from them since it has not only an intellectual relationbut also a moral--that is, it defines the movements of the will. And soit accompanies conversation, just as a correctly progressive bassaccompanies a melody, and serves in the same way to enhance the effect. The most interesting fact about gesticulation is that as soon asconversation assumes the same _form_ there is a repetition of the samegesture. This is the case, however varied the _matter_, that is to say, the subject-matter, may be. So that I am able to understand quite wellthe general nature of a conversation--in other words, the mere form andtype of it, while looking out of a window--without hearing a wordspoken. It is unmistakably evident that the speaker is arguing, advancing his reasons, then modifying them, then urging them, anddrawing his conclusion in triumph; or it may be he is relating somewrong that he has suffered, plainly depicting in strong and condemnatorylanguage the stupidity and stubbornness of his opponents; or he isspeaking of the splendid plan he has thought out and put in execution, explaining how it became a success, or perhaps failed because fate wasunfavourable; or perhaps he is confessing that he was powerless to actin the matter in question; or recounting that he noticed and sawthrough, in good time, the evil schemes that had been organised againsthim, and by asserting his rights or using force frustrated them andpunished their author; and a hundred other things of a similar kind. Butwhat gesticulation alone really conveys to me is the essentialmatter--be it of a moral or intellectual nature--of the wholeconversation _in abstracto_. That is to say the quintessence, the truesubstance of the conversation, remains identical whatever has broughtabout the conversation, and consequently whatever the subject-matter ofit may be. 

The most interesting and amusing part of the matter, as has been said, is the complete identity of the gestures for denoting the same kind ofcircumstances, even if they are used by most diverse people; just as thewords of a language are alike for every one and liable to suchmodifications as are brought about by a slight difference in accent oreducation. And yet these standing forms of gesticulation which areuniversally observed are certainly the outcome of no convention; theyare natural and original, a true language of nature, which may have beenstrengthened by imitation and custom. It is incumbent on an actor, as iswell known, and on a public speaker, to a less extent, to make a carefulstudy of gesture--a study which must principally consist in theobservation and imitation of others, for the matter cannot very well bebased on abstract rules; with the exception of some quite generalleading principles--as, for instance, that the gesture must not followthe word, but rather immediately precede it, in order to announce it andthereby rouse attention. 

The English have a peculiar contempt for gesticulation, and regard it assomething undignified and common; this seems to me to be only one ofthose silly prejudices of English fastidiousness. For it is a languagewhich nature has given to every one and which every one understands;therefore to abolish and forbid it for no other reason than to gratifythat so much extolled, gentlemanly feeling, is a very dubious thing todo. 

 * * * * *

The state of human happiness, for the most part, is like certain groupsof trees, which seen from a distance look wonderfully fine; but if we goup to them and among them, their beauty disappears; we do not knowwherein it lay, for it is only trees that surround us. And so it happensthat we often envy the position of others. 

FOOTNOTES:

[14] _Grundpr. Der Ethik_, p. 48; _Welt als Wille und Vorstellung_, vol. I. P. 338. 

[15] _Vierfache Wurzel_, � 21. 

[16] _Pererga_, vol. Ii. � 311. 

METAPHYSICS OF LOVE. 

We are accustomed to see poets principally occupied with describing thelove of the sexes. This, as a rule, is the leading idea of everydramatic work, be it tragic or comic, romantic or classic, Indian orEuropean. It in no less degree constitutes the greater part of bothlyric and epic poetry, especially if in these we include the host ofromances which have been produced every year for centuries in everycivilised country in Europe as regularly as the fruits of the earth. Allthese works are nothing more than many-sided, short, or longdescriptions of the passion in question. Moreover, the most successfuldelineations of love, such, for example, as _Romeo and Juliet, LaNouvelle H�loise_, and _Werther_, have attained immortal fame. 

Rochefoucauld says that love may be compared to a ghost since it issomething we talk about but have never seen, and Lichtenberg, in hisessay _Ueber die Macht der Liebe_, disputes and denies its reality andnaturalness--but both are in the wrong. For if it were foreign to andcontradicted human nature--in other words, if it were merely animaginary caricature, it would not have been depicted with such zeal bythe poets of all ages, or accepted by mankind with an unalteredinterest; for anything artistically beautiful cannot exist withouttruth. 

 "_Rien n'est beau que le vrai; le vrai seul est aimable_. "--BOIL. 

Experience, although not that of everyday, verifies that that which as arule begins only as a strong and yet controllable inclination, maydevelop, under certain conditions, into a passion, the ardour of whichsurpasses that of every other. It will ignore all considerations, overcome all kinds of obstacles with incredible strength andpersistence. A man, in order to have his love gratified, willunhesitatingly risk his life; in fact, if his love is absolutelyrejected, he will sacrifice his life into the bargain. The Werthers andJacopo Ortis do not only exist in romances; Europe produces every yearat least half-a-dozen like them: _sed ignotis perierunt mortibus illi_:for their sufferings are chronicled by the writer of official registersor by the reporters of newspapers. Indeed, readers of the police news inEnglish and French newspapers will confirm what I have said. 

Love drives a still greater number of people into the lunatic asylum. There is a case of some sort every year of two lovers committing suicidetogether because material circumstances happen to be unfavourable totheir union. By the way, I cannot understand how it is that such people, who are confident of each other's love, and expect to find theirgreatest happiness in the enjoyment of it, do not avoid taking extremesteps, and prefer suffering every discomfort to sacrificing with theirlives a happiness which is greater than any other they can conceive. Asfar as lesser phases and passages of love are concerned, all of us havethem daily before our eyes, and, if we are not old, the most of us inour hearts. 

After what has been brought to mind, one cannot doubt either the realityor importance of love. Instead, therefore, of wondering why aphilosopher for once in a way writes on this subject, which has beenconstantly the theme of poets, rather should one be surprised that love, which always plays such an important _r�le_ in a man's life, hasscarcely ever been considered at all by philosophers, and that it stillstands as material for them to make use of. 

Plato has devoted himself more than any one else to the subject of love, especially in the _Symposium_ and the _Phaedrus_; what he has said aboutit, however, comes within the sphere of myth, fable, and raillery, andonly applies for the most part to the love of a Greek youth. The littlethat Rousseau says in his _Discours sur l'in�galit�_ is neither true norsatisfactory. Kant's disquisition on love in the third part of histreatise, _Ueber das Gef�hl des Sch�nen und Erhabenen_, is verysuperficial; it shows that he has not thoroughly gone into the subject, and therefore it is somewhat untrue. Finally, Platner's treatment of itin his _Anthropology_ will be found by every one to be insipid andshallow. 

To amuse the reader, on the other hand, Spinoza's definition deserves tobe quoted because of its exuberant na�vet�: _Amor est titillatio, concomitante idea causae externae_ (_Eth. _ iv. , prop. 44). It is not myintention to be either influenced or to contradict what has been writtenby my predecessors; the subject has forced itself upon me objectively, and has of itself become inseparable from my consideration of the world. Moreover, I shall expect least approval from those people who are forthe moment enchained by this passion, and in consequence try to expresstheir exuberant feelings in the most sublime and ethereal images. Myview will seem to them too physical, too material, however metaphysical, nay, transcendent it is fundamentally. 

First of all let them take into consideration that the creature whomthey are idealising to-day in madrigals and sonnets would have beenignored almost entirely by them if she had been born eighteen yearspreviously. 

Every kind of love, however ethereal it may seem to be, springs entirelyfrom the instinct of sex; indeed, it is absolutely this instinct, onlyin a more definite, specialised, and perhaps, strictly speaking, moreindividualised form. If, bearing this in mind, one considers theimportant _r�le_ which love plays in all its phases and degrees, notonly in dramas and novels, but also in the real world, where next toone's love of life it shows itself as the strongest and most active ofall motives; if one considers that it constantly occupies half thecapacities and thoughts of the younger part of humanity, and is thefinal goal of almost every human effort; that it influences adverselythe most important affairs; that it hourly disturbs the most earnestoccupations; that it sometimes deranges even the greatest intellects fora time; that it is not afraid of interrupting the transactions ofstatesmen or the investigations of men of learning; that it knows how toleave its love-letters and locks of hair in ministerial portfolios andphilosophical manuscripts; that it knows equally well how to plan themost complicated and wicked affairs, to dissolve the most importantrelations, to break the strongest ties; that life, health, riches, rank, and happiness are sometimes sacrificed for its sake; that it makes theotherwise honest, perfidious, and a man who has been hitherto faithful abetrayer, and, altogether, appears as a hostile demon whose object is tooverthrow, confuse, and upset everything it comes across: if all this istaken into consideration one will have reason to ask--"Why is there allthis noise? Why all this crowding, blustering, anguish, and want? Whyshould such a trifle play so important a part and create disturbance andconfusion in the well-regulated life of mankind?" But to the earnestinvestigator the spirit of truth gradually unfolds the answer: it is nota trifle one is dealing with; the importance of love is absolutely inkeeping with the seriousness and zeal with which it is prosecuted. Theultimate aim of all love-affairs, whether they be of a tragic or comicnature, is really more important than all other aims in human life, andtherefore is perfectly deserving of that profound seriousness with whichit is pursued. 

As a matter of fact, love determines nothing less than the_establishment of the next generation_. The existence and nature of the_dramatis personae_ who come on to the scene when we have made our exithave been determined by some frivolous love-affair. As the being, the_existentia_ of these future people is conditioned by our instinct ofsex in general, so is the nature, the _essentia_, of these same peopleconditioned by the selection that the individual makes for hissatisfaction, that is to say, by love, and is thereby in every respectirrevocably established. This is the key of the problem. In applying it, we shall understand it more fully if we analyse the various degrees oflove, from the most fleeting sensation to the most ardent passion; weshall then see that the difference arises from the degree ofindividualisation of the choice. All the love-affairs of the presentgeneration taken altogether are accordingly the _meditatio compositionisgenerationis futurae, e qua iterum pendent innumerae generationes_ ofmankind. Love is of such high import, because it has nothing to do withthe weal or woe of the present individual, as every other matter has; ithas to secure the existence and special nature of the human race infuture times; hence the will of the individual appears in a higheraspect as the will of the species; and this it is that gives a patheticand sublime import to love-affairs, and makes their raptures andtroubles transcendent, emotions which poets for centuries have not tiredof depicting in a variety of ways. There is no subject that can rousethe same interest as love, since it concerns both the weal and woe ofthe species, and is related to every other which only concerns thewelfare of the individual as body to surface. 

This is why it is so difficult to make a drama interesting if itpossesses no love motive; on the other hand, the subject is neverexhausted, although it is constantly being utilised. 

What manifests itself in the individual consciousness as instinct of sexin general, without being concentrated on any particular individual, isvery plainly in itself, in its generalised form, the will to live. Onthe other hand, that which appears as instinct of sex directed to acertain individual, is in itself the will to live as a definitelydetermined individual. In this case the instinct of sex very cleverlywears the mask of objective admiration, although in itself it is asubjective necessity, and is, thereby, deceptive. Nature needs thesestratagems in order to accomplish her ends. The purpose of every man inlove, however objective and sublime his admiration may appear to be, isto beget a being of a definite nature, and that this is so, is verifiedby the fact that it is not mutual love but possession that is theessential. Without possession it is no consolation to a man to know thathis love is requited. In fact, many a man has shot himself on findinghimself in such a position. On the other hand, take a man who is verymuch in love; if he cannot have his love returned he is content simplywith possession. Compulsory marriages and cases of seduction corroboratethis, for a man whose love is not returned frequently finds consolationin giving handsome presents to a woman, in spite of her dislike, ormaking other sacrifices, so that he may buy her favour. 

The real aim of the whole of love's romance, although the personsconcerned are unconscious of the fact, is that a particular being maycome into the world; and the way and manner in which it is accomplishedis a secondary consideration. However much those of lofty sentiments, and especially of those in love, may refute the gross realism of myargument, they are nevertheless in the wrong. For is not the aim ofdefinitely determining the individualities of the next generation a muchhigher and nobler aim than that other, with its exuberant sensations andtranscendental soap-bubbles? Among all earthly aims is there one that iseither more important or greater? It alone is in keeping with thatdeep-rooted feeling inseparable from passionate love, with thatearnestness with which it appears, and the importance which it attachesto the trifles that come within its sphere. It is only in so far as weregard _this_ end as the real one that the difficulties encountered, theendless troubles and vexations endured, in order to attain the object welove, appear to be in keeping with the matter. For it is the futuregeneration in its entire individual determination which forces itselfinto existence through the medium of all this strife and trouble. Indeed, the future generation itself is already stirring in the careful, definite, and apparently capricious selection for the satisfaction ofthe instinct of sex which we call love. That growing affection of twolovers for each other is in reality the will to live of the new being, of which they shall become the parents; indeed, in the meeting of theiryearning glances the life of a new being is kindled, and manifestsitself as a well-organised individuality of the future. The lovers havea longing to be really united and made one being, and to live as suchfor the rest of their lives; and this longing is fulfilled in thechildren born to them, in whom the qualities inherited from both, butcombined and united in one being, are perpetuated. Contrarily, if a manand woman mutually, persistently, and decidedly dislike each other, itindicates that they could only bring into the world a badly organised, discordant, and unhappy being. Therefore much must be attached toCalderon's words, when he calls the horrible Semiramis a daughter of theair, yet introduces her as a daughter of seduction, after which followsthe murder of the husband. 

Finally, it is the will to live presenting itself in the whole species, which so forcibly and exclusively attracts two individuals of differentsex towards each other. This will anticipates in the being, of whichthey shall become the parents, an objectivation of its naturecorresponding to its aims. This individual will inherit the father'swill and character, the mother's intellect, and the constitution ofboth. As a rule, however, an individual takes more after the father inshape and the mother in stature, corresponding to the law which appliesto the offspring of animals. . . . It is impossible to explain theindividuality of each man, which is quite exceptional and peculiar tohim alone; and it is just as impossible to explain the passion of twopeople for each other, for it is equally individual and uncommon incharacter; indeed, fundamentally both are one and the same. The formeris _explicite_ what the latter was _implicite_. 

We must consider as the origin of a new individual and true _punctumsaliens_ of its life the moment when the parents begin to love eachother--_to fancy each other_, as the English appropriately express it. And, as has been said, in the meeting of their longing glancesoriginates the first germ of a new being, which, indeed, like all germs, is generally crushed out. This new individual is to a certain extent anew (Platonic) Idea; now, as all Ideas strive with the greatestvehemence to enter the phenomenal sphere, and to do this, ardently seizeupon the matter which the law of causality distributes among them all, so this particular Idea of a human individuality struggles with thegreatest eagerness and vehemence for its realisation in the phenomenal. It is precisely this vehement desire which is the passion of the futureparents for one another. Love has countless degrees, and its twoextremes may be indicated as Ἀφροδιτη πανδημος and οὐρανια;nevertheless, in essentials it is the same everywhere. 

According to the degree, on the other hand, it will be the more powerfulthe more _individualised_ it is--that is to say, the more the lovedindividual, by virtue of all her qualities, is exclusively fit tosatisfy the lover's desire and needs determined by her ownindividuality. If we investigate further we shall understand moreclearly what this involves. All amorous feeling immediately andessentially concentrates itself on health, strength, and beauty, andconsequently on youth; because the will above all wishes to exhibit thespecific character of the human species as the basis of allindividuality. The same applies pretty well to everyday courtship(Ἀφροδιτη πανδημος). With this are bound up more special requirements, which we will consider individually later on, and with which, if thereis any prospect of gratification, there is an increase of passion. Intense love, however, springs from a fitness of both individualitiesfor each other; so that the will, that is to say the father's characterand the mother's intellect combined, exactly complete that individualfor which the will to live in general (which exhibits itself in thewhole species) has a longing--a longing proportionate to this itsgreatness, and therefore surpassing the measure of a mortal heart; itsmotives being in a like manner beyond the sphere of the individualintellect. This, then, is the soul of a really great passion. The moreperfectly two individuals are fitted for each other in the variousrespects which we shall consider further on, the stronger will be theirpassion for each other. As there are not two individuals exactly alike, a particular kind of woman must perfectly correspond with a particularkind of man--always in view of the child that is to be born. Real, passionate love is as rare as the meeting of two people exactly fittedfor each other. By the way, it is because there is a possibility of realpassionate love in us all that we understand why poets have depicted itin their works. 

Because the kernel of passionate love turns on the anticipation of thechild to be born and its nature, it is quite possible for friendship, without any admixture of sexual love, to exist between two young, good-looking people of different sex, if there is perfect fitness oftemperament and intellectual capacity. In fact, a certain aversion foreach other may exist also. The reason of this is that a child begottenby them would physically or mentally have discordant qualities. Inshort, the child's existence and nature would not be in harmony with thepurposes of the will to live as it presents itself in the species. 

In an opposite case, where there is no fitness of disposition, character, and mental capacity, whereby aversion, nay, even enmity foreach other exists, it is possible for love to spring up. Love of thiskind makes them blind to everything; and if it leads to marriage it is avery unhappy one. 

And now let us more thoroughly investigate the matter. Egoism is aquality so deeply rooted in every personality that it is on egotisticalends only that one may safely rely in order to rouse the individual toactivity. 

To be sure, the species has a prior, nearer, and greater claim on theindividual than the transient individuality itself; and yet even whenthe individual makes some sort of conscious sacrifice for theperpetuation and future of the species, the importance of the matterwill not be made sufficiently comprehensible to his intellect, which ismainly constituted to regard individual ends. 

Therefore Nature attains her ends by implanting in the individual acertain illusion by which something which is in reality advantageous tothe species alone seems to be advantageous to himself; consequently heserves the latter while he imagines he is serving himself. In thisprocess he is carried away by a mere chimera, which floats before himand vanishes again immediately, and as a motive takes the place ofreality. _This illusion is instinct_. In most instances instinct may beregarded as the sense of the species which presents to the will whateveris of service to the species. But because the will has here becomeindividual it must be deceived in such a manner for it to discern by thesense of the _individual_ what the sense of the species has presented toit; in other words, imagine it is pursuing ends concerning theindividual, when in reality it is pursuing merely general ends (usingthe word general in its strictest sense). 

Outward manifestation of instinct can be best observed in animals, wherethe part it plays is most significant; but it is in ourselves alone thatwe can get to know its internal process, as of everything internal. Itis true, it is thought that man has scarcely any instinct at all, or atany rate has only sufficient instinct when he is born to seek and takehis mother's breast. But as a matter of fact man has a very decided, clear, and yet complicated instinct--namely, for the selection, bothearnest and capricious, of another individual, to satisfy his instinctof sex. The beauty or ugliness of the other individual has nothingwhatever to do with this satisfaction in itself, that is in so far as itis a matter of pleasure based upon a pressing desire of the individual. The regard, however, for this satisfaction, which is so zealouslypursued, as well as the careful selection it entails, has obviouslynothing to do with the chooser himself, although he fancies that it has. Its real aim is the child to be born, in whom the type of the species isto be preserved in as pure and perfect a form as possible. For instance, different phases of degeneration of the human form are the consequencesof a thousand physical accidents and moral delinquencies; and yet thegenuine type of the human form is, in all its parts, always restored;further, this is accomplished under the guidance of the sense of beauty, which universally directs the instinct of sex, and without which thesatisfaction of the latter would deteriorate to a repulsive necessity. 

Accordingly, every one in the first place will infinitely prefer andardently desire those who are most beautiful--in other words, those inwhom the character of the species is most purely defined; and in thesecond, every one will desire in the other individual those perfectionswhich he himself lacks, and he will consider imperfections, which arethe reverse of his own, beautiful. This is why little men prefer bigwomen, and fair people like dark, and so on. The ecstasy with which aman is filled at the sight of a beautiful woman, making him imagine thatunion with her will be the greatest happiness, is simply the _sense ofthe species_. The preservation of the type of the species rests on thisdistinct preference for beauty, and this is why beauty has such power. 

We will later on more fully state the considerations which thisinvolves. It is really instinct aiming at what is best in the specieswhich induces a man to choose a beautiful woman, although the manhimself imagines that by so doing he is only seeking to increase his ownpleasure. As a matter of fact, we have here an instructive solution ofthe secret nature of all instinct which almost always, as in this case, prompts the individual to look after the welfare of the species. Thecare with which an insect selects a certain flower or fruit, or piece offlesh, or the way in which the ichneumon seeks the larva of a strangeinsect so that it may lay its eggs in _that particular place only_, andto secure which it fears neither labour nor danger, is obviously veryanalogous to the care with which a man chooses a woman of a definitenature individually suited to him. He strives for her with such ardourthat he frequently, in order to attain his object, will sacrifice hishappiness in life, in spite of all reason, by a foolish marriage, bysome love-affair which costs him his fortune, honour, and life, even bycommitting crimes. And all this in accordance with the will of naturewhich is everywhere sovereign, so that he may serve the species in themost efficient manner, although he does so at the expense of theindividual. 

Instinct everywhere works as with the conception of an end, and yet itis entirely without one. Nature implants instinct where the actingindividual is not capable of understanding the end, or would beunwilling to pursue it. Consequently, as a rule, it is only givenprominently to animals, and in particular to those of the lowest order, which have the least intelligence. But it is only in such a case as theone we are at present considering that it is also given to man, whonaturally is capable of understanding the end, but would not pursue itwith the necessary zeal--that is to say, he would not pursue it at thecost of his individual welfare. So that here, as in all cases ofinstinct, truth takes the form of illusion in order to influence thewill. . . . 

All this, however, on its part throws light upon the instinct ofanimals. They, too, are undoubtedly carried away by a kind of illusion, which represents that they are working for their own pleasure, while itis for the species that they are working with such industry andself-denial. The bird builds its nest; the insect seeks a suitable placewherein to lay its eggs, or even hunts for prey, which it dislikesitself, but which must be placed beside the eggs as food for the futurelarvae; the bee, the wasp, and the ant apply themselves to their skilfulbuilding and extremely complex economy. All of them are undoubtedlycontrolled by an illusion which conceals the service of the speciesunder the mask of an egotistical purpose. 

This is probably the only way in which to make the inner or subjectiveprocess, from which spring all manifestations of instinct, intelligibleto us. The outer or objective process, however, shows in animalsstrongly controlled by instinct, as insects for instance, apreponderance of the ganglion--_i. E. , subjective_ nervous system overthe _objective_ or cerebral system. From which it may be concluded thatthey are controlled not so much by objective and proper apprehension asby subjective ideas, which excite desire and arise through the influenceof the ganglionic system upon the brain; accordingly they are moved by acertain illusion. . . . 

The great preponderance of brain in man accounts for his having fewerinstincts than the lower order of animals, and for even these few easilybeing led astray. For instance, the sense of beauty which instinctivelyguides a man in his selection of a mate is misguided when it degeneratesinto the proneness to pederasty. Similarly, the blue-bottle (_Muscavomitoria_), which instinctively ought to place its eggs in putrifiedflesh, lays them in the blossom of the _Arum dracunculus_, because it ismisled by the decaying odour of this plant. That an absolutely genericinstinct is the foundation of all love of sex may be confirmed by acloser analysis of the subject--an analysis which can hardly be avoided. 

In the first place, a man in love is by nature inclined to beinconstant, while a woman constant. A man's love perceptibly decreasesafter a certain period; almost every other woman charms him more thanthe one he already possesses; he longs for change: while a woman's loveincreases from the very moment it is returned. This is because natureaims at the preservation of the species, and consequently at as great anincrease in it as possible. . . . This is why a man is always desiringother women, while a woman always clings to one man; for nature compelsher intuitively and unconsciously to take care of the supporter andprotector of the future offspring. For this reason conjugal fidelity isartificial with the man but natural to a woman. Hence a woman'sinfidelity, looked at objectively on account of the consequences, andsubjectively on account of its unnaturalness, is much more unpardonablethan a man's. 

In order to be quite clear and perfectly convinced that the delight wetake in the other sex, however objective it may seem to be, isnevertheless merely instinct disguised, in other words, the sense of thespecies striving to preserve its type, it will be necessary toinvestigate more closely the considerations which influence us in this, and go into details, strange as it may seem for these details to figurein a philosophical work. These considerations may be classed in thefollowing way:--

Those that immediately concern the type of the species, _id est_, beauty; those that concern other physical qualities; and finally, thosethat are merely relative and spring from the necessary correction orneutralisation of the one-sided qualities and abnormities of the twoindividuals by each other. Let us look at these considerationsseparately. 

The first consideration that influences our choice and feelings is_age_. . . . 

The second consideration is that of _health_: a severe illness may alarmus for the time being, but an illness of a chronic nature or evencachexy frightens us away, because it would be transmitted. 

The third consideration is the _skeleton_, since it is the foundation ofthe type of the _species_. Next to old age and disease, nothing disgustsus so much as a deformed shape; even the most beautiful face cannot makeamends for it--in fact, the ugliest face combined with a well-grownshape is infinitely preferable. Moreover, we are most keenly sensible ofevery malformation of the _skeleton_; as, for instance, a stunted, short-legged form, and the like, or a limping gait when it is not theresult of some extraneous accident: while a conspicuously beautifulfigure compensates for every defect. It delights us. Further, the greatimportance which is attached to small feet! This is because the size ofthe foot is an essential characteristic of the species, for no animalhas the tarsus and metatarsus combined so small as man; hence theuprightness of his gait: he is a plantigrade. And Jesus Sirach hassaid[17] (according to the improved translation by Kraus), "A woman thatis well grown and has beautiful feet is like pillars of gold in socketsof silver. " The teeth, too, are important, because they are essentialfor nourishment, and quite peculiarly hereditary. 

The fourth consideration is a certain _plumpness_, in other words, asuperabundance of the vegetative function, plasticity. . . . Henceexcessive thinness strikingly repels us. . . . The last consideration thatinfluences us is a _beautiful face_. Here, too, the bone parts are takeninto account before everything else. So that almost everything dependson a beautiful nose, while a short _retrouss�_ one will mar all. Aslight upward or downward turn of the nose has often determined thelife's happiness of a great many maidens; and justly so, for the type ofthe species is at stake. 

A small mouth, by means of small maxillae, is very essential, as it isthe specific characteristic of the human face as distinguished from themuzzle of the brutes. A receding, as it were, a cut-away chin isparticularly repellent, because _mentum prominulum_ is a characteristicbelonging exclusively to our species. 

Finally, we come to the consideration of beautiful eyes and a beautifulforehead; they depend upon the psychical qualities, and in particular, the intellectual, which are inherited from the mother. The unconsciousconsiderations which, on the other hand, influence women in their choicenaturally cannot be so accurately specified. In general, we may say thefollowing:--That the age they prefer is from thirty to thirty-five. Forinstance, they prefer men of this age to youths, who in reality possessthe highest form of human beauty. The reason for this is that they arenot guided by taste but by instinct, which recognises in this particularage the acme of generative power. In general, women pay little attentionto beauty, that is, to beauty of face; they seem to take it uponthemselves alone to endow the child with beauty. It is chiefly thestrength of a man and the courage that goes with it that attract them, for both of these promise the generation of robust children and at thesame time a brave protector for them. Every physical defect in a man, any deviation from the type, a woman may, with regard to the child, eradicate if she is faultless in these parts herself or excels in acontrary direction. The only exceptions are those qualities which arepeculiar to the man, and which, in consequence, a mother cannot bestowon her child; these include the masculine build of the skeleton, breadthof shoulder, small hips, straight legs, strength of muscle, courage, beard, and so on. And so it happens that a woman frequently loves anugly man, albeit she never loves an unmanly man, because she cannotneutralise his defects. 

The second class of considerations that are the source of love are thosedepending on the psychical qualities. Here we shall find that a womanuniversally is attracted by the qualities of a man's heart or character, both of which are inherited from the father. It is mainly firmness ofwill, determination and courage, and may be honesty and goodness ofheart too, that win a woman over; while intellectual qualificationsexercise no direct or instinctive power over her, for the simple reasonthat these are not inherited from the father. A lack of intelligencecarries no weight with her; in fact, a superabundance of mental power oreven genius, as abnormities, might have an unfavourable effect. And sowe frequently find a woman preferring a stupid, ugly, and ill-manneredman to one who is well-educated, intellectual, and agreeable. Hence, people of extremely different temperament frequently marry forlove--that is to say, _he_ is coarse, strong, and narrow-minded, while_she_ is very sensitive, refined, cultured, and aesthetic, and so on; or_he_ is genial and clever, and _she_ is a goose. 

 "Sic visum Veneri; cui placet impares Formas atque animos sub juga a�nea Saevo mittere cum joco. "

The reason for this is, that she is not influenced by intellectualconsiderations, but by something entirely different, namely, instinct. Marriage is not regarded as a means for intellectual entertainment, butfor the generation of children; it is a union of hearts and not ofminds. When a woman says that she has fallen in love with a man's mind, it is either a vain and ridiculous pretence on her part or theexaggeration of a degenerate being. A man, on the other hand, is notcontrolled in instinctive love by the _qualities_ of the woman's_character_; this is why so many a Socrates has found his Xantippe, asfor instance, Shakespeare, Albrecht D�rer, Byron, and others. But herewe have the influence of intellectual qualities, because they areinherited from the mother; nevertheless their influence is easilyoverpowered by physical beauty, which concerns more essential points, and therefore has a more direct effect. By the way, it is for thisreason that mothers who have either felt or experienced the formerinfluence have their daughters taught the fine arts, languages, etc. , sothat they may prove more attractive. In this way they hope by artificialmeans to pad the intellect, just as they do their bust and hips if it isnecessary to do so. Let it be understood that here we are simplyspeaking of that attraction which is absolutely direct and instinctive, and from which springs real love. That an intelligent and educated womanesteems intelligence and brains in a man, and that a man afterdeliberate reasoning criticises and considers the character of his_fiance�_, are matters which do not concern our present subject. Suchthings influence a rational selection in marriage, but they do notcontrol passionate love, which is our matter. 

Up to the present I have taken into consideration merely the _absolute_considerations--_id est_, such considerations as apply to every one. Inow come to the _relative_ considerations, which are individual, becausethey aim at rectifying the type of the species which is defectivelypresented and at correcting any deviation from it existing in the personof the chooser himself, and in this way lead back to a pure presentationof the type. Hence each man loves what he himself is deficient in. Thechoice that is based on relative considerations--that is, has in viewthe constitution of the individual--is much more certain, decided, andexclusive than the choice that is made after merely absoluteconsiderations; consequently real passionate love will have its origin, as a rule, in these relative considerations, and it will only be theordinary phases of love that spring from the absolute. So that it is notstereotyped, perfectly beautiful women who are wont to kindle greatpassions. Before a truly passionate feeling can exist, something isnecessary that is perhaps best expressed by a metaphor inchemistry--namely, the two persons must neutralise each other, like acidand alkali to a neutral salt. Before this can be done the followingconditions are essential. In the first place, all sexuality isone-sided. This one-sidedness is more definitely expressed and exists ina higher degree in one person than in another; so that it may be bettersupplemented and neutralised in each individual by one person than byanother of the opposite sex, because the individual requires aone-sidedness opposite to his own in order to complete the type ofhumanity in the new individual to be generated, to the constitution ofwhich everything tends. . . . 

The following is necessary for this neutralisation of which we arespeaking. The particular degree of _his_ manhood must exactly correspondto the particular degree of _her_ womanhood in order to exactly balancethe one-sidedness of each. Hence the most manly man will desire the mostwomanly woman, and _vice vers�_, and so each will want the individualthat exactly corresponds to him in degree of sex. Inasmuch as twopersons fulfil this necessary relation towards each other, it isinstinctively felt by them and is the origin, together with the other_relative_ considerations, of the higher degrees of love. While, therefore, two lovers are pathetically talking about the harmony oftheir souls, the kernel of the conversation is for the most part theharmony concerning the individual and its perfection, which obviously isof much more importance than the harmony of their souls--whichfrequently turns out to be a violent discord shortly after marriage. 

We now come to those other relative considerations which depend on eachindividual trying to eradicate, through the medium of another, hisweaknesses, deficiencies, and deviations from the type, in order thatthey may not be perpetuated in the child that is to be born or developinto absolute abnormities. The weaker a man is in muscular power, themore will he desire a woman who is muscular; and the same thing appliesto a woman. . . . 

Nevertheless, if a big woman choose a big husband, in order, perhaps, topresent a better appearance in society, the children, as a rule, sufferfor her folly. Again, another very decided consideration is complexion. Blonde people fancy either absolutely dark complexions or brown; but itis rarely the case _vice vers�_. The reason for it is this: that fairhair and blue eyes are a deviation from the type and almost constitutean abnormity, analogous to white mice, or at any rate white horses. Theyare not indigenous to any other part of the world but Europe, --not evento the polar regions, --and are obviously of Scandinavian origin. _Enpassant_, it is my conviction that a white skin is not natural to man, and that by nature he has either a black or brown skin like ourforefathers, the Hindoos, and that the white man was never originallycreated by nature; and that, therefore, there is no _race_ of whitepeople, much as it is talked about, but every white man is a bleachedone. Driven up into the north, where he was a stranger, and where heexisted only like an exotic plant, in need of a hothouse in winter, manin the course of centuries became white. The gipsies, an Indian tribewhich emigrated only about four centuries ago, show the transition ofthe Hindoo's complexion to ours. In love, therefore, nature strives toreturn to dark hair and brown eyes, because they are the original type;still, a white skin has become second nature, although not to such anextent as to make the dark skin of the Hindoo repellent to us. 

Finally, every man tries to find the corrective of his own defects andaberrations in the particular parts of his body, and the moreconspicuous the defect is the greater is his determination to correctit. This is why snub-nosed persons find an aquiline nose or aparrot-like face so indescribably pleasing; and the same thing appliesto every other part of the body. Men of immoderately long and attenuatedbuild delight in a stunted and short figure. Considerations oftemperament also influence a man's choice. Each prefers a temperamentthe reverse of his own; but only in so far as his is a decided one. 

A man who is quite perfect in some respect himself does not, it is true, desire and love imperfection in this particular respect, yet he can bemore easily reconciled to it than another man, because he himself savesthe children from being very imperfect in this particular. For instance, a man who has a very white skin himself will not dislike a yellowishcomplexion, while a man who has a yellowish complexion will consider adazzlingly white skin divinely beautiful. It is rare for a man to fallin love with a positively ugly woman, but when he does, it is becauseexact harmony in the degree of sex exists between them, and all herabnormities are precisely the opposite to, that is to say, thecorrective of his. Love in these circumstances is wont to attain a highdegree. 

The profoundly earnest way in which we criticise and narrowly considerevery part of a woman, while she on her part considers us; thescrupulously careful way we scrutinise, a woman who is beginning toplease us; the fickleness of our choice; the strained attention withwhich a man watches his _fianc�e_; the care he takes not to be deceivedin any trait; and the great importance he attaches to every more or lessessential trait, --all this is quite in keeping with the importance ofthe end. For the child that is to be born will have to bear a similartrait through its whole life; for instance, if a woman stoops but alittle, it is possible for her son to be inflicted with a hunchback; andso in every other respect. We are not conscious of all this, naturally. On the contrary, each man imagines that his choice is made in theinterest of his own pleasure (which, in reality, cannot be interested init at all); his choice, which we must take for granted is in keepingwith his own individuality, is made precisely in the interest of thespecies, to maintain the type of which as pure as possible is the secrettask. In this case the individual unconsciously acts in the interest ofsomething higher, that is, the species. This is why he attaches so muchimportance to things to which he might, nay, would be otherwiseindifferent. There is something quite singular in the unconsciouslyserious and critical way two young people of different sex look at eachother on meeting for the first time; in the scrutinising and penetratingglances they exchange, in the careful inspection which their varioustraits undergo. This scrutiny and analysis represent the _meditation ofthe genius of the species_ on the individual which may be born and thecombination of its qualities; and the greatness of their delight in andlonging for each other is determined by this meditation. This longing, although it may have become intense, may possibly disappear again ifsomething previously unobserved comes to light. And so the genius of thespecies meditates concerning the coming race in all who are yet not tooold. It is Cupid's work to fashion this race, and he is always busy, always speculating, always meditating. The affairs of the individual intheir whole ephemeral totality are very trivial compared with those ofthis divinity, which concern the species and the coming race; thereforehe is always ready to sacrifice the individual regardlessly. He isrelated to these ephemeral affairs as an immortal being is to a mortal, and his interests to theirs as infinite to finite. Conscious, therefore, of administering affairs of a higher order than those that concernmerely the weal and woe of the individual, he administers them withsublime indifference amid the tumult of war, the bustle of business, orthe raging of a plague--indeed, he pursues them into the seclusion ofthe cloisters. 

It has been seen that the intensity of love grows with itsindividuation; we have shown that two individuals may be so physicallyconstituted, that, in order to restore the best possible type of thespecies, the one is the special and perfect complement of the other, which, in consequence, exclusively desires it. In a case of this kind, passionate love arises, and as it is bestowed on one object, and oneonly--that is to say, because it appears in the _special_ service of thespecies--it immediately assumes a nobler and sublimer nature. On theother hand, mere sexual instinct is base, because, withoutindividuation, it is directed to all, and strives to preserve thespecies merely as regards quantity with little regard for quality. Intense love concentrated on one individual may develop to such adegree, that unless it is gratified all the good things of this world, and even life itself, lose their importance. It then becomes a desire, the intensity of which is like none other; consequently it will make anykind of sacrifice, and should it happen that it cannot be gratified, itmay lead to madness or even suicide. Besides these unconsciousconsiderations which are the source of passionate love, there must bestill others, which we have not so directly before us. Therefore, wemust take it for granted that here there is not only a fitness ofconstitution but also a special fitness between the man's _will_ and thewoman's _intellect_, in consequence of which a perfectly definiteindividual can be born to them alone, whose existence is contemplated bythe genius of the species for reasons to us impenetrable, since they arethe very essence of the thing-in-itself. Or more strictly speaking, thewill to live desires to objectivise itself in an individual which isprecisely determined, and can only be begotten by this particular fatherand this particular mother. This metaphysical yearning of the will initself has immediately, as its sphere of action in the circle of humanbeings, the hearts of the future parents, who accordingly are seizedwith this desire. They now fancy that it is for their own sakes they arelonging for what at present has purely a metaphysical end, that is tosay, for what does not come within the range of things that exist inreality. In other words, it is the desire of the future individual toenter existence, which has first become possible here, a longing whichproceeds from the primary source of all being and exhibits itself in thephenomenal world as the intense love of the future parents for eachother, and has little regard for anything outside itself. In fact, loveis an illusion like no other; it will induce a man to sacrificeeverything he possesses in the world, in order to obtain this woman, whoin reality will satisfy him no more than any other. It also ceases toexist when the end, which was in reality metaphysical, has beenfrustrated perhaps by the woman's barrenness (which, according toHufeland, is the result of nineteen accidental defects in theconstitution), just as it is frustrated daily in millions of crushedgerms in which the same metaphysical life-principle struggles to exist;there is no other consolation in this than that there is an infinity ofspace, time, and matter, and consequently inexhaustible opportunity, atthe service of the will to live. 

Although this subject has not been treated by Theophrastus Paracelsus, and my entire train of thought is foreign to him, yet it must havepresented itself to him, if even in a cursory way, when he gaveutterance to the following remarkable words, written in quite adifferent context and in his usual desultory style: _Hi sunt, quos Deuscopulavit, ut eam, quae fuit Uriae et David; quamvis ex diametro (sicenim sibi humana mens persuadebat) cum justo et legitimo matrimoniopugnaret hoc . . . Sed propter Salomonem, qui aliunde nasci non potuit, nisi ex Bathseba, conjuncto David semine, quamvis meretrice, conjunxiteos Deus. _[18]

The yearning of love, the ἱμερος, which has been expressed in countlessways and forms by the poets of all ages, without their exhausting thesubject or even doing it justice; this longing which makes us imaginethat the possession of a certain woman will bring interminablehappiness, and the loss of her, unspeakable pain; this longing and thispain do not arise from the needs of an ephemeral individual, but are, onthe contrary, the sigh of the spirit of the species, discerningirreparable means of either gaining or losing its ends. It is thespecies alone that has an interminable existence: hence it is capable ofendless desire, endless gratification, and endless pain. These, however, are imprisoned in the heart of a mortal; no wonder, therefore, if itseems like to burst, and can find no expression for the announcements ofendless joy or endless pain. This it is that forms the substance of allerotic poetry that is sublime in character, which, consequently, soarsinto transcendent metaphors, surpassing everything earthly. This is thetheme of Petrarch, the material for the St. Preuxs, Werthers, and JacopoOrtis, who otherwise could be neither understood nor explained. Thisinfinite regard is not based on any kind of intellectual, nor, ingeneral, upon any real merits of the beloved one; because the loverfrequently does not know her well enough; as was the case with Petrarch. 

It is the spirit of the species alone that can see at a glance of what_value_ the beloved one is to _it_ for its purposes. Moreover, greatpassions, as a rule, originate at first sight:

 "Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight. "

--SHAKESPEARE, _As You Like It, _ iii. 5. 

Curiously enough, there is a passage touching upon this in _Guzmann deAlfarache_, a well-known romance written two hundred and fifty years agoby Mateo Aleman: _No es necessario para que uno ame, que pase distanciade tiempo, que siga discurso, in haga eleccion, sino que con aquellaprimera y sola vista, concurran juntamente cierta correspondencia �consonancia, � lo que ac� solemos vulgarmente decir, una confrontacionde sangre, � que por particular influxo suelen mover las estrellas_. (For a man to love there is no need for any length of time to pass forhim to weigh considerations or make his choice, but only that a certaincorrespondence and consonance is encountered on both sides at the firstand only glance, or that which is ordinarily called _a sympathy ofblood_, to which a peculiar influence of the stars generally impels. )Accordingly, the loss of the beloved one through a rival, or throughdeath, is the greatest pain of all to those passionately in love; justbecause it is of a transcendental nature, since it affects him notmerely as an individual, but also assails him in his _essentia aeterna_, in the life of the species, in whose special will and service he washere called. This is why jealousy is so tormenting and bitter, and thegiving up of the loved one the greatest of all sacrifices. A hero isashamed of showing any kind of emotion but that which may be the outcomeof love; the reason for this is, that when he is in love it is not he, but the species which is grieving. In Calderon's _Zenobia the Great_there is a scene in the second act between Zenobia and Decius where thelatter says, _Cielos, luego tu me quieres? Perdiera cien mil victorias, Volvi�rame_, etc. (Heavens! then you love me? For this I wouldsacrifice a thousand victories, etc. ) In this case honour, which hashitherto outweighed every other interest, is driven out of the fielddirectly love--_i. E. _, the interest of the species--comes into play anddiscerns something that will be of decided advantage to itself; for theinterest of the species, compared with that of the mere individual, however important this may be, is infinitely more important. Honour, duty, and fidelity succumb to it after they have withstood every othertemptation--the menace of death even. We find the same going on inprivate life; for instance, a man has less conscience when in love thanin any other circumstances. Conscience is sometimes put on one side evenby people who are otherwise honest and straightforward, and infidelityrecklessly committed if they are passionately in love--i. E. , when theinterest of the species has taken possession of them. It would seem, indeed, as if they believed themselves conscious of a greater authoritythan the interests of individuals could ever confer; this is simplybecause they are concerned in the interest of the species. Chamfort'sutterance in this respect is remarkable: _Quand un homme et une femmeont l'un pour l'autre une passion violente, il me semble toujours quequelque soient les obstacles qui les s�parent, un mari, des parens, etc. ; les deux amans sont l'un � l'autre, de par la Nature, qu'ilss'appartiennent de droit devin, malgr� les lois et les conventionshumaines_. . . . From this standpoint the greater part of the _Decameron_seems a mere mocking and jeering on the part of the genius of thespecies at the rights and interests of the individual which it treadsunderfoot. Inequality of rank and all similar relations are put on oneside with the same indifference and disregarded by the genius of thespecies, if they thwart the union of two people passionately in lovewith one another: it pursues its ends pertaining to endless generations, scattering human principles and scruples abroad like chaff. 

For the same reason, a man will willingly risk every kind of danger, andeven become courageous, although he may otherwise be faint-hearted. Whata delight we take in watching, either in a play or novel, two younglovers fighting for each other--i. E. , for the interest of thespecies--and their defeat of the old people, who had only in view thewelfare of the individual! For the struggling of a pair of lovers seemsto us so much more important, delightful, and consequently justifiablethan any other, as the species is more important than the individual. 

Accordingly, we have as the fundamental subject of almost all comediesthe genius of the species with its purposes, running counter to thepersonal interests of the individuals presented, and, in consequence, threatening to undermine their happiness. As a rule it carries out itsends, which, in keeping with true poetic justice, satisfies thespectator, because the latter feels that the purposes of the specieswidely surpass those of the individual. Hence he is quite consoled whenhe finally takes leave of the victorious lovers, sharing with them theillusion that they have established their own happiness, while, intruth, they have sacrificed it for the welfare of the species, inopposition to the will of the discreet old people. 

It has been attempted in a few out-of-the-way comedies to reverse thisstate of things and to effect the happiness of the individuals at thecost of the ends of the species; but here the spectator is sensible ofthe pain inflicted on the genius of the species, and does not findconsolation in the advantages that are assured to the individuals. 

Two very well-known little pieces occur to me as examples of this kind:_La reine de 16 ans_, and _Le mariage de raison_. 

In the love-affairs that are treated in tragedies the lovers, as a rule, perish together: the reason for this is that the purposes of thespecies, whose tools the lovers were, have been frustrated, as, forinstance, in _Romeo and Juliet, Tancred, Don Carlos, Wallenstein, TheBride of Messina_, and so on. 

A man in love frequently furnishes comic as well as tragic aspects; forbeing in the possession of the spirit of the species and controlled byit, he no longer belongs to himself, and consequently his line ofconduct is not in keeping with that of the individual. It isfundamentally this that in the higher phases of love gives such apoetical and sublime colour, nay, transcendental and hyperphysical turnto a man's thoughts, whereby he appears to lose sight of his essentiallymaterial purpose. He is inspired by the spirit of the species, whoseaffairs are infinitely more important than any which concern mereindividuals, in order to establish by special mandate of this spirit theexistence of an indefinitely long posterity with _this_ particular andprecisely determined nature, which it can receive only from him asfather and his loved one as mother, and which, moreover, _as such_ nevercomes into existence, while the objectivation of the will to liveexpressly demands this existence. It is the feeling that he is engagedin affairs of such transcendent importance that exalts the lover aboveeverything earthly, nay, indeed, above himself, and gives such ahyperphysical clothing to his physical wishes, that love becomes, evenin the life of the most prosaic, a poetical episode; and then the affairoften assumes a comical aspect. That mandate of the will whichobjectifies itself in the species presents itself in the consciousnessof the lover under the mask of the anticipation of an infinitehappiness, which is to be found in his union with this particular woman. This illusion to a man deeply in love becomes so dazzling that if itcannot be attained, life itself not only loses all charm, but appears tobe so joyless, hollow, and uninteresting as to make him too disgustedwith it to be afraid of the terrors of death; this is why he sometimesof his own free will cuts his life short. The will of a man of this kindhas become engulfed in that of the species, or the will of the specieshas obtained so great an ascendency over the will of the individual thatif such a man cannot be effective in the manifestation of the first, hedisdains to be so in the last. The individual in this case is too weak avessel to bear the infinite longing of the will of the speciesconcentrated upon a definite object. When this is the case suicide isthe result, and sometimes suicide of the two lovers; unless nature, toprevent this, causes insanity, which then enshrouds with its veil theconsciousness of so hopeless a condition. The truth of this is confirmedyearly by various cases of this description. 

However, it is not only unrequited love that leads frequently to atragic end; for requited love more frequently leads to unhappiness thanto happiness. This is because its demands often so severely clash withthe personal welfare of the lover concerned as to undermine it, sincethe demands are incompatible with the lover's other circumstances, andin consequence destroy the plans of life built upon them. Further, lovefrequently runs counter not only to external circumstances but to theindividuality itself, for it may fling itself upon a person who, apartfrom the relation of sex, may become hateful, despicable, nay, evenrepulsive. As the will of the species, however, is so very much strongerthan that of the individual, the lover shuts his eyes to allobjectionable qualities, overlooks everything, ignores all, and uniteshimself for ever to the object of his passion. He is so completelyblinded by this illusion that as soon as the will of the species isaccomplished the illusion vanishes and leaves in its place a hatefulcompanion for life. From this it is obvious why we often see veryintelligent, nay, distinguished men married to dragons and she-devils, and why we cannot understand how it was possible for them to make such achoice. Accordingly, the ancients represented _Amor_ as blind. In fact, it is possible for a lover to clearly recognise and be bitterlyconscious of horrid defects in his _fianc�e's_ disposition andcharacter--defects which promise him a life of misery--and yet for himnot to be filled with fear:

 "I ask not, I care not, If guilt's in thy heart; I know that I love thee, Whatever thou art. "

For, in truth, he is not acting in his own interest but in that of athird person, who has yet to come into existence, albeit he is under theimpression that he is acting in his own But it is this very _acting insome one else's interest_ which is everywhere the stamp of greatness andgives to passionate love the touch of the sublime, making it a worthysubject for the poet. Finally, a man may both love and hate his belovedat the same time. Accordingly, Plato compares a man's love to the loveof a wolf for a sheep. We have an instance of this kind when apassionate lover, in spite of all his exertions and entreaties, cannotobtain a hearing upon any terms. 

 "I love and hate her. "--SHAKESPEARE, _Cymb_. Iii. 5. 

When hatred is kindled, a man will sometimes go so far as to first killhis beloved and then himself. Examples of this kind are brought beforeour notice yearly in the newspapers. Therefore Goethe says truly:

 "Bei aller verschm�hten Liebe, beim h�llichen Elemente! Ich wollt', ich w�sst' was �rger's, das ich fluchen k�nnte!"

It is in truth no hyperbole on the part of a lover when he calls hisbeloved's coldness, or the joy of her vanity, which delights in hissuffering, _cruelty_. For he has come under the influence of an impulsewhich, akin to the instinct of animals, compels him in spite of allreason to unconditionally pursue his end and discard every other; hecannot give it up. There has not been one but many a Petrarch, who, failing to have his love requited, has been obliged to drag through lifeas if his feet were either fettered or carried a leaden weight, and givevent to his sighs in a lonely forest; nevertheless there was only onePetrarch who possessed the true poetic instinct, so that Goethe'sbeautiful lines are true of him:

 "Und wenn der Mensch in seiner Quaal verstummt, Gab mir ein Gott, zu sagen, wie ich leide. "

As a matter of fact, the genius of the species is at continual warfarewith the guardian genius of individuals; it is its pursuer and enemy; itis always ready to relentlessly destroy personal happiness in order tocarry out its ends; indeed, the welfare of whole nations has sometimesbeen sacrificed to its caprice. Shakespeare furnishes us with such anexample in _Henry VI_ Part III. , Act iii. , Scenes 2 and 3. This isbecause the species, in which lies the germ of our being, has a nearerand prior claim upon us than the individual, so that the affairs of thespecies are more important than those of the individual. Sensible ofthis, the ancients personified the genius of the species in Cupid, notwithstanding his having the form of a child, as a hostile and cruelgod, and therefore one to be decried as a capricious and despotic demon, and yet lord of both gods and men. 

 Συ δ' ὠ θεων τυραννε κ' ἀνθρωπων, Ἐρως. (Tu, deorum hominumque tyranne, Amor!)

Murderous darts, blindness, and wings are Cupid's attributes. The lattersignify inconstancy, which as a rule comes with the disillusionfollowing possession. 

Because, for instance, love is based on an illusion and represents whatis an advantage to the species as an advantage to the individual, theillusion necessarily vanishes directly the end of the species has beenattained. The spirit of the species, which for the time being has gotthe individual into its possession, now frees him again. Deserted by thespirit, he relapses into his original state of narrowness and want; heis surprised to find that after all his lofty, heroic, and endlessattempts to further his own pleasure he has obtained but little; andcontrary to his expectation, he finds that he is no happier than he wasbefore. He discovers that he has been the dupe of the will of thespecies. Therefore, as a rule, a Theseus who has been made happy willdesert his Ariadne. If Petrarch's passion had been gratified his songwould have become silent from that moment, as that of the birds as soonas the eggs are laid. 

Let it be said in passing that, however much my metaphysics of love maydisplease those in love, the fundamental truth revealed by me wouldenable them more effectually than anything else to overcome theirpassion, if considerations of reason in general could be of any avail. The words of the comic poet of ancient times remain good: _Quae res inse neque consilium, neque modum habet ullum, eam consilio regere nonpotes_. People who marry for love do so in the interest of the speciesand not of the individuals. It is true that the persons concernedimagine they are promoting their own happiness; but their real aim, which is one they are unconscious of, is to bring forth an individualwhich can be begotten by them alone. This purpose having brought themtogether, they ought henceforth to try and make the best of things. Butit very frequently happens that two people who have been broughttogether by this instinctive illusion, which is the essence ofpassionate love, are in every other respect temperamentally different. This becomes apparent when the illusion wears off, as it necessarilymust. 

Accordingly, people who marry for love are generally unhappy, for suchpeople look after the welfare of the future generation at the expense ofthe present. _Quien se casa por amores, ha de vivir con dolores_ (He whomarries for love must live in grief), says the Spanish proverb. Marriages _de convenance_, which are generally arranged by the parents, will turn out the reverse. The considerations in this case which controlthem, whatever their nature may be, are at any rate real and unable tovanish of themselves. A marriage of this kind attends to the welfare ofthe present generation to the detriment of the future, it is true; andyet this remains problematical. 

A man who marries for money, and not for love, lives more in theinterest of the individual than in that of the species; a conditionexactly opposed to truth; therefore it is unnatural and rouses a certainfeeling of contempt. A girl who against the wish of her parents refusesto marry a rich man, still young, and ignores all considerations of_convenance_, in order to choose another instinctively to her liking, sacrifices her individual welfare to the species. But it is for thisvery reason that she meets with a certain approval, for she has givenpreference to what was more important and acted in the spirit of nature(of the species) more exactly; while the parents advised only in thespirit of individual egoism. 

As the outcome of all this, it seems that to marry means that either theinterest of the individual or the interest of the species must suffer. As a rule one or the other is the case, for it is only by the rarest andluckiest accident that _convenance_ and passionate love go hand in hand. The wretched condition of most persons physically, morally, andintellectually may be partly accounted for by the fact that marriagesare not generally the result of pure choice and inclination, but of allkinds of external considerations and accidental circumstances. However, if inclination to a certain degree is taken into consideration, as wellas convenience, this is as it were a compromise with the genius of thespecies. As is well known, happy marriages are few and far between, since marriage is intended to have the welfare of the future generationat heart and not the present. 

However, let me add for the consolation of the more tender-hearted thatpassionate love is sometimes associated with a feeling of quite anotherkind--namely, real friendship founded on harmony of sentiment, but this, however, does not exist until the instinct of sex has been extinguished. This friendship will generally spring from the fact that the physical, moral, and intellectual qualities which correspond to and supplementeach other in two individuals in love, in respect of the child to beborn, will also supplement each other in respect of the individualsthemselves as opposite qualities of temperament and intellectualexcellence, and thereby establish a harmony of sentiment. 

The whole metaphysics of love which has been treated here is closelyrelated to my metaphysics in general, and the light it throws upon thismay be said to be as follows. 

We have seen that a man's careful choice, developing through innumerabledegrees to passionate love, for the satisfaction of his instinct of sex, is based upon the fundamental interest he takes in the constitution ofthe next generation. This overwhelming interest that he takes verifiestwo truths which have been already demonstrated. 

First: Man's immortality, which is perpetuated in the future race. Forthis interest of so active and zealous a nature, which is neither theresult of reflection nor intention, springs from the innermostcharacteristics and tendencies of our being, could not exist socontinuously or exercise such great power over man if the latter werereally transitory and if a race really and totally different to himselfsucceeded him merely in point of time. 

Second: That his real nature is more closely allied to the species thanto the individual. For this interest that he takes in the special natureof the species, which is the source of all love, from the most fleetingemotion to the most serious passion, is in reality the most importantaffair in each man's life, the successful or unsuccessful issue of whichtouches him more nearly than anything else. This is why it has beenpre-eminently called the "affair of the heart. " Everything that merelyconcerns one's own person is set aside and sacrificed, if the caserequire it, to this interest when it is of a strong and decided nature. Therefore in this way man proves that he is more interested in thespecies than in the individual, and that he lives more directly in theinterest of the species than in that of the individual. 

Why, then, is a lover so absolutely devoted to every look and turn ofhis beloved, and ready to make any kind of sacrifice for her? Becausethe _immortal_ part of him is yearning for her; it is only the _mortal_part of him that longs for everything else. That keen and even intenselonging for a particular woman is accordingly a direct pledge of theimmortality of the essence of our being and of its perpetuity in thespecies. 

To regard this perpetuity as something unimportant and insufficient isan error, arising from the fact that in thinking of the continuity ofthe species we only think of the future existence of beings similar toourselves, but in no respect, however, identical with us; and again, starting from knowledge directed towards without, we only grasp theouter form of the species as it presents itself to us, and do not takeinto consideration its inner nature. It is precisely this inner naturethat lies at the foundation of our own consciousness as its kernel, andtherefore is more direct than our consciousness itself, and asthing-in-itself exempt from the _principium individuationis_--is inreality identical and the same in all individuals, whether they exist atthe same or at different times. 

This, then, is the will to live--that is to say, it is exactly _thatwhich_ so intensely desires both life and continuance, and whichaccordingly remains unharmed and unaffected by death. Further, itspresent state cannot be improved, and while there is life it is certainof the unceasing sufferings and death of the individual. The _denial_ ofthe will to live is reserved to free it from this, as the means by whichthe individual will breaks away from the stem of the species, andsurrenders that existence in it. 

We are wanting both in ideas and all data as to what it is after that. We can only indicate it as something which is free to be will to live ornot to live. Buddhism distinguishes the latter case by the word_Nirvana_. It is the point which as such remains for ever impenetrableto all human knowledge. 

Looking at the turmoil of life from this standpoint we find all occupiedwith its want and misery, exerting all their strength in order tosatisfy its endless needs and avert manifold suffering, without, however, daring to expect anything else in return than merely thepreservation of this tormented individual existence for a short span oftime. And yet, amid all this turmoil we see a pair of lovers exchanginglonging glances--yet why so secretly, timidly, and stealthily? Becausethese lovers are traitors secretly striving to perpetuate all thismisery and turmoil that otherwise would come to a timely end. 

FOOTNOTES:

[17] Ch. Xxvi. 23. 

[18] _De vita longa_ i. 5. 

PHYSIOGNOMY. 

That the outside reflects the inner man, and that the face expresses hiswhole character, is an obvious supposition and accordingly a safe one, demonstrated as it is in the desire people have _to see_ on alloccasions a man who has distinguished himself by something good or evil, or produced some exceptional work; or if this is denied them, at anyrate to hear from others _what he looks like_. This is why, on the onehand, they go to places where they conjecture he is to be found; and onthe other, why the press, and especially the English press, tries todescribe him in a minute and striking way; he is soon brought visiblybefore us either by a painter or an engraver; and finally, photography, on that account so highly prized, meets this necessity in a most perfectway. 

It is also proved in everyday life that each one inspects thephysiognomy of those he comes in contact with, and first of all secretlytries to discover their moral and intellectual character from theirfeatures. This could not be the case if, as some foolish people state, the outward appearance of a man is of no importance; nay, if the soul isone thing and the body another, and the latter related to the soul asthe coat is to the man himself. 

Rather is every human face a hieroglyph, which, to be sure, admits ofbeing deciphered--nay, the whole alphabet of which we carry about withus. Indeed, the face of a man, as a rule, bespeaks more interestingmatter than his tongue, for it is the compendium of all which he willever say, as it is the register of all his thoughts and aspirations. Moreover, the tongue only speaks the thoughts of one man, while the faceexpresses a thought of nature. Therefore it is worth while to observeeverybody attentively; even if they are not worth talking to. Everyindividual is worthy of observation as a single thought of nature; so isbeauty in the highest degree, for it is a higher and more generalconception of nature: it is her thought of a species. This is why we areso captivated by beauty. It is a fundamental and principal thought ofNature; whereas the individual is only a secondary thought, a corollary. 

In secret, everybody goes upon the principle that a man _is_ what he_looks_; but the difficulty lies in its application. The ability toapply it is partly innate and partly acquired by experience; but no oneunderstands it thoroughly, for even the most experienced may make amistake. Still, it is not the face that deceives, whatever Figaro maysay, but it is we who are deceived in reading what is not there. Thedeciphering of the face is certainly a great and difficult art. Itsprinciples can never be learnt _in abstracto_. Its first condition isthat the man must be looked at from a _purely objective_ point of view;which is not so easy to do. As soon as, for instance, there is theslightest sign of dislike, or affection, or fear, or hope, or even thethought of the impression which we ourselves are making on him--inshort, as soon as anything of a subjective nature is present, thehieroglyphics become confused and falsified. The sound of a language isonly heard by one who does not understand it, because in thinking of thesignificance one is not conscious of the sign itself; and similarly thephysiognomy of a man is only seen by one to whom it is stillstrange--that is to say, by one who has not become accustomed to hisface through seeing him often or talking to him. Accordingly it is, strictly speaking, the first glance that gives one a purely objectiveimpression of a face, and makes it possible for one to decipher it. Asmell only affects us when we first perceive it, and it is the firstglass of wine which gives us its real taste; in the same way, it is onlywhen we see a face for the first time that it makes a full impressionupon us. Therefore one should carefully attend to the first impression;one should make a note of it, nay, write it down if the man is ofpersonal importance--that is, if one can trust one's own sense ofphysiognomy. Subsequent acquaintance and intercourse will erase thatimpression, but it will be verified one day in the future. 

_En passant_, let us not conceal from ourselves the fact that this firstimpression is as a rule extremely disagreeable: but how little there isin the majority of faces! With the exception of those that arebeautiful, good-natured, and intellectual--that is, the very few andexceptional, --I believe a new face for the most part gives a sensitiveperson a sensation akin to a shock, since the disagreeable impression ispresented in a new and surprising combination. 

As a rule it is indeed _a sorry sight_. There are individuals whosefaces are stamped with such na�ve vulgarity and lowness of character, such an animal limitation of intelligence, that one wonders how theycare to go out with such a face and do not prefer to wear a mask. Nay, there are faces a mere glance at which makes one feel contaminated. Onecannot therefore blame people, who are in a position to do so, if theyseek solitude and escape the painful sensation of "_seeing new faces_. "The _metaphysical_ explanation of this rests on the consideration thatthe individuality of each person is exactly that by which he should bereclaimed and corrected. 

If any one, on the other hand, will be content with a _psychological_explanation, let him ask himself what kind of physiognomy can beexpected in those whose minds, their whole life long, have scarcely everentertained anything but petty, mean, and miserable thoughts, andvulgar, selfish, jealous, wicked, and spiteful desires. Each one ofthese thoughts and desires has left its impress on the face for thelength of time it existed; all these marks, by frequent repetition, haveeventually become furrows and blemishes, if one may say so. Thereforethe appearance of the majority of people is calculated to give one ashock at first sight, and it is only by degrees that one becomesaccustomed to a face--that is to say, becomes so indifferent to theimpression as to be no longer affected by it. 

But that the predominating facial expression is formed by countlessfleeting and characteristic contortions is also the reason why the facesof intellectual men only become moulded gradually, and indeed onlyattain their sublime expression in old age; whilst portraits of them intheir youth only show the first traces of it. But, on the other hand, what has just been said about the shock one receives at first sightcoincides with the above remark, that it is only at first sight that aface makes its true and full impression. In order to get a purelyobjective and true impression of it, we must stand in no kind ofrelation to the person, nay, if possible, we must not even have spokento him. Conversation makes one in some measure friendly disposed, andbrings us into a certain _rapport_, a reciprocal _subjective_ relation, which immediately interferes with our taking an objective view. Aseverybody strives to win either respect or friendship for himself, a manwho is being observed will immediately resort to every art ofdissembling, and corrupt us with his airs, hypocrisies, and flatteries;so that in a short time we no longer see what the first impression hadclearly shown us. It is said that "most people gain on furtheracquaintance" but what ought to be said is that "they delude us" onfurther acquaintance. But when these bad traits have an opportunity ofshowing themselves later on, our first impression generally receives itsjustification. Sometimes a further acquaintance is a hostile one, inwhich case it will not be found that people gain by it. Another reasonfor the apparent advantage of a further acquaintance is, that the manwhose first appearance repels us, as soon as we converse with him nolonger shows his true being and character, but his education aswell--that is to say, not only what he really is by nature, but what hehas appropriated from the common wealth of mankind; three-fourths ofwhat he says does not belong to him, but has been acquired from without;so that we are often surprised to hear such a minotaur speak so humanly. And on a still further acquaintance, the brutality of which his facegave promise, will reveal itself in all its glory. Therefore a man whois gifted with a keen sense of physiognomy should pay careful attentionto those verdicts prior to a further acquaintance, and thereforegenuine. For the face of a man expresses exactly what he is, and if hedeceives us it is not his fault but ours. On the other hand, the wordsof a man merely state what he thinks, more frequently only what he haslearnt, or it may be merely what he pretends to think. Moreover, when wespeak to him, nay, only hear others speak to him, our attention is takenaway from his real physiognomy; because it is the substance, that whichis given fundamentally, and we disregard it; and we only pay attentionto its pathognomy, its play of feature while speaking. This, however, isso arranged that the good side is turned upwards. 

When Socrates said to a youth who was introduced to him so that he mighttest his capabilities, "Speak so that I may see you" (taking it forgranted that he did not simply mean "hearing" by "seeing"), he was rightin so far as it is only in speaking that the features and especially theeyes of a man become animated, and his intellectual powers andcapabilities imprint their stamp on his features: we are then in aposition to estimate provisionally the degree and capacity of hisintelligence; which was precisely Socrates' aim in that case. But, onthe other hand, it is to be observed, firstly, that this rule does notapply to the _moral_ qualities of a man, which lie deeper; and secondly, that what is gained from an _objective_ point of view by the clearerdevelopment of a man's countenance while he is speaking, is again from a_subjective_ point of view lost, because of the personal relation intowhich he immediately enters with us, occasioning a slight fascination, does not leave us unprejudiced observers, as has already been explained. Therefore, from this last standpoint it might be more correct to say:"Do not speak in order that I may see you. "

For to obtain a pure and fundamental grasp of a man's physiognomy onemust observe him when he is alone and left to himself. Any kind ofsociety and conversation with another throw a reflection upon him whichis not his own, mostly to his advantage; for he thereby is placed in acondition of action and reaction which exalts him. But, on the contrary, if he is alone and left to himself immersed in the depths of his ownthoughts and sensations, it is only then that he is absolutely andwholly _himself_. And any one with a keen, penetrating eye forphysiognomy can grasp the general character of his whole being at aglance. For on his face, regarded in and by itself, is indicated theground tone of all his thoughts and efforts, the _arr�t irrevocable_ ofhis future, and of which he is only conscious when alone. 

The science of physiognomy is one of the principal means of a knowledgeof mankind: arts of dissimulation do not come within the range ofphysiognomy, but within that of mere pathognomy and mimicry. This isprecisely why I recommend the physiognomy of a man to be studied when heis alone and left to his own thoughts, and before he has been conversedwith; partly because it is only then that his physiognomy can be seenpurely and simply, since in conversation pathognomy immediately stepsin, and he then resorts to the arts of dissimulation which he hasacquired; and partly because personal intercourse, even of the slightestnature, makes us prejudiced, and in consequence impairs our judgment. 

Concerning our physiognomy in general, it is still to be observed thatit is much easier to discover the intellectual capacities of a man thanhis moral character. The intellectual capacities take a much moreoutward direction. They are expressed not only in the face and play ofhis features, but also in his walk, nay, in every movement, howeverslight it may be. One could perhaps discriminate from behind between ablockhead, a fool, and a man of genius. A clumsy awkwardnesscharacterises every movement of the blockhead; folly imprints its markon every gesture, and so do genius and a reflective nature. Hence theoutcome of La Bruyere's remark: _Il n'y a rien de si d�li�, de sisimple, et de si imperceptible o� il n'y entrent des mani�res, qui nousd�c�lent: un sot ni n'entre, ni ne sort, ni ne s'assied, ni ne se l�ve, ni ne se tait, ni n'est sur ses jambes, comme un homme d'esprit_. Thisaccounts for, by the way, that instinct _stir et prompt_ which, according to Helvetius, ordinary people have of recognising people ofgenius and of running away from them. This is to be accounted for by thefact that the larger and more developed the brain, and the thinner, inrelation to it, the spine and nerves, the greater not only is theintelligence, but also at the same time the mobility and pliancy of allthe limbs; because they are controlled more immediately and decisivelyby the brain; consequently everything depends more on a single thread, every movement of which precisely expresses its purpose. The wholematter is analogous to, nay dependent on, the fact that the higher ananimal stands in the scale of development, the easier can it be killedby wounding it in a single place. Take, for instance, batrachia: theyare as heavy, clumsy, and slow in their movements as they areunintelligent, and at the same time extremely tenacious of life. This isexplained by the fact that with a little brain they have a very thickspine and nerves. But gait and movement of the arms are for the mostpart functions of the brain; because the limbs receive their motion, andeven the slightest modification of it, from the brain through the mediumof the spinal nerves; and this is precisely why voluntary movements tireus. This feeling of fatigue, like that of pain, has its seat in thebrain, and not as we suppose in the limbs, hence motion promotes sleep;on the other hand, those motions that are not excited by the brain, thatis to say, the involuntary motions of organic life, of the heart andlungs, go on without causing fatigue: and as thought as well as motionis a function of the brain, the character of its activity is denoted inboth, according to the nature of the individual. Stupid people move likelay figures, while every joint of intellectual people speaks for itself. Intellectual qualities are much better discerned, however, in the facethan in gestures and movements, in the shape and size of the forehead, in the contraction and movement of the features, and especially in theeye; from the little, dull, sleepy-looking eye of the pig, through allgradations, to the brilliant sparkling eye of the genius. The _look ofwisdom_, even of the best kind, is different from that of _genius_, since it bears the stamp of serving the will; while that of the latteris free from it. Therefore the anecdote which Squarzafichi relates inhis life of Petrarch, and has taken from Joseph Brivius, a contemporary, is quite credible--namely, that when Petrarch was at the court ofVisconti, and among many men and titled people, Galeazzo Visconti askedhis son, who was still a boy in years and was afterwards the first Dukeof Milan, to pick out _the wisest man_ of those present. The boy lookedat every one for a while, when he seized Petrarch's hand and led him tohis father, to the great admiration of all present. For nature imprintsher stamp of dignity so distinctly on the distinguished among mankindthat a child can perceive it. Therefore I should advise my sagaciouscountrymen, if they ever again wish to trumpet a commonplace person as agenius for the period of thirty years, not to choose for that end suchan inn-keeper's physiognomy as was possessed by Hegel, upon whose facenature had written in her clearest handwriting the familiar title, _commonplace person_. But what applies to intellectual qualities doesnot apply to the moral character of mankind; its physiognomy is muchmore difficult to perceive, because, being of a metaphysical nature, itlies much deeper, and although moral character is connected with theconstitution and with the organism, it is not so immediately connected, however, with definite parts of its system as is intellect. Hence, whileeach one makes a public show of his intelligence, with which he is ingeneral quite satisfied, and tries to display it at every opportunity, the moral qualities are seldom brought to light, nay, most peopleintentionally conceal them; and long practice makes them acquire greatmastery in hiding them. 

Meanwhile, as has been explained above, wicked thoughts and worthlessendeavours gradually leave their traces on the face, and especially theeyes. Therefore, judging by physiognomy, we can easily guarantee that aman will never produce an immortal work; but not that he will nevercommit a great crime. 

ON SUICIDE. 

As far as I can see, it is only the followers of monotheistic, that isof Jewish, religions that regard suicide as a crime. This is the morestriking as there is no forbiddance of it, or even positive disapprovalof it, to be found either in the New Testament or the Old; so thatteachers of religion have to base their disapprobation of suicide ontheir own philosophical grounds; these, however, are so bad that theytry to compensate for the weakness of their arguments by stronglyexpressing their abhorrence of the act--that is to say, by abusing it. We are told that suicide is an act of the greatest cowardice, that it isonly possible to a madman, and other absurdities of a similar nature; orthey make use of the perfectly senseless expression that it is"_wrong_, " while it is perfectly clear that no one has such indisputableright over anything in the world as over his own person and life. Suicide, as has been said, is computed a crime, renderinginevitable--especially in vulgar, bigoted England--an ignominiousburial and the confiscation of the property; this is why the jury almostalways bring in the verdict of insanity. Let one's own moral feelingsdecide the matter for one. Compare the impression made upon one by thenews that a friend has committed a crime, say a murder, an act ofcruelty or deception, or theft, with the news that he has died avoluntary death. Whilst news of the first kind will incite intenseindignation, the greatest displeasure, and a desire for punishment orrevenge, news of the second will move us to sorrow and compassion;moreover, we will frequently have a feeling of admiration for hiscourage rather than one of moral disapproval, which accompanies a wickedact. Who has not had acquaintances, friends, relatives, who havevoluntarily left this world? And are we to think of them with horror ascriminals? _Nego ac pernego_! I am rather of the opinion that the clergyshould be challenged to state their authority for stamping--from thepulpit or in their writings--as a _crime_ an act which has beencommitted by many people honoured and loved by us, and refusing anhonourable burial to those who have of their own free will left theworld. They cannot produce any kind of Biblical authority, nay, theyhave no philosophical arguments that are at all valid; and it is_reasons_ that we want; mere empty phrases or words of abuse we cannotaccept. If the criminal law forbids suicide, that is not a reason thatholds good in the church; moreover, it is extremely ridiculous, for whatpunishment can frighten those who seek death? When a man is punished fortrying to commit suicide, it is his clumsy failure that is punished. 

The ancients were also very far from looking at the matter in thislight. Pliny says: "_Vitam quidem non adeo expetendam censemus, utquoque modo trahenda sit. Quisquis es talis, aeque moriere, etiam cumobscoenus vixeris, aut nefandus. Quapropter hoc primum quisque inremediis animi sui habeat: ex omnibus bonis, quae homini tribuit natura, nullum melius esse tempestiva morte: idque in ea optimum, quod illamsibi quisque praestare poterit_. " He also says: "_Ne Deum quidem posseomnia. Namque nec sibi potest mortem consciscere, si velit, quod hominidedit optimum in taniis vitae poenis_, " etc. 

In Massilia and on the island of Ceos a hemlock-potion was offered inpublic by the magistrate to those who could give valid reasons forquitting this life. And how many heroes and wise men of ancient timeshave not ended their lives by a voluntary death! To be sure, Aristotlesays "Suicide is a wrong against the State, although not against theperson;" Stob�us, however, in his treatise on the Peripatetic ethicsuses this sentence: _φευκτον δε τον βιον γιγνεσθαι τοις μεν ἀγαθοις ἐνταις ἀγαν ἀτυχιαις τοις δε κακοις και ἐν ταις ἀγαν εὐτυχιαις. (Vitamautem relinquendam esse bonis in nimiis quidem miseriis pravis vero innimium quoque secundis_) And similarly: Διο και γαμησειν, καιπαιδοποιησεσθαι, και πολιτευσεσθαι, etc. ; και καθολου την ἀρετηνἀοκουντα και μενειν ἐν τῳ βιῳ, και παλιν, εἰ δεοι, ποτε δἰ ἀναγκαςἀπαλλαγησεσθαι, ταφης προνοησαντα, etc. _(Ideoque et uxorem ducturum, etliberos procreaturum, et ad civitatem accessurum, _ etc. ; _atque omninovirtutem colendo tum vitam servaturum, tum iterum, cogente necessitate, relicturum, _ etc. ) And we find that suicide was actually praised by theStoics as a noble and heroic act, this is corroborated by hundreds ofpassages, and especially in the works of Seneca. Further, it is wellknown that the Hindoos often look upon suicide as a religious act, as, for instance, the self-sacrifice of widows, throwing oneself under thewheels of the chariot of the god at Juggernaut, or giving oneself to thecrocodiles in the Ganges or casting oneself in the holy tanks in thetemples, and so on. It is the same on the stage--that mirror of life. For instance, in the famous Chinese play, _L'Orphelin de la Chine_, [19]almost all the noble characters end by suicide, without indicatinganywhere or it striking the spectator that they were committing a crime. At bottom it is the same on our own stage; for instance, Palmira in_Mahomet_, Mortimer in _Maria Stuart_, Othello, Countess Terzky. IsHamlet's monologue the meditation of a criminal? He merely states thatconsidering the nature of the world, death would be certainlypreferable, if we were sure that by it we should be annihilated. But_there lies the rub_! But the reasons brought to bear against suicide bythe priests of monotheistic, that is of Jewish religions, and by thosephilosophers who adapt themselves to it, are weak sophisms easilycontradicted. [20] Hume has furnished the most thorough refutation ofthem in his _Essay on Suicide_, which did not appear until after hisdeath, and was immediately suppressed by the shameful bigotry and grossecclesiastical tyranny existing in England. Hence, only a very fewcopies of it were sold secretly, and those at a dear price; and for thisand another treatise of that great man we are indebted to a reprintpublished at Basle. That a purely philosophical treatise originatingfrom one of the greatest thinkers and writers of England, which refutedwith cold reason the current arguments against suicide, must steal aboutin that country as if it were a fraudulent piece of work until it foundprotection in a foreign country, is a great disgrace to the Englishnation. At the same time it shows what a good conscience the Church hason a question of this kind. The only valid moral reason against suicidehas been explained in my chief work. It is this: that suicide preventsthe attainment of the highest moral aim, since it substitutes a realrelease from this world of misery for one that is merely apparent. Butthere is a very great difference between a mistake and a crime, and itis as a crime that the Christian clergy wish to stamp it. Christianity'sinmost truth is that suffering (the Cross) is the real purpose of life;hence it condemns suicide as thwarting this end, while the ancients, from a lower point of view, approved of it, nay, honoured it. Thisargument against suicide is nevertheless ascetic, and only holds goodfrom a much higher ethical standpoint than has ever been taken by moralphilosophers in Europe. But if we come down from that very highstandpoint, there is no longer a valid moral reason for condemningsuicide. The extraordinarily active zeal with which the clergy ofmonotheistic religions attack suicide is not supported either by theBible or by any valid reasons; so it looks as if their zeal must beinstigated by some secret motive. May it not be that the voluntarysacrificing of one's life is a poor compliment to him who said, παντακαλα λιαν?[21]

In that case it would be another example of the gross optimism of thesereligions denouncing suicide, in order to avoid being denounced by it. 

 * * * * *

As a rule, it will be found that as soon as the terrors of life outweighthe terrors of death a man will put an end to his life. The resistanceof the terrors of death is, however, considerable; they stand like asentinel at the gate that leads out of life. Perhaps there is no oneliving who would not have already put an end to his life if this end hadbeen something that was purely negative, a sudden cessation ofexistence. But there is something positive about it, namely, thedestruction of the body. And this alarms a man simply because his bodyis the manifestation of the will to live. 

Meanwhile, the fight as a rule with these sentinels is not so hard as itmay appear to be from a distance; in consequence, it is true, of theantagonism between mental and physical suffering. For instance, if wesuffer very great bodily pain, or if the pain lasts a long time, webecome indifferent to all other troubles: our recovery is what we desiremost dearly. In the same way, great mental suffering makes us insensibleto bodily suffering: we despise it. Nay, if it outweighs the other, wefind it a beneficial distraction, a pause in our mental suffering. Andso it is that suicide becomes easy; for the bodily pain that is bound upwith it loses all importance in the eyes of one who is tormented byexcessive mental suffering. This is particularly obvious in the case ofthose who are driven to commit suicide through some purely morbid anddiscordant feeling. They have no feelings to overcome; they do not needto rush at it, but as soon as the keeper who looks after them leavesthem for two minutes they quickly put an end to their life. 

 * * * * *

When in some horrid and frightful dream we reach the highest pitch ofterror, it awakens us, scattering all the monsters of the night. Thesame thing happens in the dream of life, when the greatest degree ofterror compels us to break it off. 

 * * * * *

Suicide may also be looked upon as an experiment, as a question whichman puts to Nature and compels her to answer. It asks, what change aman's existence and knowledge of things experience through death? It isan awkward experiment to make; for it destroys the very consciousnessthat awaits the answer. 

FOOTNOTES:

[19] Translated by St. Julien, 1834. 

[20] See my treatise on the _Foundation of Morals_, � 5. 

[21] Bd. I. P. 69.