The World As Will And Idea

                                    By

                           Arthur Schopenhauer

                      Translated From The German By

                           R. B. Haldane, M.A.

                                   And

                              J. Kemp, M.A.

                                 Vol. I.

                          Containing Four Books.

            “Ob nicht Natur zuletzt sich doch ergünde?”—GOETHE

                             Seventh Edition

                                  London

                    Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co.

                                   1909





CONTENTS


Translators’ Preface.
Preface To The First Edition.
Preface To The Second Edition.
First Book. The World As Idea.
   First Aspect. The Idea Subordinated To The Principle Of Sufficient
   Reason: The Object Of Experience And Science.
Second Book. The World As Will.
   First Aspect. The Objectification Of The Will.
Third Book. The World As Idea.
   Second Aspect. The Idea Independent Of The Principle Of Sufficient
   Reason: The Platonic Idea: The Object Of Art.
Fourth Book. The World As Will.
   Second Aspect. The Assertion And Denial Of The Will To Live, When
   Self-Consciousness Has Been Attained.
Footnotes






TRANSLATORS’ PREFACE.


The style of “Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung” is sometimes loose and
involved, as is so often the case in German philosophical treatises. The
translation of the book has consequently been a matter of no little
difficulty. It was found that extensive alteration of the long and
occasionally involved sentences, however likely to prove conducive to a
satisfactory English style, tended not only to obliterate the form of the
original but even to imperil the meaning. Where a choice has had to be
made, the alternative of a somewhat slavish adherence to Schopenhauer’s
_ipsissima verba_ has accordingly been preferred to that of inaccuracy.
The result is a piece of work which leaves much to be desired, but which
has yet consistently sought to reproduce faithfully the spirit as well as
the letter of the original.

As regards the rendering of the technical terms about which there has been
so much controversy, the equivalents used have only been adopted after
careful consideration of their meaning in the theory of knowledge. For
example, “Vorstellung” has been rendered by “idea,” in preference to
“representation,” which is neither accurate, intelligible, nor elegant.
“Idee,” is translated by the same word, but spelled with a
capital,—“Idea.” Again, “Anschauung” has been rendered according to the
context, either by “perception” simply, or by “intuition or perception.”

Notwithstanding statements to the contrary in the text, the book is
probably quite intelligible in itself, apart from the treatise “On the
Fourfold Root of the Principle of Sufficient Reason.” It has, however,
been considered desirable to add an abstract of the latter work in an
appendix to the third volume of this translation.

R. B. H.

J. K.





PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.


I propose to point out here how this book must be read in order to be
thoroughly understood. By means of it I only intend to impart a single
thought. Yet, notwithstanding all my endeavours, I could find no shorter
way of imparting it than this whole book. I hold this thought to be that
which has very long been sought for under the name of philosophy, and the
discovery of which is therefore regarded by those who are familiar with
history as quite as impossible as the discovery of the philosopher’s
stone, although it was already said by Pliny: _Quam multa fieri non posse,
priusquam sint facta, judicantur?_ (Hist. nat. 7, 1.)

According as we consider the different aspects of this one thought which I
am about to impart, it exhibits itself as that which we call metaphysics,
that which we call ethics, and that which we call æsthetics; and certainly
it must be all this if it is what I have already acknowledged I take it to
be.

A _system of thought_ must always have an architectonic connection or
coherence, that is, a connection in which one part always supports the
other, though the latter does not support the former, in which ultimately
the foundation supports all the rest without being supported by it, and
the apex is supported without supporting. On the other hand, a _single
thought_, however comprehensive it may be, must preserve the most perfect
unity. If it admits of being broken up into parts to facilitate its
communication, the connection of these parts must yet be organic, _i.e._,
it must be a connection in which every part supports the whole just as
much as it is supported by it, a connection in which there is no first and
no last, in which the whole thought gains distinctness through every part,
and even the smallest part cannot be completely understood unless the
whole has already been grasped. A book, however, must always have a first
and a last line, and in this respect will always remain very unlike an
organism, however like one its content may be: thus form and matter are
here in contradiction.

It is self-evident that under these circumstances no other advice can be
given as to how one may enter into the thought explained in this work than
_to read the book twice_, and the first time with great patience, a
patience which is only to be derived from the belief, voluntarily
accorded, that the beginning presupposes the end almost as much as the end
presupposes the beginning, and that all the earlier parts presuppose the
later almost as much as the later presuppose the earlier. I say “almost;”
for this is by no means absolutely the case, and I have honestly and
conscientiously done all that was possible to give priority to that which
stands least in need of explanation from what follows, as indeed generally
to everything that can help to make the thought as easy to comprehend and
as distinct as possible. This might indeed to a certain extent be achieved
if it were not that the reader, as is very natural, thinks, as he reads,
not merely of what is actually said, but also of its possible
consequences, and thus besides the many contradictions actually given of
the opinions of the time, and presumably of the reader, there may be added
as many more which are anticipated and imaginary. That, then, which is
really only misunderstanding, must take the form of active disapproval,
and it is all the more difficult to recognise that it is misunderstanding,
because although the laboriously-attained clearness of the explanation and
distinctness of the expression never leaves the immediate sense of what is
said doubtful, it cannot at the same time express its relations to all
that remains to be said. Therefore, as we have said, the first perusal
demands patience, founded on confidence that on a second perusal much, or
all, will appear in an entirely different light. Further, the earnest
endeavour to be more completely and even more easily comprehended in the
case of a very difficult subject, must justify occasional repetition.
Indeed the structure of the whole, which is organic, not a mere chain,
makes it necessary sometimes to touch on the same point twice. Moreover
this construction, and the very close connection of all the parts, has not
left open to me the division into chapters and paragraphs which I should
otherwise have regarded as very important, but has obliged me to rest
satisfied with four principal divisions, as it were four aspects of one
thought. In each of these four books it is especially important to guard
against losing sight, in the details which must necessarily be discussed,
of the principal thought to which they belong, and the progress of the
whole exposition. I have thus expressed the first, and like those which
follow, unavoidable demand upon the reader, who holds the philosopher in
small favour just because he himself is a philosopher.

The second demand is this, that the introduction be read before the book
itself, although it is not contained in the book, but appeared five years
earlier under the title, “_Ueber die vierfache Wurzel des Satzes vom
zureichenden Grunde: eine philosophische Abhandlung_” (On the fourfold
root of the principle of sufficient reason: a philosophical essay).
Without an acquaintance with this introduction and propadeutic it is
absolutely impossible to understand the present work properly, and the
content of that essay will always be presupposed in this work just as if
it were given with it. Besides, even if it had not preceded this book by
several years, it would not properly have been placed before it as an
introduction, but would have been incorporated in the first book. As it
is, the first book does not contain what was said in the earlier essay,
and it therefore exhibits a certain incompleteness on account of these
deficiencies, which must always be supplied by reference to it. However,
my disinclination was so great either to quote myself or laboriously to
state again in other words what I had already said once in an adequate
manner, that I preferred this course, notwithstanding the fact that I
might now be able to give the content of that essay a somewhat better
expression, chiefly by freeing it from several conceptions which resulted
from the excessive influence which the Kantian philosophy had over me at
the time, such as—categories, outer and inner sense, and the like. But
even there these conceptions only occur because as yet I had never really
entered deeply into them, therefore only by the way and quite out of
connection with the principal matter. The correction of such passages in
that essay will consequently take place of its own accord in the mind of
the reader through his acquaintance with the present work. But only if we
have fully recognised by means of that essay what the principle of
sufficient reason is and signifies, what its validity extends to, and what
it does not extend to, and that that principle is not before all things,
and the whole world merely in consequence of it, and in conformity to it,
a corollary, as it were, of it; but rather that it is merely the form in
which the object, of whatever kind it may be, which is always conditioned
by the subject, is invariably known so far as the subject is a knowing
individual: only then will it be possible to enter into the method of
philosophy which is here attempted for the first time, and which is
completely different from all previous methods.

But the same disinclination to repeat myself word for word, or to say the
same thing a second time in other and worse words, after I have deprived
myself of the better, has occasioned another defect in the first book of
this work. For I have omitted all that is said in the first chapter of my
essay “On Sight and Colour,” which would otherwise have found its place
here, word for word. Therefore the knowledge of this short, earlier work
is also presupposed.

Finally, the third demand I have to make on the reader might indeed be
tacitly assumed, for it is nothing but an acquaintance with the most
important phenomenon that has appeared in philosophy for two thousand
years, and that lies so near us: I mean the principal writings of Kant. It
seems to me, in fact, as indeed has already been said by others, that the
effect these writings produce in the mind to which they truly speak is
very like that of the operation for cataract on a blind man: and if we
wish to pursue the simile further, the aim of my own work may be described
by saying that I have sought to put into the hands of those upon whom that
operation has been successfully performed a pair of spectacles suitable to
eyes that have recovered their sight—spectacles of whose use that
operation is the absolutely necessary condition. Starting then, as I do to
a large extent, from what has been accomplished by the great Kant, I have
yet been enabled, just on account of my earnest study of his writings, to
discover important errors in them. These I have been obliged to separate
from the rest and prove to be false, in order that I might be able to
presuppose and apply what is true and excellent in his doctrine, pure and
freed from error. But not to interrupt and complicate my own exposition by
a constant polemic against Kant, I have relegated this to a special
appendix. It follows then, from what has been said, that my work
presupposes a knowledge of this appendix just as much as it presupposes a
knowledge of the philosophy of Kant; and in this respect it would
therefore be advisable to read the appendix first, all the more as its
content is specially related to the first book of the present work. On the
other hand, it could not be avoided, from the nature of the case, that
here and there the appendix also should refer to the text of the work; and
the only result of this is, that the appendix, as well as the principal
part of the work, must be read twice.

The philosophy of Kant, then, is the only philosophy with which a thorough
acquaintance is directly presupposed in what we have to say here. But if,
besides this, the reader has lingered in the school of the divine Plato,
he will be so much the better prepared to hear me, and susceptible to what
I say. And if, indeed, in addition to this he is a partaker of the benefit
conferred by the Vedas, the access to which, opened to us through the
Upanishads, is in my eyes the greatest advantage which this still young
century enjoys over previous ones, because I believe that the influence of
the Sanscrit literature will penetrate not less deeply than did the
revival of Greek literature in the fifteenth century: if, I say, the
reader has also already received and assimilated the sacred, primitive
Indian wisdom, then is he best of all prepared to hear what I have to say
to him. My work will not speak to him, as to many others, in a strange and
even hostile tongue; for, if it does not sound too vain, I might express
the opinion that each one of the individual and disconnected aphorisms
which make up the Upanishads may be deduced as a consequence from the
thought I am going to impart, though the converse, that my thought is to
be found in the Upanishads, is by no means the case.

But most readers have already grown angry with impatience, and burst into
reproaches with difficulty kept back so long. How can I venture to present
a book to the public under conditions and demands the first two of which
are presumptuous and altogether immodest, and this at a time when there is
such a general wealth of special ideas, that in Germany alone they are
made common property through the press, in three thousand valuable,
original, and absolutely indispensable works every year, besides
innumerable periodicals, and even daily papers; at a time when especially
there is not the least deficiency of entirely original and profound
philosophers, but in Germany alone there are more of them alive at the
same time, than several centuries could formerly boast of in succession to
each other? How is one ever to come to the end, asks the indignant reader,
if one must set to work upon a book in such a fashion?

As I have absolutely nothing to advance against these reproaches, I only
hope for some small thanks from such readers for having warned them in
time, so that they may not lose an hour over a book which it would be
useless to read without complying with the demands that have been made,
and which should therefore be left alone, particularly as apart from this
we might wager a great deal that it can say nothing to them, but rather
that it will always be only _pancorum hominum_, and must therefore quietly
and modestly wait for the few whose unusual mode of thought may find it
enjoyable. For apart from the difficulties and the effort which it
requires from the reader, what cultured man of this age, whose knowledge
has almost reached the august point at which the paradoxical and the false
are all one to it, could bear to meet thoughts almost on every page that
directly contradict that which he has yet himself established once for all
as true and undeniable? And then, how disagreeably disappointed will many
a one be if he finds no mention here of what he believes it is precisely
here he ought to look for, because his method of speculation agrees with
that of a great living philosopher,(1) who has certainly written pathetic
books, and who only has the trifling weakness that he takes all he learned
and approved before his fifteenth year for inborn ideas of the human mind.
Who could stand all this? Therefore my advice is simply to lay down the
book.

But I fear I shall not escape even thus. The reader who has got as far as
the preface and been stopped by it, has bought the book for cash, and asks
how he is to be indemnified. My last refuge is now to remind him that he
knows how to make use of a book in several ways, without exactly reading
it. It may fill a gap in his library as well as many another, where,
neatly bound, it will certainly look well. Or he can lay it on the
toilet-table or the tea-table of some learned lady friend. Or, finally,
what certainly is best of all, and I specially advise it, he can review
it.

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

And now that I have allowed myself the jest to which in this two-sided
life hardly any page can be too serious to grant a place, I part with the
book with deep seriousness, in the sure hope that sooner or later it will
reach those to whom alone it can be addressed; and for the rest, patiently
resigned that the same fate should, in full measure, befall it, that in
all ages has, to some extent, befallen all knowledge, and especially the
weightiest knowledge of the truth, to which only a brief triumph is
allotted between the two long periods in which it is condemned as
paradoxical or disparaged as trivial. The former fate is also wont to
befall its author. But life is short, and truth works far and lives long:
let us speak the truth.

_Written at Dresden in August 1818._





PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.


Not to my contemporaries, not to my compatriots—to mankind I commit my now
completed work in the confidence that it will not 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 the passing generation,
engrossed with the delusion of the moment, that my mind, almost against my
will, has uninterruptedly stuck to its work through the course of a long
life. And while the lapse of time has not been able to make me doubt the
worth of my work, neither has the lack of sympathy; for I constantly saw
the false and the bad, and finally the absurd and senseless,(2) stand in
universal admiration and honour, and I bethought myself that if it were
not the case those who are capable of recognising the genuine and right
are so rare that we may look for them in vain for some twenty years, then
those who are capable of producing it could not be so few that their works
afterwards form an exception to the perishableness of earthly things; and
thus would be lost the reviving prospect of posterity which every one who
sets before himself a high aim requires to strengthen him.

Whoever seriously takes up and pursues an object that does not lead to
material advantages, must not count on the sympathy of his contemporaries.
For the most part he will see, however, that in the meantime the
superficial aspect of that object becomes current in the world, and enjoys
its day; and this is as it should be. The object itself must be pursued
for its own sake, otherwise it cannot be attained; for any design or
intention is always dangerous to insight. Accordingly, as the whole
history of literature proves, everything of real value required a long
time to gain acceptance, especially if it belonged to the class of
instructive, not entertaining, works; and meanwhile the false flourished.
For to combine the object with its superficial appearance is difficult,
when it is not impossible. Indeed that is just the curse of this world of
want and need, that everything must serve and slave for these; and
therefore it is not so constituted that any noble and sublime effort, like
the endeavour after light and truth, can prosper unhindered and exist for
its own sake. But even if such an endeavour has once succeeded in
asserting itself, and the conception of it has thus been introduced,
material interests and personal aims will immediately take possession of
it, in order to make it their tool or their mask. Accordingly, when Kant
brought philosophy again into repute, it had soon to become the tool of
political aims from above, and personal aims from below; although,
strictly speaking, not philosophy itself, but its ghost, that passes for
it. This should not really astonish us; for the incredibly large majority
of men are by nature quite incapable of any but material aims, indeed they
can conceive no others. Thus the pursuit of truth alone is far too lofty
and eccentric an endeavour for us to expect all or many, or indeed even a
few, faithfully to take part in. If yet we see, as for example at present
in Germany, a remarkable activity, a general moving, writing, and talking
with reference to philosophical subjects, we may confidently assume that,
in spite of solemn looks and assurances, only real, not ideal aims, are
the actual _primum mobile_, the concealed motive of such a movement; that
it is personal, official, ecclesiastical, political, in short, material
ends that are really kept in view, and consequently that mere party ends
set the pens of so many pretended philosophers in such rapid motion. Thus
some design or intention, not the desire of insight, is the guiding star
of these disturbers of the peace, and truth is certainly the last thing
that is thought of in the matter. It finds no partisans; rather, it may
pursue its way as silently and unheeded through such a philosophical riot
as through the winter night of the darkest century bound in the rigid
faith of the church, when it was communicated only to a few alchemists as
esoteric learning, or entrusted it may be only to the parchment. Indeed I
might say that no time can be more unfavourable to philosophy than that in
which it is shamefully misused, on the one hand to further political
objects, on the other as a means of livelihood. Or is it believed that
somehow, with such effort and such a turmoil, the truth, at which it by no
means aims, will also be brought to light? Truth is no prostitute, that
throws herself away upon those who do not desire her; she is rather so coy
a beauty that he who sacrifices everything to her cannot even then be sure
of her favour.

If Governments make philosophy a means of furthering political ends,
learned men see in philosophical professorships a trade that nourishes the
outer man just like any other; therefore they crowd after them in the
assurance of their good intentions, that is, the purpose of subserving
these ends. And they keep their word: not truth, not clearness, not Plato,
not Aristotle, but the ends they were appointed to serve are their guiding
star, and become at once the criterion of what is true, valuable, and to
be respected, and of the opposites of these. Whatever, therefore, does not
answer these ends, even if it were the most important and extraordinary
things in their department, is either condemned, or, when this seems
hazardous, suppressed by being unanimously ignored. Look only at their
zeal against pantheism; will any simpleton believe that it proceeds from
conviction? And, in general, how is it possible that philosophy, degraded
to the position of a means of making one’s bread, can fail to degenerate
into sophistry? Just because this is infallibly the case, and the rule, “I
sing the song of him whose bread I eat,” has always held good, the making
of money by philosophy was regarded by the ancients as the characteristic
of the sophists. But we have still to add this, that since throughout this
world nothing is to be expected, can be demanded, or is to be had for gold
but mediocrity, we must be contented with it here also. Consequently we
see in all the German universities the cherished mediocrity striving to
produce the philosophy which as yet is not there to produce, at its own
expense and indeed in accordance with a predetermined standard and aim, a
spectacle at which it would be almost cruel to mock.

While thus philosophy has long been obliged to serve entirely as a means
to public ends on the one side and private ends on the other, I have
pursued the course of my thought, undisturbed by them, for more than
thirty years, and simply because I was obliged to do so and could not help
myself, from an instinctive impulse, which was, however, supported by the
confidence that anything true one may have thought, and anything obscure
one may have thrown light upon, will appeal to any thinking mind, no
matter when it comprehends it, and will rejoice and comfort it. To such an
one we speak as those who are like us have spoken to us, and have so
become our comfort in the wilderness of this life. Meanwhile the object is
pursued on its own account and for its own sake. Now it happens curiously
enough with philosophical meditations, that precisely that which one has
thought out and investigated for oneself, is afterwards of benefit to
others; not that, however, which was originally intended for others. The
former is confessedly nearest in character to perfect honesty; for a man
does not seek to deceive himself, nor does he offer himself empty husks;
so that all sophistication and all mere talk is omitted, and consequently
every sentence that is written at once repays the trouble of reading it.
Thus my writings bear the stamp of honesty and openness so distinctly on
the face of them, that by this alone they are a glaring contrast to those
of three celebrated sophists of the post-Kantian period. I am always to be
found at the standpoint of _reflection_, _i.e._, rational deliberation and
honest statement, never at that of _inspiration_, called intellectual
intuition, or absolute thought; though, if it received its proper name, it
would be called empty bombast and charlatanism. Working then in this
spirit, and always seeing the false and bad in universal acceptance, yea,
bombast(3) and charlatanism(4) in the highest honour, I have long
renounced the approbation of my contemporaries. It is impossible that an
age which for twenty years has applauded a Hegel, that intellectual
Caliban, as the greatest of the philosophers, so loudly that it echoes
through the whole of Europe, could make him who has looked on at that
desirous of its approbation. It has no more crowns of honour to bestow;
its applause is prostituted, and its censure has no significance. That I
mean what I say is attested by the fact that if I had in any way sought
the approbation of my contemporaries, I would have had to strike out a
score of passages which entirely contradict all their opinions, and indeed
must in part be offensive to them. But I would count it a crime to
sacrifice a single syllable to that approbation. My guiding star has, in
all seriousness, been truth. Following it, I could first aspire only to my
own approbation, entirely averted from an age deeply degraded as regards
all higher intellectual efforts, and a national literature demoralised
even to the exceptions, a literature in which the art of combining lofty
words with paltry significance has reached its height. I can certainly
never escape from the errors and weaknesses which, in my case as in every
one else’s, necessarily belong to my nature; but I will not increase them
by unworthy accommodations.

As regards this second edition, first of all I am glad to say that after
five and twenty years I find nothing to retract; so that my fundamental
convictions have only been confirmed, as far as concerns myself at least.
The alterations in the first volume therefore, which contains the whole
text of the first edition, nowhere touch what is essential. Sometimes they
concern things of merely secondary importance, and more often consist of
very short explanatory additions inserted here and there. Only the
criticism of the Kantian philosophy has received important corrections and
large additions, for these could not be put into a supplementary book,
such as those which are given in the second volume, and which correspond
to each of the four books that contain the exposition of my own doctrine.
In the case of the latter, I have chosen this form of enlarging and
improving them, because the five and twenty years that have passed since
they were composed have produced so marked a change in my method of
exposition and in my style, that it would not have done to combine the
content of the second volume with that of the first, as both must have
suffered by the fusion. I therefore give both works separately, and in the
earlier exposition, even in many places where I would now express myself
quite differently, I have changed nothing, because I desired to guard
against spoiling the work of my earlier years through the carping
criticism of age. What in this regard might need correction will correct
itself in the mind of the reader with the help of the second volume. Both
volumes have, in the full sense of the word, a supplementary relation to
each other, so far as this rests on the fact that one age of human life
is, intellectually, the supplement of another. It will therefore be found,
not only that each volume contains what the other lacks, but that the
merits of the one consist peculiarly in that which is wanting in the
other. Thus, if the first half of my work surpasses the second in what can
only be supplied by the fire of youth and the energy of first conceptions,
the second will surpass the first by the ripeness and complete elaboration
of the thought which can only belong to the fruit of the labour of a long
life. For when I had the strength originally to grasp the fundamental
thought of my system, to follow it at once into its four branches, to
return from them to the unity of their origin, and then to explain the
whole distinctly, I could not yet be in a position to work out all the
branches of the system with the fulness, thoroughness, and elaborateness
which is only reached by the meditation of many years—meditation which is
required to test and illustrate the system by innumerable facts, to
support it by the most different kinds of proof, to throw light on it from
all sides, and then to place the different points of view boldly in
contrast, to separate thoroughly the multifarious materials, and present
them in a well-arranged whole. Therefore, although it would, no doubt,
have been more agreeable to the reader to have my whole work in one piece,
instead of consisting, as it now does, of two halves, which must be
combined in using them, he must reflect that this would have demanded that
I should accomplish at one period of life what it is only possible to
accomplish in two, for I would have had to possess the qualities at one
period of life that nature has divided between two quite different ones.
Hence the necessity of presenting my work in two halves supplementary to
each other may be compared to the necessity in consequence of which a
chromatic object-glass, which cannot be made out of one piece, is produced
by joining together a convex lens of flint glass and a concave lens of
crown glass, the combined effect of which is what was sought. Yet, on the
other hand, the reader will find some compensation for the inconvenience
of using two volumes at once, in the variety and the relief which is
afforded by the handling of the same subject, by the same mind, in the
same spirit, but in very different years. However, it is very advisable
that those who are not yet acquainted with my philosophy should first of
all read the first volume without using the supplementary books, and
should make use of these only on a second perusal; otherwise it would be
too difficult for them to grasp the system in its connection. For it is
only thus explained in the first volume, while the second is devoted to a
more detailed investigation and a complete development of the individual
doctrines. Even those who should not make up their minds to a second
reading of the first volume had better not read the second volume till
after the first, and then for itself, in the ordinary sequence of its
chapters, which, at any rate, stand in some kind of connection, though a
somewhat looser one, the gaps of which they will fully supply by the
recollection of the first volume, if they have thoroughly comprehended it.
Besides, they will find everywhere the reference to the corresponding
passages of the first volume, the paragraphs of which I have numbered in
the second edition for this purpose, though in the first edition they were
only divided by lines.

I have already explained in the preface to the first edition, that my
philosophy is founded on that of Kant, and therefore presupposes a
thorough knowledge of it. I repeat this here. For Kant’s teaching produces
in the mind of every one who has comprehended it a fundamental change
which is so great that it may be regarded as an intellectual new-birth. It
alone is able really to remove the inborn realism which proceeds from the
original character of the intellect, which neither Berkeley nor
Malebranche succeed in doing, for they remain too much in the universal,
while Kant goes into the particular, and indeed in a way that is quite
unexampled both before and after him, and which has quite a peculiar, and,
we might say, immediate effect upon the mind in consequence of which it
undergoes a complete undeception, and forthwith looks at all things in
another light. Only in this way can any one become susceptible to the more
positive expositions which I have to give. On the other hand, he who has
not mastered the Kantian philosophy, whatever else he may have studied,
is, as it were, in a state of innocence; that is to say, he remains in the
grasp of that natural and childish realism in which we are all born, and
which fits us for everything possible, with the single exception of
philosophy. Such a man then stands to the man who knows the Kantian
philosophy as a minor to a man of full age. That this truth should
nowadays sound paradoxical, which would not have been the case in the
first thirty years after the appearance of the Critique of Reason, is due
to the fact that a generation has grown up that does not know Kant
properly, because it has never heard more of him than a hasty, impatient
lecture, or an account at second-hand; and this again is due to the fact
that in consequence of bad guidance, this generation has wasted its time
with the philosophemes of vulgar, uncalled men, or even of bombastic
sophists, which are unwarrantably commended to it. Hence the confusion of
fundamental conceptions, and in general the unspeakable crudeness and
awkwardness that appears from under the covering of affectation and
pretentiousness in the philosophical attempts of the generation thus
brought up. But whoever thinks he can learn Kant’s philosophy from the
exposition of others makes a terrible mistake. Nay, rather I must
earnestly warn against such accounts, especially the more recent ones; and
indeed in the years just past I have met with expositions of the Kantian
philosophy in the writings of the Hegelians which actually reach the
incredible. How should the minds that in the freshness of youth have been
strained and ruined by the nonsense of Hegelism, be still capable of
following Kant’s profound investigations? They are early accustomed to
take the hollowest jingle of words for philosophical thoughts, the most
miserable sophisms for acuteness, and silly conceits for dialectic, and
their minds are disorganised through the admission of mad combinations of
words to which the mind torments and exhausts itself in vain to attach
some thought. No Critique of Reason can avail them, no philosophy, they
need a _medicina mentis_, first as a sort of purgative, _un petit cours de
senscommunologie_, and then one must further see whether, in their case,
there can even be any talk of philosophy. The Kantian doctrine then will
be sought for in vain anywhere else but in Kant’s own works; but these are
throughout instructive, even where he errs, even where he fails. In
consequence of his originality, it holds good of him in the highest
degree, as indeed of all true philosophers, that one can only come to know
them from their own works, not from the accounts of others. For the
thoughts of any extraordinary intellect cannot stand being filtered
through the vulgar mind. Born behind the broad, high, finely-arched brow,
from under which shine beaming eyes, they lose all power and life, and
appear no longer like themselves, when removed to the narrow lodging and
low roofing of the confined, contracted, thick-walled skull from which
dull glances steal directed to personal ends. Indeed we may say that minds
of this kind act like an uneven glass, in which everything is twisted and
distorted, loses the regularity of its beauty, and becomes a caricature.
Only from their authors themselves can we receive philosophical thoughts;
therefore whoever feels himself drawn to philosophy must himself seek out
its immortal teachers in the still sanctuary of their works. The principal
chapters of any one of these true philosophers will afford a thousand
times more insight into their doctrines than the heavy and distorted
accounts of them that everyday men produce, who are still for the most
part deeply entangled in the fashionable philosophy of the time, or in the
sentiments of their own minds. But it is astonishing how decidedly the
public seizes by preference on these expositions at second-hand. It seems
really as if elective affinities were at work here, by virtue of which the
common nature is drawn to its like, and therefore will rather hear what a
great man has said from one of its own kind. Perhaps this rests on the
same principle as that of mutual instruction, according to which children
learn best from children.

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

One word more for the professors of philosophy. I have always been
compelled to admire not merely the sagacity, the true and fine tact with
which, immediately on its appearance, they recognised my philosophy as
something altogether different from and indeed dangerous to their own
attempts, or, in popular language, something that would not suit their
turn; but also the sure and astute policy by virtue of which they at once
discovered the proper procedure with regard to it, the complete harmony
with which they applied it, and the persistency with which they have
remained faithful to it. This procedure, which further commended itself by
the great ease of carrying it out, consists, as is well known, in
altogether ignoring and thus in secreting—according to Goethe’s malicious
phrase, which just means the appropriating of what is of weight and
significance. The efficiency of this quiet means is increased by the
Corybantic shouts with which those who are at one reciprocally greet the
birth of their own spiritual children—shouts which compel the public to
look and note the air of importance with which they congratulate
themselves on the event. Who can mistake the object of such proceedings?
Is there then nothing to oppose to the maxim, _primum vivere, deinde
philosophari_? These gentlemen desire to live, and indeed to live by
philosophy. To philosophy they are assigned with their wives and children,
and in spite of Petrarch’s _povera e nuda vai filosofia_, they have staked
everything upon it. Now my philosophy is by no means so constituted that
any one can live by it. It lacks the first indispensable requisite of a
well-paid professional philosophy, a speculative theology, which—in spite
of the troublesome Kant with his Critique of Reason—should and must, it is
supposed, be the chief theme of all philosophy, even if it thus takes on
itself the task of talking straight on of that of which it can know
absolutely nothing. Indeed my philosophy does not permit to the professors
the fiction they have so cunningly devised, and which has become so
indispensable to them, of a reason that knows, perceives, or apprehends
immediately and absolutely. This is a doctrine which it is only necessary
to impose upon the reader at starting, in order to pass in the most
comfortable manner in the world, as it were in a chariot and four, into
that region beyond the possibility of all experience, which Kant has
wholly and for ever shut out from our knowledge, and in which are found
immediately revealed and most beautifully arranged the fundamental dogmas
of modern, Judaising, optimistic Christianity. Now what in the world has
my subtle philosophy, deficient as it is in these essential requisites,
with no intentional aim, and unable to afford a means of subsistence,
whose pole star is truth alone the naked, unrewarded, unbefriended, often
persecuted truth, and which steers straight for it without looking to the
right hand or the left,—what, I say, has this to do with that _alma
mater_, the good, well-to-do university philosophy which, burdened with a
hundred aims and a thousand motives, comes on its course cautiously
tacking, while it keeps before its eyes at all times the fear of the Lord,
the will of the ministry, the laws of the established church, the wishes
of the publisher, the attendance of the students, the goodwill of
colleagues, the course of current politics, the momentary tendency of the
public, and Heaven knows what besides? Or what has my quiet, earnest
search for truth in common with the noisy scholastic disputations of the
chair and the benches, the inmost motives of which are always personal
aims. The two kinds of philosophy are, indeed, radically different. Thus
it is that with me there is no compromise and no fellowship, that no one
reaps any benefit from my works but the man who seeks the truth alone, and
therefore none of the philosophical parties of the day; for they all
follow their own aims, while I have only insight into truth to offer,
which suits none of these aims, because it is not modelled after any of
them. If my philosophy is to become susceptible of professorial
exposition, the times must entirely change. What a pretty thing it would
be if a philosophy by which nobody could live were to gain for itself
light and air, not to speak of the general ear! This must be guarded
against, and all must oppose it as one man. But it is not just such an
easy game to controvert and refute; and, moreover, these are mistaken
means to employ, because they just direct the attention of the public to
the matter, and its taste for the lucubrations of the professors of
philosophy might be destroyed by the perusal of my writings. For whoever
has tasted of earnest will not relish jest, especially when it is
tiresome. Therefore the silent system, so unanimously adopted, is the only
right one, and I can only advise them to stick to it and go on with it as
long as it will answer, that is, until to ignore is taken to imply
ignorance; then there will just be time to turn back. Meanwhile it remains
open to every one to pluck out a small feather here and there for his own
use, for the superfluity of thoughts at home should not be very
oppressive. Thus the ignoring and silent system may hold out a good while,
at least the span of time I may have yet to live, whereby much is already
won. And if, in the meantime, here and there an indiscreet voice has let
itself be heard, it is soon drowned by the loud talking of the professors,
who, with important airs, know how to entertain the public with very
different things. I advise, however, that the unanimity of procedure
should be somewhat more strictly observed, and especially that the young
men should be looked after, for they are sometimes so fearfully
indiscreet. For even so I cannot guarantee that the commended procedure
will last for ever, and cannot answer for the final issue. It is a nice
question as to the steering of the public, which, on the whole, is good
and tractable. Although we nearly at all times see the Gorgiases and the
Hippiases uppermost, although the absurd, as a rule, predominates, and it
seems impossible that the voice of the individual can ever penetrate
through the chorus of the befooling and the befooled, there yet remains to
the genuine works of every age a quite peculiar, silent, slow, and
powerful influence; and, as if by a miracle, we see them rise at last out
of the turmoil like a balloon that floats up out of the thick atmosphere
of this globe into purer regions, where, having once arrived, it remains
at rest, and no one can draw it down again.

_Written at Frankfort-on-the-Maine in February 1844._





FIRST BOOK. THE WORLD AS IDEA.




First Aspect. The Idea Subordinated To The Principle Of Sufficient Reason:
The Object Of Experience And Science.


    Sors de l’enfance, ami réveille toi!

    —_Jean Jacques Rousseau._


§ 1. “The world is my idea:”—this is a truth which holds good for
everything that lives and knows, though man alone can bring it into
reflective and abstract consciousness. If he really does this, he has
attained to philosophical wisdom. It then becomes clear and certain to him
that what he knows is not a sun and an earth, but only an eye that sees a
sun, a hand that feels an earth; that the world which surrounds him is
there only as idea, _i.e._, only in relation to something else, the
consciousness, which is himself. If any truth can be asserted _a priori_,
it is this: for it is the expression of the most general form of all
possible and thinkable experience: a form which is more general than time,
or space, or causality, for they all presuppose it; and each of these,
which we have seen to be just so many modes of the principle of sufficient
reason, is valid only for a particular class of ideas; whereas the
antithesis of object and subject is the common form of all these classes,
is that form under which alone any idea of whatever kind it may be,
abstract or intuitive, pure or empirical, is possible and thinkable. No
truth therefore is more certain, more independent of all others, and less
in need of proof than this, that all that exists for knowledge, and
therefore this whole world, is only object in relation to subject,
perception of a perceiver, in a word, idea. This is obviously true of the
past and the future, as well as of the present, of what is farthest off,
as of what is near; for it is true of time and space themselves, in which
alone these distinctions arise. All that in any way belongs or can belong
to the world is inevitably thus conditioned through the subject, and
exists only for the subject. The world is idea.

This truth is by no means new. It was implicitly involved in the sceptical
reflections from which Descartes started. Berkeley, however, was the first
who distinctly enunciated it, and by this he has rendered a permanent
service to philosophy, even though the rest of his teaching should not
endure. Kant’s primary mistake was the neglect of this principle, as is
shown in the appendix. How early again this truth was recognised by the
wise men of India, appearing indeed as the fundamental tenet of the
Vedânta philosophy ascribed to Vyasa, is pointed out by Sir William Jones
in the last of his essays: “On the philosophy of the Asiatics” (Asiatic
Researches, vol. iv. p. 164), where he says, “The fundamental tenet of the
Vedanta school consisted not in denying the existence of matter, that is,
of solidity, impenetrability, and extended figure (to deny which would be
lunacy), but in correcting the popular notion of it, and in contending
that it has no essence independent of mental perception; that existence
and perceptibility are convertible terms.” These words adequately express
the compatibility of empirical reality and transcendental ideality.

In this first book, then, we consider the world only from this side, only
so far as it is idea. The inward reluctance with which any one accepts the
world as merely his idea, warns him that this view of it, however true it
may be, is nevertheless one-sided, adopted in consequence of some
arbitrary abstraction. And yet it is a conception from which he can never
free himself. The defectiveness of this view will be corrected in the next
book by means of a truth which is not so immediately certain as that from
which we start here; a truth at which we can arrive only by deeper
research and more severe abstraction, by the separation of what is
different and the union of what is identical. This truth, which must be
very serious and impressive if not awful to every one, is that a man can
also say and must say, “the world is my will.”

In this book, however, we must consider separately that aspect of the
world from which we start, its aspect as knowable, and therefore, in the
meantime, we must, without reserve, regard all presented objects, even our
own bodies (as we shall presently show more fully), merely as ideas, and
call them merely ideas. By so doing we always abstract from will (as we
hope to make clear to every one further on), which by itself constitutes
the other aspect of the world. For as the world is in one aspect entirely
_idea_, so in another it is entirely _will_. A reality which is neither of
these two, but an object in itself (into which the thing in itself has
unfortunately dwindled in the hands of Kant), is the phantom of a dream,
and its acceptance is an _ignis fatuus_ in philosophy.

§ 2. That which knows all things and is known by none is the subject. Thus
it is the supporter of the world, that condition of all phenomena, of all
objects which is always pre-supposed throughout experience; for all that
exists, exists only for the subject. Every one finds himself to be
subject, yet only in so far as he knows, not in so far as he is an object
of knowledge. But his body is object, and therefore from this point of
view we call it idea. For the body is an object among objects, and is
conditioned by the laws of objects, although it is an immediate object.
Like all objects of perception, it lies within the universal forms of
knowledge, time and space, which are the conditions of multiplicity. The
subject, on the contrary, which is always the knower, never the known,
does not come under these forms, but is presupposed by them; it has
therefore neither multiplicity nor its opposite unity. We never know it,
but it is always the knower wherever there is knowledge.

So then the world as idea, the only aspect in which we consider it at
present, has two fundamental, necessary, and inseparable halves. The one
half is the object, the forms of which are space and time, and through
these multiplicity. The other half is the subject, which is not in space
and time, for it is present, entire and undivided, in every percipient
being. So that any one percipient being, with the object, constitutes the
whole world as idea just as fully as the existing millions could do; but
if this one were to disappear, then the whole world as idea would cease to
be. These halves are therefore inseparable even for thought, for each of
the two has meaning and existence only through and for the other, each
appears with the other and vanishes with it. They limit each other
immediately; where the object begins the subject ends. The universality of
this limitation is shown by the fact that the essential and hence
universal forms of all objects, space, time, and causality, may, without
knowledge of the object, be discovered and fully known from a
consideration of the subject, _i.e._, in Kantian language, they lie _a
priori_ in our consciousness. That he discovered this is one of Kant’s
principal merits, and it is a great one. I however go beyond this, and
maintain that the principle of sufficient reason is the general expression
for all these forms of the object of which we are _a priori_ conscious;
and that therefore all that we know purely _a priori_, is merely the
content of that principle and what follows from it; in it all our certain
_a priori_ knowledge is expressed. In my essay on the principle of
sufficient reason I have shown in detail how every possible object comes
under it; that is, stands in a necessary relation to other objects, on the
one side as determined, on the other side as determining: this is of such
wide application, that the whole existence of all objects, so far as they
are objects, ideas and nothing more, may be entirely traced to this their
necessary relation to each other, rests only in it, is in fact merely
relative; but of this more presently. I have further shown, that the
necessary relation which the principle of sufficient reason expresses
generally, appears in other forms corresponding to the classes into which
objects are divided, according to their possibility; and again that by
these forms the proper division of the classes is tested. I take it for
granted that what I said in this earlier essay is known and present to the
reader, for if it had not been already said it would necessarily find its
place here.

§ 3. The chief distinction among our ideas is that between ideas of
perception and abstract ideas. The latter form just one class of ideas,
namely concepts, and these are the possession of man alone of all
creatures upon earth. The capacity for these, which distinguishes him from
all the lower animals, has always been called reason.(5) We shall consider
these abstract ideas by themselves later, but, in the first place, we
shall speak exclusively of the _ideas of perception_. These comprehend the
whole visible world, or the sum total of experience, with the conditions
of its possibility. We have already observed that it is a highly important
discovery of Kant’s, that these very conditions, these forms of the
visible world, _i.e._, the absolutely universal element in its perception,
the common property of all its phenomena, space and time, even when taken
by themselves and apart from their content, can, not only be thought in
the abstract, but also be directly perceived; and that this perception or
intuition is not some kind of phantasm arising from constant recurrence in
experience, but is so entirely independent of experience that we must
rather regard the latter as dependent on it, inasmuch as the qualities of
space and time, as they are known in _a priori_ perception or intuition,
are valid for all possible experience, as rules to which it must
invariably conform. Accordingly, in my essay on the principle of
sufficient reason, I have treated space and time, because they are
perceived as pure and empty of content, as a special and independent class
of ideas. This quality of the universal forms of intuition, which was
discovered by Kant, that they may be perceived in themselves and apart
from experience, and that they may be known as exhibiting those laws on
which is founded the infallible science of mathematics, is certainly very
important. Not less worthy of remark, however, is this other quality of
time and space, that the principle of sufficient reason, which conditions
experience as the law of causation and of motive, and thought as the law
of the basis of judgment, appears here in quite a special form, to which I
have given the name of the ground of being. In time, this is the
succession of its moments, and in space the position of its parts, which
reciprocally determine each other _ad infinitum_.

Any one who has fully understood from the introductory essay the complete
identity of the content of the principle of sufficient reason in all its
different forms, must also be convinced of the importance of the knowledge
of the simplest of these forms, as affording him insight into his own
inmost nature. This simplest form of the principle we have found to be
time. In it each instant is, only in so far as it has effaced the
preceding one, its generator, to be itself in turn as quickly effaced. The
past and the future (considered apart from the consequences of their
content) are empty as a dream, and the present is only the indivisible and
unenduring boundary between them. And in all the other forms of the
principle of sufficient reason, we shall find the same emptiness, and
shall see that not time only but also space, and the whole content of both
of them, _i.e._, all that proceeds from causes and motives, has a merely
relative existence, is only through and for another like to itself,
_i.e._, not more enduring. The substance of this doctrine is old: it
appears in Heraclitus when he laments the eternal flux of things; in Plato
when he degrades the object to that which is ever becoming, but never
being; in Spinoza as the doctrine of the mere accidents of the one
substance which is and endures. Kant opposes what is thus known as the
mere phenomenon to the thing in itself. Lastly, the ancient wisdom of the
Indian philosophers declares, “It is Mâyâ, the veil of deception, which
blinds the eyes of mortals, and makes them behold a world of which they
cannot say either that it is or that it is not: for it is like a dream; it
is like the sunshine on the sand which the traveller takes from afar for
water, or the stray piece of rope he mistakes for a snake.” (These similes
are repeated in innumerable passages of the Vedas and the Puranas.) But
what all these mean, and that of which they all speak, is nothing more
than what we have just considered—the world as idea subject to the
principle of sufficient reason.

§ 4. Whoever has recognised the form of the principle of sufficient
reason, which appears in pure time as such, and on which all counting and
arithmetical calculation rests, has completely mastered the nature of
time. Time is nothing more than that form of the principle of sufficient
reason, and has no further significance. Succession is the form of the
principle of sufficient reason in time, and succession is the whole nature
of time. Further, whoever has recognised the principle of sufficient
reason as it appears in the presentation of pure space, has exhausted the
whole nature of space, which is absolutely nothing more than that
possibility of the reciprocal determination of its parts by each other,
which is called position. The detailed treatment of this, and the
formulation in abstract conceptions of the results which flow from it, so
that they may be more conveniently used, is the subject of the science of
geometry. Thus also, whoever has recognised the law of causation, the
aspect of the principle of sufficient reason which appears in what fills
these forms (space and time) as objects of perception, that is to say
matter, has completely mastered the nature of matter as such, for matter
is nothing more than causation, as any one will see at once if he
reflects. Its true being is its action, nor can we possibly conceive it as
having any other meaning. Only as active does it fill space and time; its
action upon the immediate object (which is itself matter) determines that
perception in which alone it exists. The consequence of the action of any
material object upon any other, is known only in so far as the latter acts
upon the immediate object in a different way from that in which it acted
before; it consists only of this. Cause and effect thus constitute the
whole nature of matter; its true being is its action. (A fuller treatment
of this will be found in the essay on the Principle of Sufficient Reason,
§ 21, p. 77.) The nature of all material things is therefore very
appropriately called in German _Wirklichkeit_,(6) a word which is far more
expressive than _Realität_. Again, that which is acted upon is always
matter, and thus the whole being and essence of matter consists in the
orderly change, which one part of it brings about in another part. The
existence of matter is therefore entirely relative, according to a
relation which is valid only within its limits, as in the case of time and
space.

But time and space, each for itself, can be mentally presented apart from
matter, whereas matter cannot be so presented apart from time and space.
The form which is inseparable from it presupposes space, and the action in
which its very existence consists, always imports some change, in other
words a determination in time. But space and time are not only, each for
itself, presupposed by matter, but a union of the two constitutes its
essence, for this, as we have seen, consists in action, _i.e._, in
causation. All the innumerable conceivable phenomena and conditions of
things, might be coexistent in boundless space, without limiting each
other, or might be successive in endless time without interfering with
each other: thus a necessary relation of these phenomena to each other,
and a law which should regulate them according to such a relation, is by
no means needful, would not, indeed, be applicable: it therefore follows
that in the case of all co-existence in space and change in time, so long
as each of these forms preserves for itself its condition and its course
without any connection with the other, there can be no causation, and
since causation constitutes the essential nature of matter, there can be
no matter. But the law of causation receives its meaning and necessity
only from this, that the essence of change does not consist simply in the
mere variation of things, but rather in the fact that at the _same part of
space_ there is now _one thing_ and then _another_, and at _one_ and the
same point of time there is _here_ one thing and there _another_: only
this reciprocal limitation of space and time by each other gives meaning,
and at the same time necessity, to a law, according to which change must
take place. What is determined by the law of causality is therefore not
merely a succession of things in time, but this succession with reference
to a definite space, and not merely existence of things in a particular
place, but in this place at a different point of time. Change, _i.e._,
variation which takes place according to the law of causality, implies
always a determined part of space and a determined part of time together
and in union. Thus causality unites space with time. But we found that the
whole essence of matter consisted in action, _i.e._, in causation,
consequently space and time must also be united in matter, that is to say,
matter must take to itself at once the distinguishing qualities both of
space and time, however much these may be opposed to each other, and must
unite in itself what is impossible for each of these independently, that
is, the fleeting course of time, with the rigid unchangeable perduration
of space: infinite divisibility it receives from both. It is for this
reason that we find that co-existence, which could neither be in time
alone, for time has no contiguity, nor in space alone, for space has no
before, after, or now, is first established through matter. But the
co-existence of many things constitutes, in fact, the essence of reality,
for through it permanence first becomes possible; for permanence is only
knowable in the change of something which is present along with what is
permanent, while on the other hand it is only because something permanent
is present along with what changes, that the latter gains the special
character of change, _i.e._, the mutation of quality and form in the
permanence of substance, that is to say, in matter.(7) If the world were
in space alone, it would be rigid and immovable, without succession,
without change, without action; but we know that with action, the idea of
matter first appears. Again, if the world were in time alone, all would be
fleeting, without persistence, without contiguity, hence without
co-existence, and consequently without permanence; so that in this case
also there would be no matter. Only through the union of space and time do
we reach matter, and matter is the possibility of co-existence, and,
through that, of permanence; through permanence again matter is the
possibility of the persistence of substance in the change of its
states.(8) As matter consists in the union of space and time, it bears
throughout the stamp of both. It manifests its origin in space, partly
through the form which is inseparable from it, but especially through its
persistence (substance), the _a priori_ certainty of which is therefore
wholly deducible from that of space(9) (for variation belongs to time
alone, but in it alone and for itself nothing is persistent). Matter shows
that it springs from time by quality (accidents), without which it never
exists, and which is plainly always causality, action upon other matter,
and therefore change (a time concept). The law of this action, however,
always depends upon space and time together, and only thus obtains
meaning. The regulative function of causality is confined entirely to the
determination of what must occupy _this time and this space_. The fact
that we know _a priori_ the unalterable characteristics of matter, depends
upon this derivation of its essential nature from the forms of our
knowledge of which we are conscious _a priori_. These unalterable
characteristics are space-occupation, _i.e._, impenetrability, _i.e._,
causal action, consequently, extension, infinite divisibility,
persistence, _i.e._, indestructibility, and lastly mobility: weight, on
the other hand, notwithstanding its universality, must be attributed to _a
posteriori_ knowledge, although Kant, in his “Metaphysical Introduction to
Natural Philosophy,” p. 71 (p. 372 of Rosenkranz’s edition), treats it as
knowable _a priori_.

But as the object in general is only for the subject, as its idea, so
every special class of ideas is only for an equally special quality in the
subject, which is called a faculty of perception. This subjective
correlative of time and space in themselves as empty forms, has been named
by Kant pure sensibility; and we may retain this expression, as Kant was
the first to treat of the subject, though it is not exact, for sensibility
presupposes matter. The subjective correlative of matter or of causation,
for these two are the same, is understanding, which is nothing more than
this. To know causality is its one function, its only power; and it is a
great one, embracing much, of manifold application, yet of unmistakable
identity in all its manifestations. Conversely all causation, that is to
say, all matter, or the whole of reality, is only for the understanding,
through the understanding, and in the understanding. The first, simplest,
and ever-present example of understanding is the perception of the actual
world. This is throughout knowledge of the cause from the effect, and
therefore all perception is intellectual. The understanding could never
arrive at this perception, however, if some effect did not become known
immediately, and thus serve as a starting-point. But this is the affection
of the animal body. So far, then, the animal body is the _immediate
object_ of the subject; the perception of all other objects becomes
possible through it. The changes which every animal body experiences, are
immediately known, that is, felt; and as these effects are at once
referred to their causes, the perception of the latter as _objects_
arises. This relation is no conclusion in abstract conceptions; it does
not arise from reflection, nor is it arbitrary, but immediate, necessary,
and certain. It is the method of knowing of the pure understanding,
without which there could be no perception; there would only remain a dull
plant-like consciousness of the changes of the immediate object, which
would succeed each other in an utterly unmeaning way, except in so far as
they might have a meaning for the will either as pain or pleasure. But as
with the rising of the sun the visible world appears, so at one stroke,
the understanding, by means of its one simple function, changes the dull,
meaningless sensation into perception. What the eye, the ear, or the hand
feels, is not perception; it is merely its data. By the understanding
passing from the effect to the cause, the world first appears as
perception extended in space, varying in respect of form, persistent
through all time in respect of matter; for the understanding unites space
and time in the idea of matter, that is, causal action. As the world as
idea exists only through the understanding, so also it exists only for the
understanding. In the first chapter of my essay on “Light and Colour,” I
have already explained how the understanding constructs perceptions out of
the data supplied by the senses; how by comparison of the impressions
which the various senses receive from the object, a child arrives at
perceptions; how this alone affords the solution of so many phenomena of
the senses; the single vision of two eyes, the double vision in the case
of a squint, or when we try to look at once at objects which lie at
unequal distances behind each other; and all illusion which is produced by
a sudden alteration in the organs of sense. But I have treated this
important subject much more fully and thoroughly in the second edition of
the essay on “The Principle of Sufficient Reason,” § 21. All that is said
there would find its proper place here, and would therefore have to be
said again; but as I have almost as much disinclination to quote myself as
to quote others, and as I am unable to explain the subject better than it
is explained there, I refer the reader to it, instead of quoting it, and
take for granted that it is known.

The process by which children, and persons born blind who have been
operated upon, learn to see, the single vision of the double sensation of
two eyes, the double vision and double touch which occur when the organs
of sense have been displaced from their usual position, the upright
appearance of objects while the picture on the retina is upside down, the
attributing of colour to the outward objects, whereas it is merely an
inner function, a division through polarisation, of the activity of the
eye, and lastly the stereoscope,—all these are sure and incontrovertible
evidence that perception is not merely of the senses, but
intellectual—that is, _pure knowledge through the understanding of the
cause from the effect_, and that, consequently, it presupposes the law of
causality, in a knowledge of which all perception—that is to say all
experience, by virtue of its primary and only possibility, depends. The
contrary doctrine that the law of causality results from experience, which
was the scepticism of Hume, is first refuted by this. For the independence
of the knowledge of causality of all experience,—that is, its _a priori_
character—can only be deduced from the dependence of all experience upon
it; and this deduction can only be accomplished by proving, in the manner
here indicated, and explained in the passages referred to above, that the
knowledge of causality is included in perception in general, to which all
experience belongs, and therefore in respect of experience is completely
_a priori_, does not presuppose it, but is presupposed by it as a
condition. This, however, cannot be deduced in the manner attempted by
Kant, which I have criticised in the essay on “The Principle of Sufficient
Reason,” § 23.

§ 5. It is needful to guard against the grave error of supposing that
because perception arises through the knowledge of causality, the relation
of subject and object is that of cause and effect. For this relation
subsists only between the immediate object and objects known indirectly,
thus always between objects alone. It is this false supposition that has
given rise to the foolish controversy about the reality of the outer
world; a controversy in which dogmatism and scepticism oppose each other,
and the former appears, now as realism, now as idealism. Realism treats
the object as cause, and the subject as its effect. The idealism of Fichte
reduces the object to the effect of the subject. Since however, and this
cannot be too much emphasised, there is absolutely no relation according
to the principle of sufficient reason between subject and object, neither
of these views could be proved, and therefore scepticism attacked them
both with success. Now, just as the law of causality precedes perception
and experience as their condition, and therefore cannot (as Hume thought)
be derived from them, so object and subject precede all knowledge, and
hence the principle of sufficient reason in general, as its first
condition; for this principle is merely the form of all objects, the whole
nature and possibility of their existence as phenomena: but the object
always presupposes the subject; and therefore between these two there can
be no relation of reason and consequent. My essay on the principle of
sufficient reason accomplishes just this: it explains the content of that
principle as the essential form of every object—that is to say, as the
universal nature of all objective existence, as something which pertains
to the object as such; but the object as such always presupposes the
subject as its necessary correlative; and therefore the subject remains
always outside the province in which the principle of sufficient reason is
valid. The controversy as to the reality of the outer world rests upon
this false extension of the validity of the principle of sufficient reason
to the subject also, and starting with this mistake it can never
understand itself. On the one side realistic dogmatism, looking upon the
idea as the effect of the object, desires to separate these two, idea and
object, which are really one, and to assume a cause quite different from
the idea, an object in itself, independent of the subject, a thing which
is quite inconceivable; for even as object it presupposes subject, and so
remains its idea. Opposed to this doctrine is scepticism, which makes the
same false presupposition that in the idea we have only the effect, never
the cause, therefore never real being; that we always know merely the
action of the object. But this object, it supposes, may perhaps have no
resemblance whatever to its effect, may indeed have been quite erroneously
received as the cause, for the law of causality is first to be gathered
from experience, and the reality of experience is then made to rest upon
it. Thus both of these views are open to the correction, firstly, that
object and idea are the same; secondly, that the true being of the object
of perception is its action, that the reality of the thing consists in
this, and the demand for an existence of the object outside the idea of
the subject, and also for an essence of the actual thing different from
its action, has absolutely no meaning, and is a contradiction: and that
the knowledge of the nature of the effect of any perceived object,
exhausts such an object itself, so far as it is object, _i.e._, idea, for
beyond this there is nothing more to be known. So far then, the perceived
world in space and time, which makes itself known as causation alone, is
entirely real, and is throughout simply what it appears to be, and it
appears wholly and without reserve as idea, bound together according to
the law of causality. This is its empirical reality. On the other hand,
all causality is in the understanding alone, and for the understanding.
The whole actual, that is, active world is determined as such through the
understanding, and apart from it is nothing. This, however, is not the
only reason for altogether denying such a reality of the outer world as is
taught by the dogmatist, who explains its reality as its independence of
the subject. We also deny it, because no object apart from a subject can
be conceived without contradiction. The whole world of objects is and
remains idea, and therefore wholly and for ever determined by the subject;
that is to say, it has transcendental ideality. But it is not therefore
illusion or mere appearance; it presents itself as that which it is, idea,
and indeed as a series of ideas of which the common bond is the principle
of sufficient reason. It is according to its inmost meaning quite
comprehensible to the healthy understanding, and speaks a language quite
intelligible to it. To dispute about its reality can only occur to a mind
perverted by over-subtilty, and such discussion always arises from a false
application of the principle of sufficient reason, which binds all ideas
together of whatever kind they may be, but by no means connects them with
the subject, nor yet with a something which is neither subject nor object,
but only the ground of the object; an absurdity, for only objects can be
and always are the ground of objects. If we examine more closely the
source of this question as to the reality of the outer world, we find that
besides the false application of the principle of sufficient reason
generally to what lies beyond its province, a special confusion of its
forms is also involved; for that form which it has only in reference to
concepts or abstract ideas, is applied to perceived ideas, real objects;
and a ground of knowing is demanded of objects, whereas they can have
nothing but a ground of being. Among the abstract ideas, the concepts
united in the judgment, the principle of sufficient reason appears in such
a way that each of these has its worth, its validity, and its whole
existence, here called _truth_, simply and solely through the relation of
the judgment to something outside of it, its ground of knowledge, to which
there must consequently always be a return. Among real objects, ideas of
perception, on the other hand, the principle of sufficient reason appears
not as the principle of the ground of _knowing_, but of _being_, as the
law of causality: every real object has paid its debt to it, inasmuch as
it has come to be, _i.e._, has appeared as the effect of a cause. The
demand for a ground of knowing has therefore here no application and no
meaning, but belongs to quite another class of things. Thus the world of
perception raises in the observer no question or doubt so long as he
remains in contact with it: there is here neither error nor truth, for
these are confined to the province of the abstract—the province of
reflection. But here the world lies open for sense and understanding;
presents itself with naive truth as that which it really is—ideas of
perception which develop themselves according to the law of causality.

So far as we have considered the question of the reality of the outer
world, it arises from a confusion which amounts even to a misunderstanding
of reason itself, and therefore thus far, the question could be answered
only by explaining its meaning. After examination of the whole nature of
the principle of sufficient reason, of the relation of subject and object,
and the special conditions of sense perception, the question itself
disappeared because it had no longer any meaning. There is, however, one
other possible origin of this question, quite different from the purely
speculative one which we have considered, a specially empirical origin,
though the question is always raised from a speculative point of view, and
in this form it has a much more comprehensible meaning than it had in the
first. We have dreams; may not our whole life be a dream? or more exactly:
is there a sure criterion of the distinction between dreams and reality?
between phantasms and real objects? The assertion that what is dreamt is
less vivid and distinct than what we actually perceive is not to the
point, because no one has ever been able to make a fair comparison of the
two; for we can only compare the recollection of a dream with the present
reality. Kant answers the question thus: “The connection of ideas among
themselves, according to the law of causality, constitutes the difference
between real life and dreams.” But in dreams, as well as in real life,
everything is connected individually at any rate, in accordance with the
principle of sufficient reason in all its forms, and this connection is
broken only between life and dreams, or between one dream and another.
Kant’s answer therefore could only run thus:—the _long_ dream (life) has
throughout complete connection according to the principle of sufficient
reason; it has not this connection, however, with _short_ dreams, although
each of these has in itself the same connection: the bridge is therefore
broken between the former and the latter, and on this account we
distinguish them.

But to institute an inquiry according to this criterion, as to whether
something was dreamt or seen, would always be difficult and often
impossible. For we are by no means in a position to trace link by link the
causal connection between any experienced event and the present moment,
but we do not on that account explain it as dreamt. Therefore in real life
we do not commonly employ that method of distinguishing between dreams and
reality. The only sure criterion by which to distinguish them is in fact
the entirely empirical one of awaking, through which at any rate the
causal connection between dreamed events and those of waking life, is
distinctly and sensibly broken off. This is strongly supported by the
remark of Hobbes in the second chapter of Leviathan, that we easily
mistake dreams for reality if we have unintentionally fallen asleep
without taking off our clothes, and much more so when it also happens that
some undertaking or design fills all our thoughts, and occupies our dreams
as well as our waking moments. We then observe the awaking just as little
as the falling asleep, dream and reality run together and become
confounded. In such a case there is nothing for it but the application of
Kant’s criterion; but if, as often happens, we fail to establish by means
of this criterion, either the existence of causal connection with the
present, or the absence of such connection, then it must for ever remain
uncertain whether an event was dreamt or really happened. Here, in fact,
the intimate relationship between life and dreams is brought out very
clearly, and we need not be ashamed to confess it, as it has been
recognised and spoken of by many great men. The Vedas and Puranas have no
better simile than a dream for the whole knowledge of the actual world,
which they call the web of Mâyâ, and they use none more frequently. Plato
often says that men live only in a dream; the philosopher alone strives to
awake himself. Pindar says (ii. η. 135): σκιας οναρ ανθρωπος (umbræ
somnium homo), and Sophocles:—


    Ὀνω γυν ἡμας ουδεν οντας αλλο, πλην
    Σιδωλ᾽ ὁσοιπερ ζωμεν, ὴ κουφην σκιαν.—Ajax, 125.


(Nos enim, quicunque vivimus, nihil aliud esse comperio quam simulacra et
levem umbram.) Beside which most worthily stands Shakespeare:—


          “We are such stuff
    As dreams are made on, and our little life
    Is rounded with a sleep.”—_Tempest_, Act iv. Sc. 1.


Lastly, Calderon was so deeply impressed with this view of life that he
sought to embody it in a kind of metaphysical drama—“Life a Dream.”

After these numerous quotations from the poets, perhaps I also may be
allowed to express myself by a metaphor. Life and dreams are leaves of the
same book. The systematic reading of this book is real life, but when the
reading hours (that is, the day) are over, we often continue idly to turn
over the leaves, and read a page here and there without method or
connection: often one we have read before, sometimes one that is new to
us, but always in the same book. Such an isolated page is indeed out of
connection with the systematic study of the book, but it does not seem so
very different when we remember that the whole continuous perusal begins
and ends just as abruptly, and may therefore be regarded as merely a
larger single page.

Thus although individual dreams are distinguished from real life by the
fact that they do not fit into that continuity which runs through the
whole of experience, and the act of awaking brings this into
consciousness, yet that very continuity of experience belongs to real life
as its form, and the dream on its part can point to a similar continuity
in itself. If, therefore, we consider the question from a point of view
external to both, there is no distinct difference in their nature, and we
are forced to concede to the poets that life is a long dream.

Let us turn back now from this quite independent empirical origin of the
question of the reality of the outer world, to its speculative origin. We
found that this consisted, first, in the false application of the
principle of sufficient reason to the relation of subject and object; and
secondly, in the confusion of its forms, inasmuch as the principle of
sufficient reason of knowing was extended to a province in which the
principle of sufficient reason of being is valid. But the question could
hardly have occupied philosophers so constantly if it were entirely devoid
of all real content, and if some true thought and meaning did not lie at
its heart as its real source. Accordingly, we must assume that when the
element of truth that lies at the bottom of the question first came into
reflection and sought its expression, it became involved in these confused
and meaningless forms and problems. This at least is my opinion, and I
think that the true expression of that inmost meaning of the question,
which it failed to find, is this:—What is this world of perception besides
being my idea? Is that of which I am conscious only as idea, exactly like
my own body, of which I am doubly conscious, in one aspect as _idea_, in
another aspect as _will_? The fuller explanation of this question and its
answer in the affirmative, will form the content of the second book, and
its consequences will occupy the remaining portion of this work.

§ 6. For the present, however, in this first book we consider everything
merely as idea, as object for the subject. And our own body, which is the
starting-point for each of us in our perception of the world, we consider,
like all other real objects, from the side of its knowableness, and in
this regard it is simply an idea. Now the consciousness of every one is in
general opposed to the explanation of objects as mere ideas, and more
especially to the explanation of our bodies as such; for the thing in
itself is known to each of us immediately in so far as it appears as our
own body; but in so far as it objectifies itself in the other objects of
perception, it is known only indirectly. But this abstraction, this
one-sided treatment, this forcible separation of what is essentially and
necessarily united, is only adopted to meet the demands of our argument;
and therefore the disinclination to it must, in the meantime, be
suppressed and silenced by the expectation that the subsequent treatment
will correct the one-sidedness of the present one, and complete our
knowledge of the nature of the world.

At present therefore the body is for us immediate object; that is to say,
that idea which forms the starting-point of the subject’s knowledge;
because the body, with its immediately known changes, precedes the
application of the law of causality, and thus supplies it with its first
data. The whole nature of matter consists, as we have seen, in its causal
action. But cause and effect exist only for the understanding, which is
nothing but their subjective correlative. The understanding, however,
could never come into operation if there were not something else from
which it starts. This is simple sensation—the immediate consciousness of
the changes of the body, by virtue of which it is immediate object. Thus
the possibility of knowing the world of perception depends upon two
conditions; the first, _objectively expressed_, is the power of material
things to act upon each other, to produce changes in each other, without
which common quality of all bodies no perception would be possible, even
by means of the sensibility of the animal body. And if we wish to express
this condition _subjectively_ we say: The understanding first makes
perception possible; for the law of causality, the possibility of effect
and cause, springs only from the understanding, and is valid only for it,
and therefore the world of perception exists only through and for it. The
second condition is the sensibility of animal bodies, or the quality of
being immediate objects of the subject which certain bodies possess. The
mere modification which the organs of sense sustain from without through
their specific affections, may here be called ideas, so far as these
affections produce neither pain nor pleasure, that is, have no immediate
significance for the will, and are yet perceived, exist therefore only for
_knowledge_. Thus far, then, I say that the body is immediately _known_,
is _immediate object_. But the conception of object is not to be taken
here in its fullest sense, for through this immediate knowledge of the
body, which precedes the operation of the understanding, and is mere
sensation, our own body does not exist specifically as _object_, but first
the material things which affect it: for all knowledge of an object
proper, of an idea perceived in space, exists only through and for the
understanding; therefore not before, but only subsequently to its
operation. Therefore the body as object proper, that is, as an idea
perceived in space, is first known indirectly, like all other objects,
through the application of the law of causality to the action of one of
its parts upon another, as, for example, when the eye sees the body or the
hand touches it. Consequently the form of our body does not become known
to us through mere feeling, but only through knowledge, only in idea; that
is to say, only in the brain does our own body first come to appear as
extended, articulate, organic. A man born blind receives this idea only
little by little from the data afforded by touch. A blind man without
hands could never come to know his own form; or at the most could infer
and construct it little by little from the effects of other bodies upon
him. If, then, we call the body an immediate object, we are to be
understood with these reservations.

In other respects, then, according to what has been said, all animal
bodies are immediate objects; that is, starting-points for the subject
which always knows and therefore is never known in its perception of the
world. Thus the distinctive characteristic of animal life is knowledge,
with movement following on motives, which are determined by knowledge,
just as movement following on stimuli is the distinctive characteristic of
plant-life. Unorganised matter, however, has no movement except such as is
produced by causes properly so called, using the term in its narrowest
sense. All this I have thoroughly discussed in my essay on the principle
of sufficient reason, § 20, in the “Ethics,” first essay, iii., and in my
work on Sight and Colour, § 1, to which I therefore refer.

It follows from what has been said, that all animals, even the least
developed, have understanding; for they all know objects, and this
knowledge determines their movements as motive. Understanding is the same
in all animals and in all men; it has everywhere the same simple form;
knowledge of causality, transition from effect to cause, and from cause to
effect, nothing more; but the degree of its acuteness, and the extension
of the sphere of its knowledge varies enormously, with innumerable
gradations from the lowest form, which is only conscious of the causal
connection between the immediate object and objects affecting it—that is
to say, perceives a cause as an object in space by passing to it from the
affection which the body feels, to the higher grades of knowledge of the
causal connection among objects known indirectly, which extends to the
understanding of the most complicated system of cause and effect in
nature. For even this high degree of knowledge is still the work of the
understanding, not of the reason. The abstract concepts of the reason can
only serve to take up the objective connections which are immediately
known by the understanding, to make them permanent for thought, and to
relate them to each other; but reason never gives us immediate knowledge.
Every force and law of nature, every example of such forces and laws, must
first be immediately known by the understanding, must be apprehended
through perception before it can pass into abstract consciousness for
reason. Hooke’s discovery of the law of gravitation, and the reference of
so many important phenomena to this one law, was the work of immediate
apprehension by the understanding; and such also was the proof of Newton’s
calculations, and Lavoisier’s discovery of acids and their important
function in nature, and also Goethe’s discovery of the origin of physical
colours. All these discoveries are nothing more than a correct immediate
passage from the effect to the cause, which is at once followed by the
recognition of the ideality of the force of nature which expresses itself
in all causes of the same kind; and this complete insight is just an
example of that single function of the understanding, by which an animal
perceives as an object in space the cause which affects its body, and
differs from such a perception only in degree. Every one of these great
discoveries is therefore, just like perception, an operation of the
understanding, an immediate intuition, and as such the work of an instant,
an _apperçu_, a flash of insight. They are not the result of a process of
abstract reasoning, which only serves to make the immediate knowledge of
the understanding permanent for thought by bringing it under abstract
concepts, _i.e._, it makes knowledge distinct, it puts us in a position to
impart it and explain it to others. The keenness of the understanding in
apprehending the causal relations of objects which are known indirectly,
does not find its only application in the sphere of natural science
(though all the discoveries in that sphere are due to it), but it also
appears in practical life. It is then called good sense or prudence, as in
its other application it is better called acuteness, penetration,
sagacity. More exactly, good sense or prudence signifies exclusively
understanding at the command of the will. But the limits of these
conceptions must not be too sharply defined, for it is always that one
function of the understanding by means of which all animals perceive
objects in space, which, in its keenest form, appears now in the phenomena
of nature, correctly inferring the unknown causes from the given effects,
and providing the material from which the reason frames general rules as
laws of nature; now inventing complicated and ingenious machines by
adapting known causes to desired effects; now in the sphere of motives,
seeing through and frustrating intrigues and machinations, or fitly
disposing the motives and the men who are susceptible to them, setting
them in motion, as machines are moved by levers and wheels, and directing
them at will to the accomplishment of its ends. Deficiency of
understanding is called _stupidity_. It is just _dulness in applying the
law of causality_, incapacity for the immediate apprehension of the
concatenations of causes and effects, motives and actions. A stupid person
has no insight into the connection of natural phenomena, either when they
follow their own course, or when they are intentionally combined, _i.e._,
are applied to machinery. Such a man readily believes in magic and
miracles. A stupid man does not observe that persons, who apparently act
independently of each other, are really in collusion; he is therefore
easily mystified, and outwitted; he does not discern the hidden motives of
proffered advice or expressions of opinion, &c. But it is always just one
thing that he lacks—keenness, rapidity, ease in applying the law of
causality, _i.e._, power of understanding. The greatest, and, in this
reference, the most instructive example of stupidity I ever met with, was
the case of a totally imbecile boy of about eleven years of age, in an
asylum. He had reason, because he spoke and comprehended, but in respect
of understanding he was inferior to many of the lower animals. Whenever I
visited him he noticed an eye-glass which I wore round my neck, and in
which the window of the room and the tops of the trees beyond were
reflected: on every occasion he was greatly surprised and delighted with
this, and was never tired of looking at it with astonishment, because he
did not understand the immediate causation of reflection.

While the difference in degree of the acuteness of the understanding, is
very great between man and man, it is even greater between one species of
animal and another. In all species of animals, even those which are
nearest to plants, there is at least as much understanding as suffices for
the inference from the effect on the immediate object, to the indirectly
known object as its cause, _i.e._, sufficient for perception, for the
apprehension of an object. For it is this that constitutes them animals,
as it gives them the power of movement following on motives, and thereby
the power of seeking for food, or at least of seizing it; whereas plants
have only movement following on stimuli, whose direct influence they must
await, or else decay, for they cannot seek after them nor appropriate
them. We marvel at the great sagacity of the most developed species of
animals, such as the dog, the elephant, the monkey or the fox, whose
cleverness has been so admirably sketched by Buffon. From these most
sagacious animals, we can pretty accurately determine how far
understanding can go without reason, _i.e._, abstract knowledge embodied
in concepts. We could not find this out from ourselves, for in us
understanding and reason always reciprocally support each other. We find
that the manifestation of understanding in animals is sometimes above our
expectation, and sometimes below it. On the one hand, we are surprised at
the sagacity of the elephant, who, after crossing many bridges during his
journey in Europe, once refused to go upon one, because he thought it was
not strong enough to bear his weight, though he saw the rest of the party,
consisting of men and horses, go upon it as usual. On the other hand, we
wonder that the intelligent Orang-outangs, who warm themselves at a fire
they have found, do not keep it alight by throwing wood on it; a proof
that this requires a deliberation which is not possible without abstract
concepts. It is clear that the knowledge of cause and effect, as the
universal form of understanding, belongs to all animals _a priori_,
because to them as to us it is the prior condition of all perception of
the outer world. If any one desires additional proof of this, let him
observe, for example, how a young dog is afraid to jump down from a table,
however much he may wish to do so, because he foresees the effect of the
weight of his body, though he has not been taught this by experience. In
judging of the understanding of animals, we must guard against ascribing
to it the manifestations of instinct, a faculty which is quite distinct
both from understanding and reason, but the action of which is often very
analogous to the combined action of the two. We cannot, however, discuss
this here; it will find its proper place in the second book, when we
consider the harmony or so-called teleology of nature: and the 27th
chapter of the supplementary volume is expressly devoted to it.

Deficiency of _understanding_ we call _stupidity_: deficiency in the
application of _reason_ to practice we shall recognise later as
_foolishness_: deficiency of judgment as _silliness_, and lastly, partial
or entire deficiency of _memory_ as _madness_. But each of these will be
considered in its own place. That which is correctly known by _reason_ is
_truth_, that is, an abstract judgment on sufficient grounds (Essay on the
Principle of Sufficient Reason, § 29 and following paragraphs); that which
is correctly known by _understanding_ is _reality_, that is correct
inference from effect on the immediate object to its cause. _Error_ is
opposed to _truth_, as deception of the _reason_: _illusion_ is opposed to
_reality_, as deception of the _understanding_. The full discussion of all
this will be found in the first chapter of my essay on Light and Colour.
Illusion takes place when the same effect may be attributed to two causes,
of which one occurs very frequently, the other very seldom; the
understanding having no data to decide which of these two causes operates
in any particular case,—for their effects are exactly alike,—always
assumes the presence of the commoner cause, and as the activity of the
understanding is not reflective and discursive, but direct and immediate,
this false cause appears before us as a perceived object, whereas it is
merely illusion. I have explained in the essay referred to, how in this
way double sight and double feeling take place if the organs of sense are
brought into an unusual position; and have thus given an incontrovertible
proof that perception exists only through and for the understanding. As
additional examples of such illusions or deceptions of the understanding,
we may mention the broken appearance of a stick dipped in water; the
reflections in spherical mirrors, which, when the surface is convex appear
somewhat behind it, and when the surface is concave appear a long way in
front of it. To this class also belongs the apparently greater extension
of the moon at the horizon than at the zenith. This appearance is not
optical, for as the micrometre proves, the eye receives the image of the
moon at the zenith, at an even greater angle of vision than at the
horizon. The mistake is due to the understanding, which assumes that the
cause of the feebler light of the moon and of all stars at the horizon is
that they are further off, thus treating them as earthly objects,
according to the laws of atmospheric perspective, and therefore it takes
the moon to be much larger at the horizon than at the zenith, and also
regards the vault of heaven as more extended or flattened out at the
horizon. The same false application of the laws of atmospheric perspective
leads us to suppose that very high mountains, whose summits alone are
visible in pure transparent air, are much nearer than they really are, and
therefore not so high as they are; for example, Mont Blanc seen from
Salenche. All such illusions are immediately present to us as perceptions,
and cannot be dispelled by any arguments of the reason. Reason can only
prevent error, that is, a judgment on insufficient grounds, by opposing to
it a truth; as for example, the abstract knowledge that the cause of the
weaker light of the moon and the stars at the horizon is not greater
distance, but the denser atmosphere; but in all the cases we have referred
to, the illusion remains in spite of every abstract explanation. For the
understanding is in itself, even in the case of man, irrational, and is
completely and sharply distinguished from the reason, which is a faculty
of knowledge that belongs to man alone. The reason can only _know_;
perception remains free from its influence and belongs to the
understanding alone.

§ 7. With reference to our exposition up to this point, it must be
observed that we did not start either from the object or the subject, but
from the idea, which contains and presupposes them both; for the
antithesis of object and subject is its primary, universal and essential
form. We have therefore first considered this form as such; then (though
in this respect reference has for the most part been made to the
introductory essay) the subordinate forms of time, space and causality.
The latter belong exclusively to the _object_, and yet, as they are
essential to the object _as such_, and as the object again is essential to
the subject _as such_, they may be discovered from the subject, _i.e._,
they may be known _a priori_, and so far they are to be regarded as the
common limits of both. But all these forms may be referred to one general
expression, the principle of sufficient reason, as we have explained in
the introductory essay.

This procedure distinguishes our philosophical method from that of all
former systems. For they all start either from the object or from the
subject, and therefore seek to explain the one from the other, and this
according to the principle of sufficient reason. We, on the contrary, deny
the validity of this principle with reference to the relation of subject
and object, and confine it to the object. It may be thought that the
philosophy of identity, which has appeared and become generally known in
our own day, does not come under either of the alternatives we have named,
for it does not start either from the subject or from the object, but from
the absolute, known through “intellectual intuition,” which is neither
object nor subject, but the identity of the two. I will not venture to
speak of this revered identity, and this absolute, for I find myself
entirely devoid of all “intellectual intuition.” But as I take my stand
merely on those manifestoes of the “intellectual intuiter” which are open
to all, even to profane persons like myself, I must yet observe that this
philosophy is not to be excepted from the alternative errors mentioned
above. For it does not escape these two opposite errors in spite of its
identity of subject and object, which is not thinkable, but only
“intellectually intuitable,” or to be experienced by a losing of oneself
in it. On the contrary, it combines them both in itself; for it is divided
into two parts, firstly, transcendental idealism, which is just Fichte’s
doctrine of the _ego_, and therefore teaches that the object is produced
by the subject, or evolved out of it in accordance with the principle of
sufficient reason; secondly, the philosophy of nature, which teaches that
the subject is produced little by little from the object, by means of a
method called construction, about which I understand very little, yet
enough to know that it is a process according to various forms of the
principle of sufficient reason. The deep wisdom itself which that
construction contains, I renounce; for as I entirely lack “intellectual
intuition,” all those expositions which presuppose it must for me remain
as a book sealed with seven seals. This is so truly the case that, strange
to say, I have always been unable to find anything at all in this doctrine
of profound wisdom but atrocious and wearisome bombast.

The systems starting from the object had always the whole world of
perception and its constitution as their problem; yet the object which
they take as their starting-point is not always this whole world of
perception, nor its fundamental element, matter. On the contrary, a
division of these systems may be made, based on the four classes of
possible objects set forth in the introductory essay. Thus Thales and the
Ionic school, Democritus, Epicurus, Giordano Bruno, and the French
materialists, may be said to have started from the first class of objects,
the real world: Spinoza (on account of his conception of substance, which
is purely abstract, and exists only in his definition) and, earlier, the
Eleatics, from the second class, the abstract conception: the Pythagoreans
and Chinese philosophy in Y-King, from the third class, time, and
consequently number: and, lastly, the schoolmen, who teach a creation out
of nothing by the act of will of an extra-mundane personal being, started
from the fourth class of objects, the act of will directed by knowledge.

Of all systems of philosophy which start from the object, the most
consistent, and that which may be carried furthest, is simple materialism.
It regards matter, and with it time and space, as existing absolutely, and
ignores the relation to the subject in which alone all this really exists.
It then lays hold of the law of causality as a guiding principle or clue,
regarding it as a self-existent order (or arrangement) of things, _veritas
aeterna_, and so fails to take account of the understanding, in which and
for which alone causality is. It seeks the primary and most simple state
of matter, and then tries to develop all the others from it; ascending
from mere mechanism, to chemism, to polarity, to the vegetable and to the
animal kingdom. And if we suppose this to have been done, the last link in
the chain would be animal sensibility—that is knowledge—which would
consequently now appear as a mere modification or state of matter produced
by causality. Now if we had followed materialism thus far with clear
ideas, when we reached its highest point we would suddenly be seized with
a fit of the inextinguishable laughter of the Olympians. As if waking from
a dream, we would all at once become aware that its final
result—knowledge, which it reached so laboriously, was presupposed as the
indispensable condition of its very starting-point, mere matter; and when
we imagined that we thought matter, we really thought only the subject
that perceives matter; the eye that sees it, the hand that feels it, the
understanding that knows it. Thus the tremendous _petitio principii_
reveals itself unexpectedly; for suddenly the last link is seen to be the
starting-point, the chain a circle, and the materialist is like Baron
Münchausen who, when swimming in water on horseback, drew the horse into
the air with his legs, and himself also by his cue. The fundamental
absurdity of materialism is that it starts from the _objective_, and takes
as the ultimate ground of explanation something _objective_, whether it be
matter in the abstract, simply as it is _thought_, or after it has taken
form, is empirically given—that is to say, is _substance_, the chemical
element with its primary relations. Some such thing it takes, as existing
absolutely and in itself, in order that it may evolve organic nature and
finally the knowing subject from it, and explain them adequately by means
of it; whereas in truth all that is objective is already determined as
such in manifold ways by the knowing subject through its forms of knowing,
and presupposes them; and consequently it entirely disappears if we think
the subject away. Thus materialism is the attempt to explain what is
immediately given us by what is given us indirectly. All that is
objective, extended, active—that is to say, all that is material—is
regarded by materialism as affording so solid a basis for its explanation,
that a reduction of everything to this can leave nothing to be desired
(especially if in ultimate analysis this reduction should resolve itself
into action and reaction). But we have shown that all this is given
indirectly and in the highest degree determined, and is therefore merely a
relatively present object, for it has passed through the machinery and
manufactory of the brain, and has thus come under the forms of space, time
and causality, by means of which it is first presented to us as extended
in space and ever active in time. From such an indirectly given object,
materialism seeks to explain what is immediately given, the idea (in which
alone the object that materialism starts with exists), and finally even
the will from which all those fundamental forces, that manifest
themselves, under the guidance of causes, and therefore according to law,
are in truth to be explained. To the assertion that thought is a
modification of matter we may always, with equal right, oppose the
contrary assertion that all matter is merely the modification of the
knowing subject, as its idea. Yet the aim and ideal of all natural science
is at bottom a consistent materialism. The recognition here of the obvious
impossibility of such a system establishes another truth which will appear
in the course of our exposition, the truth that all science properly so
called, by which I understand systematic knowledge under the guidance of
the principle of sufficient reason, can never reach its final goal, nor
give a complete and adequate explanation: for it is not concerned with the
inmost nature of the world, it cannot get beyond the idea; indeed, it
really teaches nothing more than the relation of one idea to another.

Every science must start from two principal data. One of these is always
the principle of sufficient reason in some form or another, as organon;
the other is its special object as problem. Thus, for example, geometry
has space as problem, and the ground of existence in space as organon.
Arithmetic has time as problem, and the ground of existence in time as
organon. Logic has the combination of concepts as such as problem, and the
ground of knowledge as organon. History has the past acts of men treated
as a whole as problem, and the law of human motives as organon. Natural
science has matter as problem, and the law of causality as organon. Its
end and aim is therefore, by the guidance of causality, to refer all
possible states of matter to other states, and ultimately to one single
state; and again to deduce these states from each other, and ultimately
from one single state. Thus two states of matter stand over against each
other in natural science as extremes: that state in which matter is
furthest from being the immediate object of the subject, and that state in
which it is most completely such an immediate object, _i.e._, the most
dead and crude matter, the primary element, as the one extreme, and the
human organism as the other. Natural science as chemistry seeks for the
first, as physiology for the second. But as yet neither extreme has been
reached, and it is only in the intermediate ground that something has been
won. The prospect is indeed somewhat hopeless. The chemists, under the
presupposition that the qualitative division of matter is not, like
quantitative division, an endless process, are always trying to decrease
the number of the elements, of which there are still about sixty; and if
they were to succeed in reducing them to two, they would still try to find
the common root of these. For, on the one hand, the law of homogeneity
leads to the assumption of a primary chemical state of matter, which alone
belongs to matter as such, and precedes all others which are not
essentially matter as such, but merely contingent forms and qualities. On
the other hand, we cannot understand how this one state could ever
experience a chemical change, if there did not exist a second state to
affect it. Thus the same difficulty appears in chemistry which Epicurus
met with in mechanics. For he had to show how the first atom departed from
the original direction of its motion. Indeed this contradiction, which
develops entirely of itself and can neither be escaped nor solved, might
quite properly be set up as a chemical _antinomy_. Thus an antinomy
appears in the one extreme of natural science, and a corresponding one
will appear in the other. There is just as little hope of reaching this
opposite extreme of natural science, for we see ever more clearly that
what is chemical can never be referred to what is mechanical, nor what is
organic to what is chemical or electrical. Those who in our own day are
entering anew on this old, misleading path, will soon slink back silent
and ashamed, as all their predecessors have done before them. We shall
consider this more fully in the second book. Natural science encounters
the difficulties which we have cursorily mentioned, in its own province.
Regarded as philosophy, it would further be materialism; but this, as we
have seen, even at its birth, has death in its heart, because it ignores
the subject and the forms of knowledge, which are presupposed, just as
much in the case of the crudest matter, from which it desires to start, as
in that of the organism, at which it desires to arrive. For, “no object
without a subject,” is the principle which renders all materialism for
ever impossible. Suns and planets without an eye that sees them, and an
understanding that knows them, may indeed be spoken of in words, but for
the idea, these words are absolutely meaningless. On the other hand, the
law of causality and the treatment and investigation of nature which is
based upon it, lead us necessarily to the conclusion that, in time, each
more highly organised state of matter has succeeded a cruder state: so
that the lower animals existed before men, fishes before land animals,
plants before fishes, and the unorganised before all that is organised;
that, consequently, the original mass had to pass through a long series of
changes before the first eye could be opened. And yet, the existence of
this whole world remains ever dependent upon the first eye that opened,
even if it were that of an insect. For such an eye is a necessary
condition of the possibility of knowledge, and the whole world exists only
in and for knowledge, and without it is not even thinkable. The world is
entirely idea, and as such demands the knowing subject as the supporter of
its existence. This long course of time itself, filled with innumerable
changes, through which matter rose from form to form till at last the
first percipient creature appeared,—this whole time itself is only
thinkable in the identity of a consciousness whose succession of ideas,
whose form of knowing it is, and apart from which, it loses all meaning
and is nothing at all. Thus we see, on the one hand, the existence of the
whole world necessarily dependent upon the first conscious being, however
undeveloped it may be; on the other hand, this conscious being just as
necessarily entirely dependent upon a long chain of causes and effects
which have preceded it, and in which it itself appears as a small link.
These two contradictory points of view, to each of which we are led with
the same necessity, we might again call an _antinomy_ in our faculty of
knowledge, and set it up as the counterpart of that which we found in the
first extreme of natural science. The fourfold antinomy of Kant will be
shown, in the criticism of his philosophy appended to this volume, to be a
groundless delusion. But the necessary contradiction which at last
presents itself to us here, finds its solution in the fact that, to use
Kant’s phraseology, time, space, and causality do not belong to the
thing-in-itself, but only to its phenomena, of which they are the form;
which in my language means this: The objective world, the world as idea,
is not the only side of the world, but merely its outward side; and it has
an entirely different side—the side of its inmost nature—its kernel—the
thing-in-itself. This we shall consider in the second book, calling it
after the most immediate of its objective manifestations—will. But the
world as idea, with which alone we are here concerned, only appears with
the opening of the first eye. Without this medium of knowledge it cannot
be, and therefore it was not before it. But without that eye, that is to
say, outside of knowledge, there was also no before, no time. Thus time
has no beginning, but all beginning is in time. Since, however, it is the
most universal form of the knowable, in which all phenomena are united
together through causality, time, with its infinity of past and future, is
present in the beginning of knowledge. The phenomenon which fills the
first present must at once be known as causally bound up with and
dependent upon a sequence of phenomena which stretches infinitely into the
past, and this past itself is just as truly conditioned by this first
present, as conversely the present is by the past. Accordingly the past
out of which the first present arises, is, like it, dependent upon the
knowing subject, without which it is nothing. It necessarily happens,
however, that this first present does not manifest itself as the first,
that is, as having no past for its parent, but as being the beginning of
time. It manifests itself rather as the consequence of the past, according
to the principle of existence in time. In the same way, the phenomena
which fill this first present appear as the effects of earlier phenomena
which filled the past, in accordance with the law of causality. Those who
like mythological interpretations may take the birth of Kronos (χρονος),
the youngest of the Titans, as a symbol of the moment here referred to at
which time appears, though, indeed it has no beginning; for with him,
since he ate his father, the crude productions of heaven and earth cease,
and the races of gods and men appear upon the scene.

This explanation at which we have arrived by following the most consistent
of the philosophical systems which start from the object, materialism, has
brought out clearly the inseparable and reciprocal dependence of subject
and object, and at the same time the inevitable antithesis between them.
And this knowledge leads us to seek for the inner nature of the world, the
thing-in-itself, not in either of the two elements of the idea, but in
something quite distinct from it, and which is not encumbered with such a
fundamental and insoluble antithesis.

Opposed to the system we have explained, which starts from the object in
order to derive the subject from it, is the system which starts from the
subject and tries to derive the object from it. The first of these has
been of frequent and common occurrence throughout the history of
philosophy, but of the second we find only one example, and that a very
recent one; the “philosophy of appearance” of J. G. Fichte. In this
respect, therefore, it must be considered; little real worth or inner
meaning as the doctrine itself had. It was indeed for the most part merely
a delusion, but it was delivered with an air of the deepest earnestness,
with sustained loftiness of tone and zealous ardour, and was defended with
eloquent polemic against weak opponents, so that it was able to present a
brilliant exterior and seemed to be something. But the genuine earnestness
which keeps truth always steadfastly before it as its goal, and is
unaffected by any external influences, was entirely wanting to Fichte, as
it is to all philosophers who, like him, concern themselves with questions
of the day. In his case, indeed, it could not have been otherwise. A man
becomes a philosopher by reason of a certain perplexity, from which he
seeks to free himself. This is Plato’s θαυμαξειν, which he calls a μαλα
φιλοσοφικον παθος. But what distinguishes the false philosopher from the
true is this: the perplexity of the latter arises from the contemplation
of the world itself, while that of the former results from some book, some
system of philosophy which is before him. Now Fichte belongs to the class
of the false philosophers. He was made a philosopher by Kant’s doctrine of
the thing-in-itself, and if it had not been for this he would probably
have pursued entirely different ends, with far better results, for he
certainly possessed remarkable rhetorical talent. If he had only
penetrated somewhat deeply into the meaning of the book that made him a
philosopher, “The Critique of Pure Reason,” he would have understood that
its principal teaching about mind is this. The principle of sufficient
reason is not, as all scholastic philosophy maintains, a _veritas
aeterna_—that is to say, it does not possess an unconditioned validity
before, outside of, and above the world. It is relative and conditioned,
and valid only in the sphere of phenomena, and thus it may appear as the
necessary nexus of space and time, or as the law of causality, or as the
law of the ground of knowledge. The inner nature of the world, the
thing-in-itself can never be found by the guidance of this principle, for
all that it leads to will be found to be dependent and relative and merely
phenomenal, not the thing-in-itself. Further, it does not concern the
subject, but is only the form of objects, which are therefore not
things-in-themselves. The subject must exist along with the object, and
the object along with the subject, so that it is impossible that subject
and object can stand to each other in a relation of reason and consequent.
But Fichte did not take up the smallest fragment of all this. All that
interested him about the matter was that the system started from the
subject. Now Kant had chosen this procedure in order to show the fallacy
of the prevalent systems, which started from the object, and through which
the object had come, to be regarded as a thing-in-itself. Fichte, however,
took this departure from the subject for the really important matter, and
like all imitators, he imagined that in going further than Kant he was
surpassing him. Thus he repeated the fallacy with regard to the subject,
which all the previous dogmatism had perpetrated with regard to the
object, and which had been the occasion of Kant’s “Critique”. Fichte then
made no material change, and the fundamental fallacy, the assumption of a
relation of reason and consequent between object and subject, remained
after him as it was before him. The principle of sufficient reason
possessed as before an unconditioned validity, and the only difference was
that the thing-in-itself was now placed in the subject instead of, as
formerly, in the object. The entire relativity of both subject and object,
which proves that the thing-in-itself, or the inner nature of the world,
is not to be sought in them at all, but outside of them, and outside
everything else that exists merely relatively, still remained unknown.
Just as if Kant had never existed, the principle of sufficient reason is
to Fichte precisely what it was to all the schoolmen, a _veritas aeterna_.
As an eternal fate reigned over the gods of old, so these _aeternæ
veritates_, these metaphysical, mathematical and metalogical truths, and
in the case of some, the validity of the moral law also, reigned over the
God of the schoolmen. These _veritates_ alone were independent of
everything, and through their necessity both God and the world existed.
According to the principle of sufficient reason, as such a _veritas
aeterna_, the _ego_ is for Fichte the ground of the world, or of the
_non-ego_, the object, which is just its consequent, its creation. He has
therefore taken good care to avoid examining further or limiting the
principle of sufficient reason. If, however, it is thought I should
specify the form of the principle of sufficient reason under the guidance
of which Fichte derives the _non-ego_ from the _ego_, as a spider spins
its web out of itself, I find that it is the principle of sufficient
reason of existence in space: for it is only as referred to this that some
kind of meaning and sense can be attached to the laboured deductions of
the way in which the _ego_ produces and fabricates the _non-ego_ from
itself, which form the content of the most senseless, and consequently the
most wearisome book that was ever written. This philosophy of Fichte,
otherwise not worth mentioning, is interesting to us only as the tardy
expression of the converse of the old materialism. For materialism was the
most consistent system starting from the object, as this is the most
consistent system starting from the subject. Materialism overlooked the
fact that, with the simplest object, it assumed the subject also; and
Fichte overlooked the fact that with the subject (whatever he may call it)
he assumed the object also, for no subject is thinkable without an object.
Besides this he forgot that all _a priori_ deduction, indeed all
demonstration in general, must rest upon some necessity, and that all
necessity is based on the principle of sufficient reason, because to be
necessary, and to follow from given grounds are convertible
conceptions.(10) But the principle of sufficient reason is just the
universal form of the object as such. Thus it is in the object, but is not
valid before and outside of it; it first produces the object and makes it
appear in conformity with its regulative principle. We see then that the
system which starts from the subject contains the same fallacy as the
system, explained above, which starts from the object; it begins by
assuming what it proposes to deduce, the necessary correlative of its
starting-point.

The method of our own system is _toto genere_ distinct from these two
opposite misconceptions, for we start neither from the object nor from the
subject, but from the _idea_, as the first fact of consciousness. Its
first essential, fundamental form is the antithesis of subject and object.
The form of the object again is the principle of sufficient reason in its
various forms. Each of these reigns so absolutely in its own class of
ideas that, as we have seen, when the special form of the principle of
sufficient reason which governs any class of ideas is known, the nature of
the whole class is known also: for the whole class, as idea, is no more
than this form of the principle of sufficient reason itself; so that time
itself is nothing but the principle of existence in it, _i.e._,
succession; space is nothing but the principle of existence in it, _i.e._,
position; matter is nothing but causality; the concept (as will appear
immediately) is nothing but relation to a ground of knowledge. This
thorough and consistent relativity of the world as idea, both according to
its universal form (subject and object), and according to the form which
is subordinate to this (the principle of sufficient reason) warns us, as
we said before, to seek the inner nature of the world in an aspect of it
which is _quite different and quite distinct from the idea_; and in the
next book we shall find this in a fact which is just as immediate to every
living being as the idea.

But we must first consider that class of ideas which belongs to man alone.
The matter of these is the concept, and the subjective correlative is
reason, just as the subjective correlative of the ideas we have already
considered was understanding and sensibility, which are also to be
attributed to all the lower animals.(11)

§ 8. As from the direct light of the sun to the borrowed light of the
moon, we pass from the immediate idea of perception, which stands by
itself and is its own warrant, to reflection, to the abstract, discursive
concepts of the reason, which obtain their whole content from knowledge of
perception, and in relation to it. As long as we continue simply to
perceive, all is clear, firm, and certain. There are neither questions nor
doubts nor errors; we desire to go no further, can go no further; we find
rest in perceiving, and satisfaction in the present. Perception suffices
for itself, and therefore what springs purely from it, and remains true to
it, for example, a genuine work of art, can never be false, nor can it be
discredited through the lapse of time, for it does not present an opinion
but the thing itself. But with abstract knowledge, with reason, doubt and
error appear in the theoretical, care and sorrow in the practical. In the
idea of perception, illusion may at moments take the place of the real;
but in the sphere of abstract thought, error may reign for a thousand
years, impose its yoke upon whole nations, extend to the noblest impulses
of humanity, and, by the help of its slaves and its dupes, may chain and
fetter those whom it cannot deceive. It is the enemy against which the
wisest men of all times have waged unequal war, and only what they have
won from it has become the possession of mankind. Therefore it is well to
draw attention to it at once, as we already tread the ground to which its
province belongs. It has often been said that we ought to follow truth
even although no utility can be seen in it, because it may have indirect
utility which may appear when it is least expected; and I would add to
this, that we ought to be just as anxious to discover and to root out all
error even when no harm is anticipated from it, because its mischief may
be very indirect, and may suddenly appear when we do not expect it, for
all error has poison at its heart. If it is mind, if it is knowledge, that
makes man the lord of creation, there can be no such thing as harmless
error, still less venerable and holy error. And for the consolation of
those who in any way and at any time may have devoted strength and life to
the noble and hard battle against error, I cannot refrain from adding
that, so long as truth is absent, error will have free play, as owls and
bats in the night; but sooner would we expect to see the owls and the bats
drive back the sun in the eastern heavens, than that any truth which has
once been known and distinctly and fully expressed, can ever again be so
utterly vanquished and overcome that the old error shall once more reign
undisturbed over its wide kingdom. This is the power of truth; its
conquest is slow and laborious, but if once the victory be gained it can
never be wrested back again.

Besides the ideas we have as yet considered, which, according to their
construction, could be referred to time, space, and matter, if we consider
them with reference to the object, or to pure sensibility and
understanding (_i.e._, knowledge of causality), if we consider them with
reference to the subject, another faculty of knowledge has appeared in man
alone of all earthly creatures, an entirely new consciousness, which, with
very appropriate and significant exactness, is called _reflection_. For it
is in fact derived from the knowledge of perception, and is a reflected
appearance of it. But it has assumed a nature fundamentally different. The
forms of perception do not affect it, and even the principle of sufficient
reason which reigns over all objects has an entirely different aspect with
regard to it. It is just this new, more highly endowed, consciousness,
this abstract reflex of all that belongs to perception in that conception
of the reason which has nothing to do with perception, that gives to man
that thoughtfulness which distinguishes his consciousness so entirely from
that of the lower animals, and through which his whole behaviour upon
earth is so different from that of his irrational fellow-creatures. He far
surpasses them in power and also in suffering. They live in the present
alone, he lives also in the future and the past. They satisfy the needs of
the moment, he provides by the most ingenious preparations for the future,
yea for days that he shall never see. They are entirely dependent on the
impression of the moment, on the effect of the perceptible motive; he is
determined by abstract conceptions independent of the present. Therefore
he follows predetermined plans, he acts from maxims, without reference to
his surroundings or the accidental impression of the moment. Thus, for
example, he can make with composure deliberate preparations for his own
death, he can dissemble past finding out, and can carry his secret with
him to the grave; lastly, he has an actual choice between several motives;
for only in the abstract can such motives, present together in
consciousness, afford the knowledge with regard to themselves, that the
one excludes the other, and can thus measure themselves against each other
with reference to their power over the will. The motive that overcomes, in
that it decides the question at issue, is the deliberate determinant of
the will, and is a sure indication of its character. The brute, on the
other hand, is determined by the present impression; only the fear of
present compulsion can constrain its desires, until at last this fear has
become custom, and as such continues to determine it; this is called
training. The brute feels and perceives; man, in addition to this,
_thinks_ and _knows_: both _will_. The brute expresses its feelings and
dispositions by gestures and sounds; man communicates his thought to
others, or, if he wishes, he conceals it, by means of speech. Speech is
the first production, and also the necessary organ of his reason.
Therefore in Greek and Italian, speech and reason are expressed by the
same word; ὁ λογος, _il discorso_. _Vernunft_ is derived from _vernehmen_,
which is not a synonym for the verb to hear, but signifies the
consciousness of the meaning of thoughts communicated in words. It is by
the help of language alone that reason accomplishes its most important
achievements,—the united action of several individuals, the planned
co-operation of many thousands, civilisation, the state; also science, the
storing up of experience, the uniting of common properties in one concept,
the communication of truth, the spread of error, thoughts and poems,
dogmas and superstitions. The brute first knows death when it dies, but
man draws consciously nearer to it every hour that he lives; and this
makes life at times a questionable good even to him who has not recognised
this character of constant annihilation in the whole of life. Principally
on this account man has philosophies and religions, though it is uncertain
whether the qualities we admire most in his conduct, voluntary rectitude
and nobility of feeling, were ever the fruit of either of them. As results
which certainly belong only to them, and as productions of reason in this
sphere, we may refer to the marvellous and monstrous opinions of
philosophers of various schools, and the extraordinary and sometimes cruel
customs of the priests of different religions.

It is the universal opinion of all times and of all nations that these
manifold and far-reaching achievements spring from a common principle,
from that peculiar intellectual power which belongs distinctively to man
and which has been called reason, ὁ λογος, το λογιστικον, το λογιμον,
_ratio_. Besides this, no one finds any difficulty in recognising the
manifestations of this faculty, and in saying what is rational and what is
irrational, where reason appears as distinguished from the other faculties
and qualities of man, or lastly, in pointing out what, on account of the
want of reason, we must never expect even from the most sensible brute.
The philosophers of all ages may be said to be on the whole at one about
this general knowledge of reason, and they have also given prominence to
several very important manifestations of it; such as, the control of the
emotions and passions, the capacity for drawing conclusions and
formulating general principles, even such as are true prior to all
experience, and so forth. Still all their explanations of the peculiar
nature of reason are wavering, not clearly defined, discursive, without
unity and concentration; now laying stress on one manifestation, now on
another, and therefore often at variance with each other. Besides this,
many start from the opposition between reason and revelation, a
distinction which is unknown to philosophy, and which only increases
confusion. It is very remarkable that up till now no philosopher has
referred these manifold expressions of reason to one simple function which
would be recognised in them all, from which they would all be explained,
and which would therefore constitute the real inner nature of reason. It
is true that the excellent Locke in the “Essay on the Human Understanding”
(Book II., ch. xi., §§ 10 and 11), very rightly refers to general concepts
as the characteristic which distinguishes man from the brutes, and
Leibnitz quotes this with full approval in the “Nouveaux Essais sur
l’Entendement Humaine” (Book II., ch. xi., §§ 10 and 11.) But when Locke
(in Book IV., ch. xvii., §§ 2 and 3) comes to the special explanation of
reason he entirely loses sight of this simple, primary characteristic, and
he also falls into a wavering, undetermined, incomplete account of mangled
and derivative manifestations of it. Leibnitz also, in the corresponding
part of his work, behaves in a similar manner, only with more confusion
and indistinctness. In the Appendix, I have fully considered how Kant
confused and falsified the conception of the nature of reason. But whoever
will take the trouble to go through in this reference the mass of
philosophical writing which has appeared since Kant, will find out, that
just as the faults of princes must be expiated by whole nations, the
errors of great minds extend their influence over whole generations, and
even over centuries; they grow and propagate themselves, and finally
degenerate into monstrosities. All this arises from the fact that, as
Berkeley says, “Few men think; yet all will have opinions.”

The understanding has only one function—immediate knowledge of the
relation of cause and effect. Yet the perception of the real world, and
all common sense, sagacity, and inventiveness, however multifarious their
applications may be, are quite clearly seen to be nothing more than
manifestations of that one function. So also the reason has one function;
and from it all the manifestations of reason we have mentioned, which
distinguish the life of man from that of the brutes, may easily be
explained. The application or the non-application of this function is all
that is meant by what men have everywhere and always called rational and
irrational.(12)

§ 9. Concepts form a distinct class of ideas, existing only in the mind of
man, and entirely different from the ideas of perception which we have
considered up till now. We can therefore never attain to a sensuous and,
properly speaking, evident knowledge of their nature, but only to a
knowledge which is abstract and discursive. It would, therefore, be absurd
to demand that they should be verified in experience, if by experience is
meant the real external world, which consists of ideas of perception, or
that they should be brought before the eyes or the imagination like
objects of perception. They can only be thought, not perceived, and only
the effects which men accomplish through them are properly objects of
experience. Such effects are language, preconceived and planned action and
science, and all that results from these. Speech, as an object of outer
experience, is obviously nothing more than a very complete telegraph,
which communicates arbitrary signs with the greatest rapidity and the
finest distinctions of difference. But what do these signs mean? How are
they interpreted? When some one speaks, do we at once translate his words
into pictures of the fancy, which instantaneously flash upon us, arrange
and link themselves together, and assume form and colour according to the
words that are poured forth, and their grammatical inflections? What a
tumult there would be in our brains while we listened to a speech, or to
the reading of a book? But what actually happens is not this at all. The
meaning of a speech is, as a rule, immediately grasped, accurately and
distinctly taken in, without the imagination being brought into play. It
is reason which speaks to reason, keeping within its own province. It
communicates and receives abstract conceptions, ideas that cannot be
presented in perceptions, which are framed once for all, and are
relatively few in number, but which yet encompass, contain, and represent
all the innumerable objects of the actual world. This itself is sufficient
to prove that the lower animals can never learn to speak or comprehend,
although they have the organs of speech and ideas of perception in common
with us. But because words represent this perfectly distinct class of
ideas, whose subjective correlative is reason, they are without sense and
meaning for the brutes. Thus language, like every other manifestation
which we ascribe to reason, and like everything which distinguishes man
from the brutes, is to be explained from this as its one simple
source—conceptions, abstract ideas which cannot be presented in
perception, but are general, and have no individual existence in space and
time. Only in single cases do we pass from the conception to the
perception, do we construct images as _representatives of concepts_ in
perception, to which, however, they are never adequate. These cases are
fully discussed in the essay on the principle of sufficient reason, § 28,
and therefore I shall not repeat my explanation here. It may be compared,
however, with what is said by Hume in the twelfth of his “Philosophical
Essays,” p. 244, and by Herder in the “Metacritik,” pt. i. p. 274 (an
otherwise worthless book). The Platonic idea, the possibility of which
depends upon the union of imagination and reason, is the principal subject
of the third book of this work.

Although concepts are fundamentally different from ideas of perception,
they stand in a necessary relation to them, without which they would be
nothing. This relation therefore constitutes the whole nature and
existence of concepts. Reflection is the necessary copy or repetition of
the originally presented world of perception, but it is a special kind of
copy in an entirely different material. Thus concepts may quite properly
be called ideas of ideas. The principle of sufficient reason has here also
a special form. Now we have seen that the form under which the principle
of sufficient reason appears in a class of ideas always constitutes and
exhausts the whole nature of the class, so far as it consists of ideas, so
that time is throughout succession, and nothing more; space is throughout
position, and nothing more; matter is throughout causation, and nothing
more. In the same way the whole nature of concepts, or the class of
abstract ideas, consists simply in the relation which the principle of
sufficient reason expresses in them; and as this is the relation to the
ground of knowledge, the whole nature of the abstract idea is simply and
solely its relation to another idea, which is its ground of knowledge.
This, indeed, may, in the first instance, be a concept, an abstract idea,
and this again may have only a similar abstract ground of knowledge; but
the chain of grounds of knowledge does not extend _ad infinitum_; it must
end at last in a concept which has its ground in knowledge of perception;
for the whole world of reflection rests on the world of perception as its
ground of knowledge. Hence the class of abstract ideas is in this respect
distinguished from other classes; in the latter the principle of
sufficient reason always demands merely a relation to another idea of the
_same_ class, but in the case of abstract ideas, it at last demands a
relation to an idea of _another_ class.

Those concepts which, as has just been pointed out, are not immediately
related to the world of perception, but only through the medium of one, or
it may be several other concepts, have been called by preference
_abstracta_, and those which have their ground immediately in the world of
perception have been called _concreta_. But this last name is only loosely
applicable to the concepts denoted by it, for they are always merely
_abstracta_, and not ideas of perception. These names, which have
originated in a very dim consciousness of the distinctions they imply, may
yet, with this explanation, be retained. As examples of the first kind of
concepts, _i.e._, _abstracta_ in the fullest sense, we may take
“relation,” “virtue,” “investigation,” “beginning,” and so on. As examples
of the second kind, loosely called _concreta_, we may take such concepts
as “man,” “stone,” “horse,” &c. If it were not a somewhat too pictorial
and therefore absurd simile, we might very appropriately call the latter
the ground floor, and the former the upper stories of the building of
reflection.(13)

It is not, as is commonly supposed, an essential characteristic of a
concept that it should contain much under it, that is to say, that many
ideas of perception, or it may be other abstract ideas, should stand to it
in the relation of its ground of knowledge, _i.e._, be thought through it.
This is merely a derived and secondary characteristic, and, as a matter of
fact, does not always exist, though it must always exist potentially. This
characteristic arises from the fact that a concept is an idea of an idea,
_i.e._, its whole nature consists in its relation to another idea; but as
it is not this idea itself, which is generally an idea of perception and
therefore belongs to quite a different class, the latter may have
temporal, spacial, and other determinations, and in general many relations
which are not thought along with it in the concept. Thus we see that
several ideas which are different in unessential particulars may be
thought by means of one concept, _i.e._, may be brought under it. Yet this
power of embracing several things is not an essential but merely an
accidental characteristic of the concept. There may be concepts through
which only one real object is thought, but which are nevertheless abstract
and general, by no means capable of presentation individually and as
perceptions. Such, for example, is the conception which any one may have
of a particular town which he only knows from geography; although only
this one town is thought under it, it might yet be applied to several
towns differing in certain respects. We see then that a concept is not
general because of being abstracted from several objects; but conversely,
because generality, that is to say, non-determination of the particular,
belongs to the concept as an abstract idea of the reason, different things
can be thought by means of the same one.

It follows from what has been said that every concept, just because it is
abstract and incapable of presentation in perception, and is therefore not
a completely determined idea, has what is called extension or sphere, even
in the case in which only one real object exists that corresponds to it.
Now we always find that the sphere of one concept has something in common
with the sphere of other concepts. That is to say, part of what is thought
under one concept is the same as what is thought under other concepts; and
conversely, part of what is thought under these concepts is the same as
what is thought under the first; although, if they are really different
concepts, each of them, or at least one of them, contains something which
the other does not contain; this is the relation in which every subject
stands to its predicate. The recognition of this relation is called
judgment. The representation of these spheres by means of figures in
space, is an exceedingly happy idea. It first occurred to Gottfried
Plouquet, who used squares for the purpose. Lambert, although later than
him, used only lines, which he placed under each other. Euler carried out
the idea completely with circles. Upon what this complete analogy between
the relations of concepts, and those of figures in space, ultimately
rests, I am unable to say. It is, however, a very fortunate circumstance
for logic that all the relations of concepts, according to their
possibility, _i.e._, _a priori_, may be made plain in perception by the
use of such figures, in the following way:—

(1.) The spheres of two concepts coincide: for example the concept of
necessity and the concept of following from given grounds, in the same way
the concepts of _Ruminantia_ and _Bisulca_ (ruminating and cloven-hoofed
animals), also those of vertebrate and red-blooded animals (although there
might be some doubt about this on account of the annelida): they are
convertible concepts. Such concepts are represented by a single circle
which stands for either of them.

(2.) The sphere of one concept includes that of the other.

        [Illustration: Category "horse" within category "animal".]

(3.) A sphere includes two or more spheres which exclude each other and
fill it.

[Illustration: Circle divided into thirds "right", "acute", and "obtuse".]

(4.) Two spheres include each a part of the other.

   [Illustration: Two overlapping circles, one "flower" and one "red".]

(5.) Two spheres lie in a third, but do not fill it.

   [Illustration: A large circle, "matter", within which are two other
                      circles, "water" and "earth".]

This last case applies to all concepts whose spheres have nothing
immediately in common, for there is always a third sphere, often a much
wider one, which includes both.

To these cases all combinations of concepts may be referred, and from them
the entire doctrine of the judgment, its conversion, contraposition,
equipollence, disjunction (this according to the third figure) may be
deduced. From these also may be derived the properties of the judgment,
upon which Kant based his pretended categories of the understanding, with
the exception however of the hypothetical form, which is not a combination
of concepts, but of judgments. A full account is given in the Appendix of
“Modality,” and indeed of every property of judgments on which the
categories are founded.

With regard to the possible combinations of concepts which we have given,
it has only further to be remarked that they may also be combined with
each other in many ways. For example, the fourth figure with the second.
Only if one sphere, which partly or wholly contains another, is itself
contained in a third sphere, do these together exemplify the syllogism in
the first figure, _i.e._, that combination of judgments, by means of which
it is known that a concept which is partly or wholly contained in another
concept, is also contained in a third concept, which again contains the
first: and also, conversely, the negation; the pictorial representation of
which can, of course, only be two connected spheres which do not lie
within a third sphere. If many spheres are brought together in this way we
get a long train of syllogisms. This schematism of concepts, which has
already been fairly well explained in more than one textbook, may be used
as the foundation of the doctrine of the judgment, and indeed of the whole
syllogistic theory, and in this way the treatment of both becomes very
easy and simple. Because, through it, all syllogistic rules may be seen in
their origin, and may be deduced and explained. It is not necessary,
however, to load the memory with these rules, as logic is never of
practical use, but has only a theoretical interest for philosophy. For
although it may be said that logic is related to rational thinking as
thorough-bass is to music, or less exactly, as ethics is to virtue, or
æsthetics to art; we must yet remember that no one ever became an artist
by the study of æsthetics; that a noble character was never formed by the
study of ethics; that long before Rameau, men composed correctly and
beautifully, and that we do not need to know thorough-bass in order to
detect discords: and just as little do we need to know logic in order to
avoid being misled by fallacies. Yet it must be conceded that
thorough-bass is of the greatest use in the practice of musical
composition, although it may not be necessary for the understanding of it;
and indeed æsthetics and even ethics, though in a much less degree, and
for the most part negatively, may be of some use in practice, so that we
cannot deny them all practical worth, but of logic even this much cannot
be conceded. It is nothing more than the knowledge in the abstract of what
every one knows in the concrete. Therefore we call in the aid of logical
rules, just as little to enable us to construct a correct argument as to
prevent us from consenting to a false one, and the most learned logician
lays aside the rules of logic altogether in his actual thought. This may
be explained in the following way. Every science is a system of general
and therefore abstract truths, laws, and rules with reference to a special
class of objects. The individual case coming under these laws is
determined in accordance with this general knowledge, which is valid once
for all; because such application of the general principle is far easier
than the exhaustive investigation of the particular case; for the general
abstract knowledge which has once been obtained is always more within our
reach than the empirical investigation of the particular case. With logic,
however, it is just the other way. It is the general knowledge of the mode
of procedure of the reason expressed in the form of rules. It is reached
by the introspection of reason, and by abstraction from all content. But
this mode of procedure is necessary and essential to reason, so that it
will never depart from it if left to itself. It is, therefore, easier and
surer to let it proceed itself according to its nature in each particular
case, than to present to it the knowledge abstracted from this procedure
in the form of a foreign and externally given law. It is easier, because,
while in the case of all other sciences, the general rule is more within
our reach than the investigation of the particular case taken by itself;
with the use of reason, on the contrary, its necessary procedure in a
given case is always more within our reach than the general rule
abstracted from it; for that which thinks in us is reason itself. It is
surer, because a mistake may more easily occur in such abstract knowledge,
or in its application, than that a process of reason should take place
which would run contrary to its essence and nature. Hence arises the
remarkable fact, that while in other sciences the particular case is
always proved by the rule, in logic, on the contrary, the rule must always
be proved from the particular case; and even the most practised logician,
if he remark that in some particular case he concludes otherwise than the
rule prescribes, will always expect to find a mistake in the rule rather
than in his own conclusion. To desire to make practical use of logic
means, therefore, to desire to derive with unspeakable trouble, from
general rules, that which is immediately known with the greatest certainty
in the particular case. It is just as if a man were to consult mechanics
as to the motion of his body, and physiology as to his digestion; and
whoever has learnt logic for practical purposes is like him who would
teach a beaver to make its own dam. Logic is, therefore, without practical
utility; but it must nevertheless be retained, because it has
philosophical interest as the special knowledge of the organisation and
action of reason. It is rightly regarded as a definite, self-subsisting,
self-contained, complete, and thoroughly safe discipline; to be treated
scientifically for itself alone and independently of everything else, and
therefore to be studied at the universities. But it has its real value, in
relation to philosophy as a whole, in the inquiry into the nature of
knowledge, and indeed of rational and abstract knowledge. Therefore the
exposition of logic should not have so much the form of a practical
science, should not contain merely naked arbitrary rules for the correct
formation of the judgment, the syllogism, &c., but should rather be
directed to the knowledge of the nature of reason and the concept, and to
the detailed investigation of the principle of sufficient reason of
knowing. For logic is only a paraphrase of this principle, and, more
exactly, only of that exemplification of it in which the ground that gives
truth to the judgment is neither empirical nor metaphysical, but logical
or metalogical. Besides the principle of sufficient reason of knowing, it
is necessary to take account of the three remaining fundamental laws of
thought, or judgments of metalogical truth, so nearly related to it; and
out of these the whole science of reason grows. The nature of thought
proper, that is to say, of the judgment and the syllogism, must be
exhibited in the combination of the spheres of concepts, according to the
analogy of the special schema, in the way shown above; and from all this
the rules of the judgment and the syllogism are to be deduced by
construction. The only practical use we can make of logic is in a debate,
when we can convict our antagonist of his intentional fallacies, rather
than of his actual mistakes, by giving them their technical names. By thus
throwing into the background the practical aim of logic, and bringing out
its connection with the whole scheme of philosophy as one of its chapters,
we do not think that we shall make the study of it less prevalent than it
is just now. For at the present day every one who does not wish to remain
uncultured, and to be numbered with the ignorant and incompetent
multitude, must study speculative philosophy. For the nineteenth century
is a philosophical age, though by this we do not mean either that it has
philosophy, or that philosophy governs it, but rather that it is ripe for
philosophy, and, therefore, stands in need of it. This is a sign of a high
degree of civilisation, and indeed, is a definite stage in the culture of
the ages.(14)

Though logic is of so little practical use, it cannot be denied that it
was invented for practical purposes. It appears to me to have originated
in the following way:—As the love of debating developed among the
Eleatics, the Megarics, and the Sophists, and by degrees became almost a
passion, the confusion in which nearly every debate ended must have made
them feel the necessity of a method of procedure as a guide; and for this
a scientific dialectic had to be sought. The first thing which would have
to be observed would be that both the disputing parties should always be
agreed on some one proposition, to which the disputed points might be
referred. The beginning of the methodical procedure consisted in this,
that the propositions admitted on both sides were formally stated to be
so, and placed at the head of the inquiry. But these propositions were at
first concerned only with the material of the inquiry. It was soon
observed that in the process of going back to the truth admitted on both
sides, and of deducing their assertions from it, each party followed
certain forms and laws about which, without any express agreement, there
was no difference of opinion. And from this it became evident that these
must constitute the peculiar and natural procedure of reason itself, the
form of investigation. Although this was not exposed to any doubt or
difference of opinion, some pedantically systematic philosopher hit upon
the idea that it would look well, and be the completion of the method of
dialectic, if this formal part of all discussion, this regular procedure
of reason itself, were to be expressed in abstract propositions, just like
the substantial propositions admitted on both sides, and placed at the
beginning of every investigation, as the fixed canon of debate to which
reference and appeal must always be made. In this way what had formerly
been followed only by tacit agreement, and instinctively, would be
consciously recognised and formally expressed. By degrees, more or less
perfect expressions were found for the fundamental principles of logic,
such as the principles of contradiction, sufficient reason, excluded
middle, the _dictum de omni et nullo_, as well as the special rules of the
syllogism, as for example, _ex meris particularibus aut negativis nihil
sequitur, a rationato ad rationem non valet consequentia_, and so on. That
all this was only brought about slowly, and with great pains, and up till
the time of Aristotle remained very incomplete, is evident from the
awkward and tedious way in which logical truths are brought out in many of
the Platonic dialogues, and still more from what Sextus Empiricus tells us
of the controversies of the Megarics, about the easiest and simplest
logical rules, and the laborious way in which they were brought into a
definite form (Sext. Emp. adv. Math. l. 8, p. 112). But Aristotle
collected, arranged, and corrected all that had been discovered before his
time, and brought it to an incomparably greater state of perfection. If we
thus observe how the course of Greek culture had prepared the way for, and
led up to the work of Aristotle, we shall be little inclined to believe
the assertion of the Persian author, quoted by Sir William Jones with much
approval, that Kallisthenes found a complete system of logic among the
Indians, and sent it to his uncle Aristotle (Asiatic Researches, vol. iv.
p. 163). It is easy to understand that in the dreary middle ages the
Aristotelian logic would be very acceptable to the controversial spirit of
the schoolmen, which, in the absence of all real knowledge, spent its
energy upon mere formulas and words, and that it would be eagerly adopted
even in its mutilated Arabian form, and presently established as the
centre of all knowledge. Though its authority has since declined, yet up
to our own time logic has retained the credit of a self-contained,
practical, and highly important science. Indeed, in our own day, the
Kantian philosophy, the foundation-stone of which is taken from logic, has
excited a new interest in it; which, in this respect, at any rate, that
is, as the means of the knowledge of the nature of reason, it deserves.

Correct and accurate conclusions may be arrived at if we carefully observe
the relation of the spheres of concepts, and only conclude that one sphere
is contained in a third sphere, when we have clearly seen that this first
sphere is contained in a second, which in its turn is contained in the
third. On the other hand, the art of sophistry lies in casting only a
superficial glance at the relations of the spheres of the concepts, and
then manipulating these relations to suit our purposes, generally in the
following way:—When the sphere of an observed concept lies partly within
that of another concept, and partly within a third altogether different
sphere, we treat it as if it lay entirely within the one or the other, as
may suit our purpose. For example, in speaking of passion, we may subsume
it under the concept of the greatest force, the mightiest agency in the
world, or under the concept of the irrational, and this again under the
concept of impotency or weakness. We may then repeat the process, and
start anew with each concept to which the argument leads us. A concept has
almost always several others, which partially come under it, and each of
these contains part of the sphere of the first, but also includes in its
own sphere something more, which is not in the first. But we draw
attention only to that one of these latter concepts, under which we wish
to subsume the first, and let the others remain unobserved, or keep them
concealed. On the possession of this skill depends the whole art of
sophistry and all finer fallacies; for logical fallacies such as
_mentiens_, _velatus_, _cornatus_, &c., are clearly too clumsy for actual
use. I am not aware that hitherto any one has traced the nature of all
sophistry and persuasion back to this last possible ground of its
existence, and referred it to the peculiar character of concepts, _i.e._,
to the procedure of reason itself. Therefore, as my exposition has led me
to it, though it is very easily understood, I will illustrate it in the
following table by means of a schema. This table is intended to show how
the spheres of concepts overlap each other at many points, and so leave
room for a passage from each concept to whichever one we please of several
other concepts. I hope, however, that no one will be led by this table to
attach more importance to this little explanation, which I have merely
given in passing, than ought to belong to it, from the nature of the
subject. I have chosen as an illustration the concept of travelling. Its
sphere partially includes four others, to any of which the sophist may
pass at will; these again partly include other spheres, several of them
two or more at once, and through these the sophist takes whichever way he
chooses, always as if it were the only way, till at last he reaches, in
good or evil, whatever end he may have in view. In passing from one sphere
to another, it is only necessary always to follow the direction from the
centre (the given chief concept) to the circumference, and never to
reverse this process. Such a piece of sophistry may be either an unbroken
speech, or it may assume the strict syllogistic form, according to what is
the weak side of the hearer. Most scientific arguments, and especially
philosophical demonstrations, are at bottom not much more than this, for
how else would it be possible, that so much, in different ages, has not
only been falsely apprehended (for error itself has a different source),
but demonstrated and proved, and has yet afterwards been found to be
fundamentally wrong, for example, the Leibnitz-Wolfian Philosophy,
Ptolemaic Astronomy, Stahl’s Chemistry, Newton’s Theory of Colours, &c.
&c.(15)

§ 10. Through all this, the question presses ever more upon us, how
_certainty_ is to be attained, how _judgments __ are to be established_,
what constitutes _rational knowledge_, (_wissen_), and _science_, which we
rank with language and deliberate action as the third great benefit
conferred by reason.

Reason is feminine in nature; it can only give after it has received. Of
itself it has nothing but the empty forms of its operation. There is no
absolutely pure rational knowledge except the four principles to which I
have attributed metalogical truth; the principles of identity,
contradiction, excluded middle, and sufficient reason of knowledge. For
even the rest of logic is not absolutely pure rational knowledge. It
presupposes the relations and the combinations of the spheres of concepts.
But concepts in general only exist after experience of ideas of
perception, and as their whole nature consists in their relation to these,
it is clear that they presuppose them. No special content, however, is
presupposed, but merely the existence of a content generally, and so logic
as a whole may fairly pass for pure rational science. In all other
sciences reason has received its content from ideas of perception; in
mathematics from the relations of space and time, presented in intuition
or perception prior to all experience; in pure natural science, that is,
in what we know of the course of nature prior to any experience, the
content of the science proceeds from the pure understanding, _i.e._, from
the _a priori_ knowledge of the law of causality and its connection with
those pure intuitions or perceptions of space and time. In all other
sciences everything that is not derived from the sources we have just
referred to belongs to experience. Speaking generally, _to know
rationally_ (_wissen_) means to have in the power of the mind, and capable
of being reproduced at will, such judgments as have their sufficient
ground of knowledge in something outside themselves, _i.e._, are true.
Thus only abstract cognition is _rational knowledge_ (_wissen_), which is
therefore the result of reason, so that we cannot accurately say of the
lower animals that they _rationally __ know_ (_wissen_) anything, although
they have apprehension of what is presented in perception, and memory of
this, and consequently imagination, which is further proved by the
circumstance that they dream. We attribute consciousness to them, and
therefore although the word (_bewusstsein_) is derived from the verb to
know rationally (_wissen_), the conception of consciousness corresponds
generally with that of idea of whatever kind it may be. Thus we attribute
life to plants, but not consciousness. _Rational knowledge_ (_wissen_) is
therefore abstract consciousness, the permanent possession in concepts of
the reason, of what has become known in another way.

§ 11. In this regard the direct opposite of _rational knowledge_ is
feeling, and therefore we must insert the explanation of feeling here. The
concept which the word feeling denotes has merely a negative content,
which is this, that something which is present in consciousness, _is not a
concept_, _is not abstract rational knowledge_. Except this, whatever it
may be, it comes under the concept of _feeling_. Thus the immeasurably
wide sphere of the concept of feeling includes the most different kinds of
objects, and no one can ever understand how they come together until he
has recognised that they all agree in this negative respect, that they are
not _abstract concepts_. For the most diverse and even antagonistic
elements lie quietly side by side in this concept; for example, religious
feeling, feeling of sensual pleasure, moral feeling, bodily feeling, as
touch, pain, sense of colour, of sounds and their harmonies and discords,
feeling of hate, of disgust, of self-satisfaction, of honour, of disgrace,
of right, of wrong, sense of truth, æsthetic feeling, feeling of power,
weakness, health, friendship, love, &c. &c. There is absolutely nothing in
common among them except the negative quality that they are not abstract
rational knowledge. But this diversity becomes more striking when the
apprehension of space relations presented _a priori_ in perception, and
also the knowledge of the pure understanding is brought under this
concept, and when we say of all knowledge and all truth, of which we are
first conscious only intuitively, and have not yet formulated in abstract
concepts, we _feel_ it. I should like, for the sake of illustration, to
give some examples of this taken from recent books, as they are striking
proofs of my theory. I remember reading in the introduction to a German
translation of Euclid, that we ought to make beginners in geometry draw
the figures before proceeding to demonstrate, for in this way they would
already feel geometrical truth before the demonstration brought them
complete knowledge. In the same way Schleiermacher speaks in his “Critique
of Ethics” of logical and mathematical feeling (p. 339), and also of the
feeling of the sameness or difference of two formulas (p. 342). Again
Tennemann in his “History of Philosophy” (vol. I., p. 361) says, “One
_felt_ that the fallacies were not right, but could not point out the
mistakes.” Now, so long as we do not regard this concept “_feeling_” from
the right point of view, and do not recognise that one negative
characteristic which alone is essential to it, it must constantly give
occasion for misunderstanding and controversy, on account of the excessive
wideness of its sphere, and its entirely negative and very limited content
which is determined in a purely one-sided manner. Since then we have in
German the nearly synonymous word _empfindung_ (sensation), it would be
convenient to make use of it for bodily feeling, as a sub-species. This
concept “feeling,” which is quite out of proportion to all others,
doubtless originated in the following manner. All concepts, and concepts
alone, are denoted by words; they exist only for the reason, and proceed
from it. With concepts, therefore, we are already at a one-sided point of
view; but from such a point of view what is near appears distinct and is
set down as positive, what is farther off becomes mixed up and is soon
regarded as merely negative. Thus each nation calls all others foreign: to
the Greek all others are barbarians; to the Englishman all that is not
England or English is continent or continental; to the believer all others
are heretics, or heathens; to the noble all others are _roturiers_; to the
student all others are Philistines, and so forth. Now, reason itself,
strange as it may seem, is guilty of the same one-sidedness, indeed one
might say of the same crude ignorance arising from vanity, for it classes
under the one concept, “_feeling_,” every modification of consciousness
which does not immediately belong to its own mode of apprehension, that is
to say, which is _not an abstract concept_. It has had to pay the penalty
of this hitherto in misunderstanding and confusion in its own province,
because its own procedure had not become clear to it through thorough
self-knowledge, for a special faculty of feeling has been set up, and new
theories of it are constructed.

§ 12. _Rational knowledge_ (_wissen_) is then all abstract knowledge,—that
is, the knowledge which is peculiar to the reason as distinguished from
the understanding. Its contradictory opposite has just been explained to
be the concept “feeling.” Now, as reason only reproduces, for knowledge,
what has been received in another way, it does not actually extend our
knowledge, but only gives it another form. It enables us to know in the
abstract and generally, what first became known in sense-perception, in
the concrete. But this is much more important than it appears at first
sight when so expressed. For it depends entirely upon the fact that
knowledge has become rational or abstract knowledge (_wissen_), that it
can be safely preserved, that it is communicable and susceptible of
certain and wide-reaching application to practice. Knowledge in the form
of sense-perception is valid only of the particular case, extends only to
what is nearest, and ends with it, for sensibility and understanding can
only comprehend one object at a time. Every enduring, arranged, and
planned activity must therefore proceed from principles,—that is, from
abstract knowledge, and it must be conducted in accordance with them.
Thus, for example, the knowledge of the relation of cause and effect
arrived at by the understanding, is in itself far completer, deeper and
more exhaustive than anything that can be thought about it in the
abstract; the understanding alone knows in perception directly and
completely the nature of the effect of a lever, of a pulley, or a
cog-wheel, the stability of an arch, and so forth. But on account of the
peculiarity of the knowledge of perception just referred to, that it only
extends to what is immediately present, the mere understanding can never
enable us to construct machines and buildings. Here reason must come in;
it must substitute abstract concepts for ideas of perception, and take
them as the guide of action; and if they are right, the anticipated result
will happen. In the same way we have perfect knowledge in pure perception
of the nature and constitution of the parabola, hyperbola, and spiral; but
if we are to make trustworthy application of this knowledge to the real,
it must first become abstract knowledge, and by this it certainly loses
its character of intuition or perception, but on the other hand it gains
the certainty and preciseness of abstract knowledge. The differential
calculus does not really extend our knowledge of the curve, it contains
nothing that was not already in the mere pure perception of the curve; but
it alters the kind of knowledge, it changes the intuitive into an abstract
knowledge, which is so valuable for application. But here we must refer to
another peculiarity of our faculty of knowledge, which could not be
observed until the distinction between the knowledge of the senses and
understanding and abstract knowledge had been made quite clear. It is
this, that relations of space cannot as such be directly translated into
abstract knowledge, but only temporal quantities,—that is, numbers, are
suitable for this. Numbers alone can be expressed in abstract concepts
which accurately correspond to them, not spacial quantities. The concept
“thousand” is just as different from the concept “ten,” as both these
temporal quantities are in perception. We think of a thousand as a
distinct multiple of ten, into which we can resolve it at pleasure for
perception in time,—that is to say, we can count it. But between the
abstract concept of a mile and that of a foot, apart from any concrete
perception of either, and without the help of number, there is no accurate
distinction corresponding to the quantities themselves. In both we only
think of a spacial quantity in general, and if they must be completely
distinguished we are compelled either to call in the assistance of
intuition or perception in space, which would be a departure from abstract
knowledge, or we must think the difference in _numbers_. If then we wish
to have abstract knowledge of space-relations we must first translate them
into time-relations,—that is, into numbers; therefore only arithmetic, and
not geometry, is the universal science of quantity, and geometry must be
translated into arithmetic if it is to be communicable, accurately precise
and applicable in practice. It is true that a space-relation as such may
also be thought in the abstract; for example, “the sine increases as the
angle,” but if the quantity of this relation is to be given, it requires
number for its expression. This necessity, that if we wish to have
abstract knowledge of space-relations (_i.e._, rational knowledge, not
mere intuition or perception), space with its three dimensions must be
translated into time which has only one dimension, this necessity it is,
which makes mathematics so difficult. This becomes very clear if we
compare the perception of curves with their analytical calculation, or the
table of logarithms of the trigonometrical functions with the perception
of the changing relations of the parts of a triangle, which are expressed
by them. What vast mazes of figures, what laborious calculations it would
require to express in the abstract what perception here apprehends at a
glance completely and with perfect accuracy, namely, how the co-sine
diminishes as the sine increases, how the co-sine of one angle is the sine
of another, the inverse relation of the increase and decrease of the two
angles, and so forth. How time, we might say, must complain, that with its
one dimension it should be compelled to express the three dimensions of
space! Yet this is necessary if we wish to possess, for application, an
expression, in abstract concepts, of space-relations. They could not be
translated directly into abstract concepts, but only through the medium of
the pure temporal quantity, number, which alone is directly related to
abstract knowledge. Yet it is worthy of remark, that as space adapts
itself so well to perception, and by means of its three dimensions, even
its complicated relations are easily apprehended, while it eludes the
grasp of abstract knowledge; time, on the contrary, passes easily into
abstract knowledge, but gives very little to perception. Our perceptions
of numbers in their proper element, mere time, without the help of space,
scarcely extends as far as ten, and beyond that we have only abstract
concepts of numbers, no knowledge of them which can be presented in
perception. On the other hand, we connect with every numeral, and with all
algebraical symbols, accurately defined abstract concepts.

We may further remark here that some minds only find full satisfaction in
what is known through perception. What they seek is the reason and
consequent of being in space, sensuously expressed; a demonstration after
the manner of Euclid, or an arithmetical solution of spacial problems,
does not please them. Other minds, on the contrary, seek merely the
abstract concepts which are needful for applying and communicating
knowledge. They have patience and memory for abstract principles,
formulas, demonstrations in long trains of reasoning, and calculations, in
which the symbols represent the most complicated abstractions. The latter
seek preciseness, the former sensible perception. The difference is
characteristic.

The greatest value of rational or abstract knowledge is that it can be
communicated and permanently retained. It is principally on this account
that it is so inestimably important for practice. Any one may have a
direct perceptive knowledge through the understanding alone, of the causal
connection, of the changes and motions of natural bodies, and he may find
entire satisfaction in it; but he cannot communicate this knowledge to
others until it has been made permanent for thought in concepts. Knowledge
of the first kind is even sufficient for practice, if a man puts his
knowledge into practice himself, in an action which can be accomplished
while the perception is still vivid; but it is not sufficient if the help
of others is required, or even if the action is his own but must be
carried out at different times, and therefore requires a pre-conceived
plan. Thus, for example, a practised billiard-player may have a perfect
knowledge of the laws of the impact of elastic bodies upon each other,
merely in the understanding, merely for direct perception; and for him it
is quite sufficient; but on the other hand it is only the man who has
studied the science of mechanics, who has, properly speaking, a rational
knowledge of these laws, that is, a knowledge of them in the abstract.
Such knowledge of the understanding in perception is sufficient even for
the construction of machines, when the inventor of the machine executes
the work himself; as we often see in the case of talented workmen, who
have no scientific knowledge. But whenever a number of men, and their
united action taking place at different times, is required for the
completion of a mechanical work, of a machine, or a building, then he who
conducts it must have thought out the plan in the abstract, and such
co-operative activity is only possible through the assistance of reason.
It is, however, remarkable that in the first kind of activity, in which we
have supposed that one man alone, in an uninterrupted course of action,
accomplishes something, abstract knowledge, the application of reason or
reflection, may often be a hindrance to him; for example, in the case of
billiard-playing, of fighting, of tuning an instrument, or in the case of
singing. Here perceptive knowledge must directly guide action; its passage
through reflection makes it uncertain, for it divides the attention and
confuses the man. Thus savages and untaught men, who are little accustomed
to think, perform certain physical exercises, fight with beasts, shoot
with bows and arrows and the like, with a certainty and rapidity which the
reflecting European never attains to, just because his deliberation makes
him hesitate and delay. For he tries, for example, to hit the right
position or the right point of time, by finding out the mean between two
false extremes; while the savage hits it directly without thinking of the
false courses open to him. In the same way it is of no use to me to know
in the abstract the exact angle, in degrees and minutes, at which I must
apply a razor, if I do not know it intuitively, that is, if I have not got
it in my touch. The knowledge of physiognomy also, is interfered with by
the application of reason. This knowledge must be gained directly through
the understanding. We say that the expression, the meaning of the
features, can only be _felt_, that is, it cannot be put into abstract
concepts. Every man has his direct intuitive method of physiognomy and
pathognomy, yet one man understands more clearly than another these
_signatura rerum_. But an abstract science of physiognomy to be taught and
learned is not possible; for the distinctions of difference are here so
fine that concepts cannot reach them; therefore abstract knowledge is
related to them as a mosaic is to a painting by a Van der Werft or a
Denner. In mosaics, however fine they may be, the limits of the stones are
always there, and therefore no continuous passage from one colour to
another is possible, and this is also the case with regard to concepts,
with their rigidity and sharp delineation; however finely we may divide
them by exact definition, they are still incapable of reaching the finer
modifications of the perceptible, and this is just what happens in the
example we have taken, knowledge of physiognomy.(16)

This quality of concepts by which they resemble the stones of a mosaic,
and on account of which perception always remains their asymptote, is also
the reason why nothing good is produced in art by their means. If the
singer or the virtuoso attempts to guide his execution by reflection he
remains silent. And this is equally true of the composer, the painter, and
the poet. The concept always remains unfruitful in art; it can only direct
the technical part of it, its sphere is science. We shall consider more
fully in the third book, why all true art proceeds from sensuous
knowledge, never from the concept. Indeed, with regard to behaviour also,
and personal agreeableness in society, the concept has only a negative
value in restraining the grosser manifestations of egotism and brutality;
so that a polished manner is its commendable production. But all that is
attractive, gracious, charming in behaviour, all affectionateness and
friendliness, must not proceed from the concepts, for if it does, “we feel
intention, and are put out of tune.” All dissimulation is the work of
reflection; but it cannot be maintained constantly and without
interruption: “_nemo __ potest personam diu ferre fictum_,” says Seneca in
his book _de clementia_; and so it is generally found out and loses its
effect. Reason is needed in the full stress of life, where quick
conclusions, bold action, rapid and sure comprehension are required, but
it may easily spoil all if it gains the upper hand, and by perplexing
hinders the intuitive, direct discovery, and grasp of the right by simple
understanding, and thus induces irresolution.

Lastly, virtue and holiness do not proceed from reflection, but from the
inner depths of the will, and its relation to knowledge. The exposition of
this belongs to another part of our work; this, however, I may remark
here, that the dogmas relating to ethics may be the same in the reason of
whole nations, but the action of every individual different; and the
converse also holds good; action, we say, is guided by _feelings_,—that
is, simply not by concepts, but as a matter of fact by the ethical
character. Dogmas occupy the idle reason; but action in the end pursues
its own course independently of them, generally not according to abstract
rules, but according to unspoken maxims, the expression of which is the
whole man himself. Therefore, however different the religious dogmas of
nations may be, yet in the case of all of them, a good action is
accompanied by unspeakable satisfaction, and a bad action by endless
remorse. No mockery can shake the former; no priest’s absolution can
deliver from the latter. Notwithstanding this, we must allow, that for the
pursuit of a virtuous life, the application of reason is needful; only it
is not its source, but has the subordinate function of preserving
resolutions which have been made, of providing maxims to withstand the
weakness of the moment, and give consistency to action. It plays the same
part ultimately in art also, where it has just as little to do with the
essential matter, but assists in carrying it out, for genius is not always
at call, and yet the work must be completed in all its parts and rounded
off to a whole.(17)

§ 13. All these discussions of the advantages and disadvantages of the
application of reason are intended to show, that although abstract
rational knowledge is the reflex of ideas of perception, and is founded on
them, it is by no means in such entire congruity with them that it could
everywhere take their place: indeed it never corresponds to them quite
accurately. And thus, as we have seen, many human actions can only be
performed by the help of reason and deliberation, and yet there are some
which are better performed without its assistance. This very incongruity
of sensuous and abstract knowledge, on account of which the latter always
merely approximates to the former, as mosaic approximates to painting, is
the cause of a very remarkable phenomenon which, like reason itself, is
peculiar to human nature, and of which the explanations that have ever
anew been attempted, are insufficient: I mean _laughter_. On account of
the source of this phenomenon, we cannot avoid giving the explanation of
it here, though it again interrupts the course of our work to do so. The
cause of laughter in every case is simply the sudden perception of the
incongruity between a concept and the real objects which have been thought
through it in some relation, and laughter itself is just the expression of
this incongruity. It often occurs in this way: two or more real objects
are thought through _one_ concept, and the identity of the concept is
transferred to the objects; it then becomes strikingly apparent from the
entire difference of the objects in other respects, that the concept was
only applicable to them from a one-sided point of view. It occurs just as
often, however, that the incongruity between a single real object and the
concept under which, from one point of view, it has rightly been subsumed,
is suddenly felt. Now the more correct the subsumption of such objects
under a concept may be from one point of view, and the greater and more
glaring their incongruity with it, from another point of view, the greater
is the ludicrous effect which is produced by this contrast. All laughter
then is occasioned by a paradox, and therefore by unexpected subsumption,
whether this is expressed in words or in actions. This, briefly stated, is
the true explanation of the ludicrous.

I shall not pause here to relate anecdotes as examples to illustrate my
theory; for it is so simple and comprehensible that it does not require
them, and everything ludicrous which the reader may remember is equally
valuable as a proof of it. But the theory is confirmed and illustrated by
distinguishing two species into which the ludicrous is divided, and which
result from the theory. Either, we have previously known two or more very
different real objects, ideas of sense-perception, and have intentionally
identified them through the unity of a concept which comprehends them
both; this species of the ludicrous is called _wit_. Or, conversely, the
concept is first present in knowledge, and we pass from it to reality, and
to operation upon it, to action: objects which in other respects are
fundamentally different, but which are all thought in that one concept,
are now regarded and treated in the same way, till, to the surprise and
astonishment of the person acting, the great difference of their other
aspects appears: this species of the ludicrous is called _folly_.
Therefore everything ludicrous is either a flash of wit or a foolish
action, according as the procedure has been from the discrepancy of the
objects to the identity of the concept, or the converse; the former always
intentional, the latter always unintentional, and from without. To seem to
reverse the starting-point, and to conceal wit with the mask of folly, is
the art of the jester and the clown. Being quite aware of the diversity of
the objects, the jester unites them, with secret wit, under one concept,
and then starting from this concept he receives from the subsequently
discovered diversity of the objects the surprise which he himself
prepared. It follows from this short but sufficient theory of the
ludicrous, that, if we set aside the last case, that of the jester, wit
must always show itself in words, folly generally in actions, though also
in words, when it only expresses an intention and does not actually carry
it out, or when it shows itself merely in judgments and opinions.

_Pedantry_ is a form of folly. It arises in this way: a man lacks
confidence in his own understanding, and, therefore, does not wish to
trust to it, to recognise what is right directly in the particular case.
He, therefore, puts it entirely under the control of the reason, and seeks
to be guided by reason in everything; that is to say, he tries always to
proceed from general concepts, rules, and maxims, and to confine himself
strictly to them in life, in art, and even in moral conduct. Hence that
clinging to the form, to the manner, to the expression and word which is
characteristic of pedantry, and which with it takes the place of the real
nature of the matter. The incongruity then between the concept and reality
soon shows itself here, and it becomes evident that the former never
condescends to the particular case, and that with its generality and rigid
definiteness it can never accurately apply to the fine distinctions of
difference and innumerable modifications of the actual. Therefore, the
pedant, with his general maxims, almost always misses the mark in life,
shows himself to be foolish, awkward, useless. In art, in which the
concept is unfruitful, he produces lifeless, stiff, abortive mannerisms.
Even with regard to ethics, the purpose to act rightly or nobly cannot
always be carried out in accordance with abstract maxims; for in many
cases the excessively nice distinctions in the nature of the circumstances
necessitate a choice of the right proceeding directly from the character;
for the application of mere abstract maxims sometimes gives false results,
because the maxims only half apply; and sometimes cannot be carried out,
because they are foreign to the individual character of the actor, and
this never allows itself to be entirely discovered; therefore,
inconsistencies arise. Since then Kant makes it a condition of the moral
worth of an action, that it shall proceed from pure rational abstract
maxims, without any inclination or momentary emotion, we cannot entirely
absolve him from the reproach of encouraging moral pedantry. This reproach
is the significance of Schiller’s epigram, entitled “Scruples of
Conscience.” When we speak, especially in connection with politics, of
doctrinaires, theorists, savants, and so forth, we mean pedants, that is,
persons who know the things well in the abstract, but not in the concrete.
Abstraction consists in thinking away the less general predicates; but it
is precisely upon these that so much depends in practice.

To complete our theory it remains for us to mention a spurious kind of
wit, the play upon words, the _calembourg_, the pun, to which may be added
the equivocation, the _double entendre_, the chief use of which is the
expression of what is obscene. Just as the witticism brings two very
different real objects under one concept, the pun brings two different
concepts, by the assistance of accident, under one word. The same contrast
appears, only familiar and more superficial, because it does not spring
from the nature of things, but merely from the accident of nomenclature.
In the case of the witticism the identity is in the concept, the
difference in the reality, but in the case of the pun the difference is in
the concepts and the identity in the reality, for the terminology is here
the reality. It would only be a somewhat far-fetched comparison if we were
to say that the pun is related to the witticism as the parabola (_sic_) of
the upper inverted cone to that of the lower. The misunderstanding of the
word or the _quid pro quo_ is the unintentional pun, and is related to it
exactly as folly is to wit. Thus the deaf man often affords occasion for
laughter, just as much as the fool, and inferior writers of comedy often
use the former for the latter to raise a laugh.

I have treated laughter here only from the psychical side; with regard to
the physical side, I refer to what is said on the subject in the
“Parerga,” vol. II. ch. vi., § 98.(18)

§ 14. By means of these various discussions it is hoped that both the
difference and the relation between the process of knowledge that belongs
to the reason, rational knowledge, the concept on the one hand, and the
direct knowledge in purely sensuous, mathematical intuition or perception,
and apprehension by the understanding on the other hand, has been clearly
brought out. This remarkable relation of our kinds of knowledge led us
almost inevitably to give, in passing, explanations of feeling and of
laughter, but from all this we now turn back to the further consideration
of science as the third great benefit which reason confers on man, the
other two being speech and deliberate action. The general discussion of
science which now devolves upon us, will be concerned partly with its
form, partly with the foundation of its judgments, and lastly with its
content.

We have seen that, with the exception of the basis of pure logic, rational
knowledge in general has not its source in the reason itself; but having
been otherwise obtained as knowledge of perception, it is stored up in the
reason, for through reason it has entirely changed its character, and has
become abstract knowledge. All rational knowledge, that is, knowledge that
has been raised to consciousness in the abstract, is related to science
strictly so called, as a fragment to the whole. Every one has gained a
rational knowledge of many different things through experience, through
consideration of the individual objects presented to him, but only he who
sets himself the task of acquiring a complete knowledge in the abstract of
a particular class of objects, strives after science. This class can only
be marked off by means of a concept; therefore, at the beginning of every
science there stands a concept, and by means of it the class of objects
concerning which this science promises a complete knowledge in the
abstract, is separated in thought from the whole world of things. For
example, the concept of space-relations, or of the action of unorganised
bodies upon each other, or of the nature of plants, or of animals, or of
the successive changes of the surface of the globe, or of the changes of
the human race as a whole, or of the construction of a language, and so
forth. If science sought to obtain the knowledge of its object, by
investigating each individual thing that is thought through the concept,
till by degrees it had learned the whole, no human memory would be equal
to the task, and no certainty of completeness would be obtainable.
Therefore, it makes use of that property of concept-spheres explained
above, that they include each other, and it concerns itself mainly with
the wider spheres which lie within the concept of its object in general.
When the relations of these spheres to each other have been determined,
all that is thought in them is also generally determined, and can now be
more and more accurately determined by the separation of smaller and
smaller concept-spheres. In this way it is possible for a science to
comprehend its object completely. This path which it follows to knowledge,
the path from the general to the particular, distinguishes it from
ordinary rational knowledge; therefore, systematic form is an essential
and characteristic feature of science. The combination of the most general
concept-spheres of every science, that is, the knowledge of its first
principles, is the indispensable condition of mastering it; how far we
advance from these to the more special propositions is a matter of choice,
and does not increase the thoroughness but only the extent of our
knowledge of the science. The number of the first principles to which all
the rest are subordinated, varies greatly in the different sciences, so
that in some there is more subordination, in others more co-ordination;
and in this respect, the former make greater claims upon the judgment, the
latter upon the memory. It was known to the schoolmen,(19) that, as the
syllogism requires two premises, no science can proceed from a single
first principle which cannot be the subject of further deduction, but must
have several, at least two. The specially classifying sciences: Zoology,
Botany, and also Physics and Chemistry, inasmuch as they refer all
inorganic action to a few fundamental forces, have most subordination;
history, on the other hand, has really none at all; for the general in it
consists merely in the survey of the principal periods, from which,
however, the particular events cannot be deduced, and are only
subordinated to them according to time, but according to the concept are
co-ordinate with them. Therefore, history, strictly speaking, is certainly
rational knowledge, but is not science. In mathematics, according to
Euclid’s treatment, the axioms alone are indemonstrable first principles,
and all demonstrations are in gradation strictly subordinated to them. But
this method of treatment is not essential to mathematics, and in fact each
proposition introduces quite a new space construction, which in itself is
independent of those which precede it, and indeed can be completely
comprehended from itself, quite independently of them, in the pure
intuition or perception of space, in which the most complicated
construction is just as directly evident as the axiom; but of this more
fully hereafter. Meanwhile every mathematical proposition remains always a
universal truth, which is valid for innumerable particular cases; and a
graduated process from the simple to the complicated propositions which
are to be deduced from them, is also essential to mathematics; therefore,
in every respect mathematics is a science. The completeness of a science
as such, that is, in respect of form, consists in there being as much
subordination and as little co-ordination of the principles as possible.
Scientific talent in general is, therefore, the faculty of subordinating
the concept-spheres according to their different determinations, so that,
as Plato repeatedly counsels, a science shall not be constituted by a
general concept and an indefinite multiplicity immediately under it, but
that knowledge shall descend by degrees from the general to the
particular, through intermediate concepts and divisions, according to
closer and closer definitions. In Kantian language this is called
satisfying equally the law of homogeneity and that of specification. It
arises from this peculiar nature of scientific completeness, that the aim
of science is not greater certainty—for certainty may be possessed in just
as high a degree by the most disconnected particular knowledge—but its aim
is rather the facilitating of rational knowledge by means of its form, and
the possibility of the completeness of rational knowledge which this form
affords. It is therefore a very prevalent but perverted opinion that the
scientific character of knowledge consists in its greater certainty, and
just as false is the conclusion following from this, that, strictly
speaking, the only sciences are mathematics and logic, because only in
them, on account of their purely _a priori_ character, is there
unassailable certainty of knowledge. This advantage cannot be denied them,
but it gives them no special claim to be regarded as sciences; for the
special characteristic of science does not lie in certainty but in the
systematic form of knowledge, based on the gradual descent from the
general to the particular. The process of knowledge from the general to
the particular, which is peculiar to the sciences, involves the necessity
that in the sciences much should be established by deduction from
preceding propositions, that is to say, by demonstration; and this has
given rise to the old mistake that only what has been demonstrated is
absolutely true, and that every truth requires a demonstration; whereas,
on the contrary, every demonstration requires an undemonstrated truth,
which ultimately supports it, or it may be, its own demonstration.
Therefore a directly established truth is as much to be preferred to a
truth established by demonstration as water from the spring is to water
from the aqueduct. Perception, partly pure _a priori_, as it forms the
basis of mathematics, partly empirical _a posteriori_, as it forms the
basis of all the other sciences, is the source of all truth and the
foundation of all science. (Logic alone is to be excepted, which is not
founded upon perception but yet upon _direct_ knowledge by the reason of
its own laws.) Not the demonstrated judgments nor their demonstrations,
but judgments which are created directly out of perception, and founded
upon it rather than on any demonstrations, are to science what the sun is
to the world; for all light proceeds from them, and lighted by their light
the others give light also. To establish the truth of such primary
judgments directly from perception, to raise such strongholds of science
from the innumerable multitude of real objects, that is the work of the
_faculty of judgment_, which consists in the power of rightly and
accurately carrying over into abstract consciousness what is known in
perception, and judgment is consequently the mediator between
understanding and reason. Only extraordinary and exceptional strength of
judgment in the individual can actually advance science; but every one who
is possessed of a healthy reason is able to deduce propositions from
propositions, to demonstrate, to draw conclusions. To lay down and make
permanent for reflection, in suitable concepts, what is known through
perception, so that, on the one hand, what is common to many real objects
is thought through _one_ concept, and, on the other hand, their points of
difference are each thought through one concept, so that the different
shall be known and thought as different in spite of a partial agreement,
and the identical shall be known and thought as identical in spite of a
partial difference, all in accordance with the end and intention which in
each case is in view; all this is done by the _faculty of judgment_.
Deficiency in judgment is _silliness_. The silly man fails to grasp, now
the partial or relative difference of concepts which in one aspect are
identical, now the identity of concepts which are relatively or partially
different. To this explanation of the faculty of judgment, moreover,
Kant’s division of it into reflecting and subsuming judgment may be
applied, according as it passes from the perceived objects to the
concepts, or from the latter to the former; in both cases always mediating
between empirical knowledge of the understanding and the reflective
knowledge of the reason. There can be no truth which could be brought out
by means of syllogisms alone; and the necessity of establishing truth by
means of syllogisms is merely relative, indeed subjective. Since all
demonstration is syllogistic, in the case of a new truth we must first
seek, not for a demonstration, but for direct evidence, and only in the
absence of such evidence is a demonstration to be temporarily made use of.
No science is susceptible of demonstration throughout any more than a
building can stand in the air; all its demonstrations must ultimately rest
upon what is perceived, and consequently cannot be demonstrated, for the
whole world of reflection rests upon and is rooted in the world of
perception. All primal, that is, original, _evidence_ is a _perception_,
as the word itself indicates. Therefore it is either empirical or founded
upon the perception _a priori_ of the conditions of possible experience.
In both cases it affords only immanent, not transcendent knowledge. Every
concept has its worth and its existence only in its relation, sometimes
very indirect, to an idea of perception; what is true of the concepts is
also true of the judgments constructed out of them, and of all science.
Therefore it must in some way be possible to know directly without
demonstrations or syllogisms every truth that is arrived at through
syllogisms and communicated by demonstrations. This is most difficult in
the case of certain complicated mathematical propositions at which we only
arrive by chains of syllogisms; for example, the calculation of the chords
and tangents to all arcs by deduction from the proposition of Pythagoras.
But even such a truth as this cannot essentially and solely rest upon
abstract principles, and the space-relations which lie at its foundation
also must be capable of being so presented _a priori_ in pure intuition or
perception that the truth of their abstract expression is directly
established. But of mathematical demonstration we shall speak more fully
shortly.

It is true we often hear men speak in a lofty strain of sciences which
rest entirely upon correct conclusions drawn from sure premises, and which
are consequently unassailable. But through pure logical reasoning, however
true the premises may be, we shall never receive more than an articulate
expression and exposition of what lies already complete in the premises;
thus we shall only _explicitly_ expound what was already _implicitly_
understood. The esteemed sciences referred to are, however, specially the
mathematical sciences, particularly astronomy. But the certainty of
astronomy arises from the fact that it has for its basis the intuition or
perception of space, which is given _a priori_, and is therefore
infallible. All space-relations, however, follow from each other with a
necessity (ground of being) which affords _a priori_ certainty, and they
can therefore be safely deduced from each other. To these mathematical
properties we have only to add one force of nature, gravity, which acts
precisely in relation to the masses and the square of the distance; and,
lastly, the law of inertia, which follows from the law of causality and is
therefore true _a priori_, and with it the empirical datum of the motion
impressed, once for all, upon each of these masses. This is the whole
material of astronomy, which both by its simplicity and its certainty
leads to definite results, which are highly interesting on account of the
vastness and importance of the objects. For example, if I know the mass of
a planet and the distance of its satellite from it, I can tell with
certainty the period of the revolution of the latter according to Kepler’s
second law. But the ground of this law is, that with this distance only
this velocity will both chain the satellite to the planet and prevent it
from falling into it. Thus it is only upon such a geometrical basis, that
is, by means of an intuition or perception _a priori_, and also under the
application of a law of nature, that much can be arrived at by means of
syllogisms, for here they are merely like bridges from _one_ sensuous
apprehension to others; but it is not so with mere pure syllogistic
reasoning in the exclusively logical method. The source of the first
fundamental truths of astronomy is, however, properly induction, that is,
the comprehension of what is given in many perceptions in one true and
directly founded judgment. From this, hypotheses are afterwards
constructed, and their confirmation by experience, as induction
approaching to completeness, affords the proof of the first judgment. For
example, the apparent motion of the planets is known empirically; after
many false hypotheses with regard to the spacial connection of this motion
(planetary course) the right one was at last found, then the laws which it
obeyed (the laws of Kepler), and, lastly, the cause of these laws
(universal gravitation), and the empirically known agreement of all
observed cases with the whole of the hypotheses, and with their
consequences, that is to say, induction, established them with complete
certainty. The invention of the hypotheses was the work of the judgment,
which rightly comprehended the given facts and expressed them accordingly;
but induction, that is, a multitude of perceptions, confirmed their truth.
But their truth could also be known directly, and by a single empirical
perception, if we could pass freely through space and had telescopic eyes.
Therefore, here also syllogisms are not the essential and only source of
knowledge, but really only a makeshift.

As a third example taken from a different sphere we may mention that the
so-called metaphysical truths, that is, such truths as those to which Kant
assigns the position of the metaphysical first principles of natural
science, do not owe their evidence to demonstration. What is _a priori_
certain we know directly; as the form of all knowledge, it is known to us
with the most complete necessity. For example, that matter is permanent,
that is, can neither come into being nor pass away, we know directly as
negative truth; for our pure intuition or perception of space and time
gives the possibility of motion; in the law of causality the understanding
affords us the possibility of change of form and quality, but we lack
powers of the imagination for conceiving the coming into being or passing
away of matter. Therefore that truth has at all times been evident to all
men everywhere, nor has it ever been seriously doubted; and this could not
be the case if it had no other ground of knowledge than the abstruse and
exceedingly subtle proof of Kant. But besides this, I have found Kant’s
proof to be false (as is explained in the Appendix), and have shown above
that the permanence of matter is to be deduced, not from the share which
time has in the possibility of experience, but from the share which
belongs to space. The true foundation of all truths which in this sense
are called metaphysical, that is, abstract expressions of the necessary
and universal forms of knowledge, cannot itself lie in abstract
principles; but only in the immediate consciousness of the forms of the
idea communicating itself in apodictic assertions _a priori_, and fearing
no refutation. But if we yet desire to give a proof of them, it can only
consist in showing that what is to be proved is contained in some truth
about which there is no doubt, either as a part of it or as a
presupposition. Thus, for example, I have shown that all empirical
perception implies the application of the law of causality, the knowledge
of which is hence a condition of all experience, and therefore cannot be
first given and conditioned through experience as Hume thought.
Demonstrations in general are not so much for those who wish to learn as
for those who wish to dispute. Such persons stubbornly deny directly
established insight; now only the truth can be consistent in all
directions, and therefore we must show such persons that they admit under
_one_ form and indirectly, what they deny under another form and directly;
that is, the logically necessary connection between what is denied and
what is admitted.

It is also a consequence of the scientific form, the subordination of
everything particular under a general, and so on always to what is more
general, that the truth of many propositions is only logically
proved,—that is, through their dependence upon other propositions, through
syllogisms, which at the same time appear as proofs. But we must never
forget that this whole form of science is merely a means of rendering
knowledge more easy, not a means to greater certainty. It is easier to
discover the nature of an animal, by means of the species to which it
belongs, and so on through the genus, family, order, and class, than to
examine on every occasion the animal presented to us: but the truth of all
propositions arrived at syllogistically is always conditioned by and
ultimately dependent upon some truth which rests not upon reasoning but
upon perception. If this perception were always as much within our reach
as a deduction through syllogisms, then it would be in every respect
preferable. For every deduction from concepts is exposed to great danger
of error, on account of the fact we have considered above, that so many
spheres lie partly within each other, and that their content is often
vague or uncertain. This is illustrated by a multitude of demonstrations
of false doctrines and sophisms of every kind. Syllogisms are indeed
perfectly certain as regards form, but they are very uncertain on account
of their matter, the concepts. For, on the one hand, the spheres of these
are not sufficiently sharply defined, and, on the other hand, they
intersect each other in so many ways that one sphere is in part contained
in many others, and we may pass at will from it to one or another of
these, and from this sphere again to others, as we have already shown. Or,
in other words, the minor term and also the middle can always be
subordinated to different concepts, from which we may choose at will the
major and the middle, and the nature of the conclusion depends on this
choice. Consequently immediate evidence is always much to be preferred to
reasoned truth, and the latter is only to be accepted when the former is
too remote, and not when it is as near or indeed nearer than the latter.
Accordingly we saw above that, as a matter of fact, in the case of logic,
in which the immediate knowledge in each individual case lies nearer to
hand than deduced scientific knowledge, we always conduct our thought
according to our immediate knowledge of the laws of thought, and leave
logic unused.(20)

§ 15. If now with our conviction that perception is the primary source of
all evidence, and that only direct or indirect connection with it is
absolute truth; and further, that the shortest way to this is always the
surest, as every interposition of concepts means exposure to many
deceptions; if, I say, we now turn with this conviction to mathematics, as
it was established as a science by Euclid, and has remained as a whole to
our own day, we cannot help regarding the method it adopts, as strange and
indeed perverted. We ask that every logical proof shall be traced back to
an origin in perception; but mathematics, on the contrary, is at great
pains deliberately to throw away the evidence of perception which is
peculiar to it, and always at hand, that it may substitute for it a
logical demonstration. This must seem to us like the action of a man who
cuts off his legs in order to go on crutches, or like that of the prince
in the “_Triumph der Empfindsamkeit_” who flees from the beautiful reality
of nature, to delight in a stage scene that imitates it. I must here refer
to what I have said in the sixth chapter of the essay on the principle of
sufficient reason, and take for granted that it is fresh and present in
the memory of the reader; so that I may link my observations on to it
without explaining again the difference between the mere ground of
knowledge of a mathematical truth, which can be given logically, and the
ground of being, which is the immediate connection of the parts of space
and time, known only in perception. It is only insight into the ground of
being that secures satisfaction and thorough knowledge. The mere ground of
knowledge must always remain superficial; it can afford us indeed rational
knowledge _that_ a thing is as it is, but it cannot tell _why_ it is so.
Euclid chose the latter way to the obvious detriment of the science. For
just at the beginning, for example, when he ought to show once for all how
in a triangle the angles and sides reciprocally determine each other, and
stand to each other in the relation of reason and consequent, in
accordance with the form which the principle of sufficient reason has in
pure space, and which there, as in every other sphere, always affords the
necessity that a thing is as it is, because something quite different from
it, is as it is; instead of in this way giving a thorough insight into the
nature of the triangle, he sets up certain disconnected arbitrarily chosen
propositions concerning the triangle, and gives a logical ground of
knowledge of them, through a laborious logical demonstration, based upon
the principle of contradiction. Instead of an exhaustive knowledge of
these space-relations we therefore receive merely certain results of them,
imparted to us at pleasure, and in fact we are very much in the position
of a man to whom the different effects of an ingenious machine are shown,
but from whom its inner connection and construction are withheld. We are
compelled by the principle of contradiction to admit that what Euclid
demonstrates is true, but we do not comprehend _why_ it is so. We have
therefore almost the same uncomfortable feeling that we experience after a
juggling trick, and, in fact, most of Euclid’s demonstrations are
remarkably like such feats. The truth almost always enters by the back
door, for it manifests itself _per accidens_ through some contingent
circumstance. Often a _reductio ad absurdum_ shuts all the doors one after
another, until only one is left through which we are therefore compelled
to enter. Often, as in the proposition of Pythagoras, lines are drawn, we
don’t know why, and it afterwards appears that they were traps which close
unexpectedly and take prisoner the assent of the astonished learner, who
must now admit what remains wholly inconceivable in its inner connection,
so much so, that he may study the whole of Euclid through and through
without gaining a real insight into the laws of space-relations, but
instead of them he only learns by heart certain results which follow from
them. This specially empirical and unscientific knowledge is like that of
the doctor who knows both the disease and the cure for it, but does not
know the connection between them. But all this is the necessary
consequence if we capriciously reject the special kind of proof and
evidence of one species of knowledge, and forcibly introduce in its stead
a kind which is quite foreign to its nature. However, in other respects
the manner in which this has been accomplished by Euclid deserves all the
praise which has been bestowed on him through so many centuries, and which
has been carried so far that his method of treating mathematics has been
set up as the pattern of all scientific exposition. Men tried indeed to
model all the sciences after it, but later they gave up the attempt
without quite knowing why. Yet in our eyes this method of Euclid in
mathematics can appear only as a very brilliant piece of perversity. But
when a great error in life or in science has been intentionally and
methodically carried out with universal applause, it is always possible to
discover its source in the philosophy which prevailed at the time. The
Eleatics first brought out the difference, and indeed often the conflict,
that exists between what is perceived, φαινομενον,(21) and what is
thought, νουμενον, and used it in many ways in their philosophical
epigrams, and also in sophisms. They were followed later by the Megarics,
the Dialecticians, the Sophists, the New-Academy, and the Sceptics; these
drew attention to the illusion, that is to say, to the deception of the
senses, or rather of the understanding which transforms the data of the
senses into perception, and which often causes us to see things to which
the reason unhesitatingly denies reality; for example, a stick broken in
water, and such like. It came to be known that sense-perception was not to
be trusted unconditionally, and it was therefore hastily concluded that
only rational, logical thought could establish truth; although Plato (in
the Parmenides), the Megarics, Pyrrho, and the New-Academy, showed by
examples (in the manner which was afterwards adopted by Sextus Empiricus)
how syllogisms and concepts were also sometimes misleading, and indeed
produced paralogisms and sophisms which arise much more easily and are far
harder to explain than the illusion of sense-perception. However, this
rationalism, which arose in opposition to empiricism, kept the upper hand,
and Euclid constructed the science of mathematics in accordance with it.
He was compelled by necessity to found the axioms upon evidence of
perception (φαινομενον), but all the rest he based upon reasoning
(νουμενον). His method reigned supreme through all the succeeding
centuries, and it could not but do so as long as pure intuition or
perception, _a priori_, was not distinguished from empirical perception.
Certain passages from the works of Proclus, the commentator of Euclid,
which Kepler translated into Latin in his book, “De Harmonia Mundi,” seem
to show that he fully recognised this distinction. But Proclus did not
attach enough importance to the matter; he merely mentioned it by the way,
so that he remained unnoticed and accomplished nothing. Therefore, not
till two thousand years later will the doctrine of Kant, which is destined
to make such great changes in all the knowledge, thought, and action of
European nations, produce this change in mathematics also. For it is only
after we have learned from this great man that the intuitions or
perceptions of space and time are quite different from empirical
perceptions, entirely independent of any impression of the senses,
conditioning it, not conditioned by it, _i.e._, are _a priori_, and
therefore are not exposed to the illusions of sense; only after we have
learned this, I say, can we comprehend that Euclid’s logical method of
treating mathematics is a useless precaution, a crutch for sound legs,
that it is like a wanderer who during the night mistakes a bright, firm
road for water, and carefully avoiding it, toils over the broken ground
beside it, content to keep from point to point along the edge of the
supposed water. Only now can we affirm with certainty that what presents
itself to us as necessary in the perception of a figure, does not come
from the figure on the paper, which is perhaps very defectively drawn, nor
from the abstract concept under which we think it, but immediately from
the form of all knowledge of which we are conscious _a priori_. This is
always the principle of sufficient reason; here as the form of perception,
_i.e._, space, it is the principle of the ground of being, the evidence
and validity of which is, however, just as great and as immediate as that
of the principle of the ground of knowing, _i.e._, logical certainty. Thus
we need not and ought not to leave the peculiar province of mathematics in
order to put our trust only in logical proof, and seek to authenticate
mathematics in a sphere which is quite foreign to it, that of concepts. If
we confine ourselves to the ground peculiar to mathematics, we gain the
great advantage that in it the rational knowledge _that_ something is, is
one with the knowledge _why_ it is so, whereas the method of Euclid
entirely separates these two, and lets us know only the first, not the
second. Aristotle says admirably in the Analyt., post. i. 27: “Ακριβεστερα
δ᾽ επιστημη επιστημης και προτερα, ἡτε του ὁτι και του διοτι ἡ αυτη, αλλα
μη χωρις του ὁτι, της του διοτι” (_Subtilior autem et praestantior ea est
scientia, quâ_ QUOD _aliquid sit, et_ CUR _sit una simulque intelligimus
non separatim_ QUOD, _et_ CUR _sit_). In physics we are only satisfied
when the knowledge that a thing is as it is is combined with the knowledge
why it is so. To know that the mercury in the Torricellian tube stands
thirty inches high is not really rational knowledge if we do not know that
it is sustained at this height by the counterbalancing weight of the
atmosphere. Shall we then be satisfied in mathematics with the _qualitas
occulta_ of the circle that the segments of any two intersecting chords
always contain equal rectangles? That it is so Euclid certainly
demonstrates in the 35th Prop. of the Third Book; _why_ it is so remains
doubtful. In the same way the proposition of Pythagoras teaches us a
_qualitas occulta_ of the right-angled triangle; the stilted and indeed
fallacious demonstration of Euclid forsakes us at the _why_, and a simple
figure, which we already know, and which is present to us, gives at a
glance far more insight into the matter, and firm inner conviction of that
necessity, and of the dependence of that quality upon the right angle:—

                              [Illustration]

In the case of unequal catheti also, and indeed generally in the case of
every possible geometrical truth, it is quite possible to obtain such a
conviction based on perception, because these truths were always
discovered by such an empirically known necessity, and their demonstration
was only thought out afterwards in addition. Thus we only require an
analysis of the process of thought in the first discovery of a geometrical
truth in order to know its necessity empirically. It is the analytical
method in general that I wish for the exposition of mathematics, instead
of the synthetical method which Euclid made use of. Yet this would have
very great, though not insuperable, difficulties in the case of
complicated mathematical truths. Here and there in Germany men are
beginning to alter the exposition of mathematics, and to proceed more in
this analytical way. The greatest effort in this direction has been made
by Herr Kosack, teacher of mathematics and physics in the Gymnasium at
Nordhausen, who added a thorough attempt to teach geometry according to my
principles to the programme of the school examination on the 6th of April
1852.

In order to improve the method of mathematics, it is especially necessary
to overcome the prejudice that demonstrated truth has any superiority over
what is known through perception, or that logical truth founded upon the
principle of contradiction has any superiority over metaphysical truth,
which is immediately evident, and to which belongs the pure intuition or
perception of space.

That which is most certain, and yet always inexplicable, is what is
involved in the principle of sufficient reason, for this principle, in its
different aspects, expresses the universal form of all our ideas and
knowledge. All explanation consists of reduction to it, exemplification in
the particular case of the connection of ideas expressed generally through
it. It is thus the principle of all explanation, and therefore it is
neither susceptible of an explanation itself, nor does it stand in need of
it; for every explanation presupposes it, and only obtains meaning through
it. Now, none of its forms are superior to the rest; it is equally certain
and incapable of demonstration as the principle of the ground of being, or
of change, or of action, or of knowing. The relation of reason and
consequent is a necessity in all its forms, and indeed it is, in general,
the source of the concept of necessity, for necessity has no other
meaning. If the reason is given there is no other necessity than that of
the consequent, and there is no reason that does not involve the necessity
of the consequent. Just as surely then as the consequent expressed in the
conclusion follows from the ground of knowledge given in the premises,
does the ground of being in space determine its consequent in space: if I
know through perception the relation of these two, this certainty is just
as great as any logical certainty. But every geometrical proposition is
just as good an expression of such a relation as one of the twelve axioms;
it is a metaphysical truth, and as such, just as certain as the principle
of contradiction itself, which is a metalogical truth, and the common
foundation of all logical demonstration. Whoever denies the necessity,
exhibited for intuition or perception, of the space-relations expressed in
any proposition, may just as well deny the axioms, or that the conclusion
follows from the premises, or, indeed, he may as well deny the principle
of contradiction itself, for all these relations are equally
undemonstrable, immediately evident and known _a priori_. For any one to
wish to derive the necessity of space-relations, known in intuition or
perception, from the principle of contradiction by means of a logical
demonstration is just the same as for the feudal superior of an estate to
wish to hold it as the vassal of another. Yet this is what Euclid has
done. His axioms only, he is compelled to leave resting upon immediate
evidence; all the geometrical truths which follow are demonstrated
logically, that is to say, from the agreement of the assumptions made in
the proposition with the axioms which are presupposed, or with some
earlier proposition; or from the contradiction between the opposite of the
proposition and the assumptions made in it, or the axioms, or earlier
propositions, or even itself. But the axioms themselves have no more
immediate evidence than any other geometrical problem, but only more
simplicity on account of their smaller content.

When a criminal is examined, a _procès-verbal_ is made of his statement in
order that we may judge of its truth from its consistency. But this is
only a makeshift, and we are not satisfied with it if it is possible to
investigate the truth of each of his answers for itself; especially as he
might lie consistently from the beginning. But Euclid investigated space
according to this first method. He set about it, indeed, under the correct
assumption that nature must everywhere be consistent, and that therefore
it must also be so in space, its fundamental form. Since then the parts of
space stand to each other in a relation of reason and consequent, no
single property of space can be different from what it is without being in
contradiction with all the others. But this is a very troublesome,
unsatisfactory, and roundabout way to follow. It prefers indirect
knowledge to direct, which is just as certain, and it separates the
knowledge that a thing is from the knowledge why it is, to the great
disadvantage of the science; and lastly, it entirely withholds from the
beginner insight into the laws of space, and indeed renders him
unaccustomed to the special investigation of the ground and inner
connection of things, inclining him to be satisfied with a mere historical
knowledge that a thing is as it is. The exercise of acuteness which this
method is unceasingly extolled as affording consists merely in this, that
the pupil practises drawing conclusions, _i.e._, he practises applying the
principle of contradiction, but specially he exerts his memory to retain
all those data whose agreement is to be tested. Moreover, it is worth
noticing that this method of proof was applied only to geometry and not to
arithmetic. In arithmetic the truth is really allowed to come home to us
through perception alone, which in it consists simply in counting. As the
perception of numbers is in _time alone_, and therefore cannot be
represented by a sensuous schema like the geometrical figure, the
suspicion that perception is merely empirical, and possibly illusive,
disappeared in arithmetic, and the introduction of the logical method of
proof into geometry was entirely due to this suspicion. As time has only
one dimension, counting is the only arithmetical operation, to which all
others may be reduced; and yet counting is just intuition or perception _a
priori_, to which there is no hesitation in appealing here, and through
which alone everything else, every sum and every equation, is ultimately
proved. We prove, for example, not that (7 + 9 × 8 - 2)/3 = 42; but we
refer to the pure perception in time, counting thus makes each individual
problem an axiom. Instead of the demonstrations that fill geometry, the
whole content of arithmetic and algebra is thus simply a method of
abbreviating counting. We mentioned above that our immediate perception of
numbers in time extends only to about ten. Beyond this an abstract concept
of the numbers, fixed by a word, must take the place of the perception;
which does not therefore actually occur any longer, but is only indicated
in a thoroughly definite manner. Yet even so, by the important assistance
of the system of figures which enables us to represent all larger numbers
by the same small ones, intuitive or perceptive evidence of every sum is
made possible, even where we make such use of abstraction that not only
the numbers, but indefinite quantities and whole operations are thought
only in the abstract and indicated as so thought, as [sqrt](r^b) so that
we do not perform them, but merely symbolise them.

We might establish truth in geometry also, through pure _a priori_
perception, with the same right and certainty as in arithmetic. It is in
fact always this necessity, known through perception in accordance with
the principle of sufficient reason of being, which gives to geometry its
principal evidence, and upon which in the consciousness of every one, the
certainty of its propositions rests. The stilted logical demonstration is
always foreign to the matter, and is generally soon forgotten, without
weakening our conviction. It might indeed be dispensed with altogether
without diminishing the evidence of geometry, for this is always quite
independent of such demonstration, which never proves anything we are not
convinced of already, through another kind of knowledge. So far then it is
like a cowardly soldier, who adds a wound to an enemy slain by another,
and then boasts that he slew him himself.(22)

After all this we hope there will be no doubt that the evidence of
mathematics, which has become the pattern and symbol of all evidence,
rests essentially not upon demonstration, but upon immediate perception,
which is thus here, as everywhere else, the ultimate ground and source of
truth. Yet the perception which lies at the basis of mathematics has a
great advantage over all other perception, and therefore over empirical
perception. It is _a priori_, and therefore independent of experience,
which is always given only in successive parts; therefore everything is
equally near to it, and we can start either from the reason or from the
consequent, as we please. Now this makes it absolutely reliable, for in it
the consequent is known from the reason, and this is the only kind of
knowledge that has necessity; for example, the equality of the sides is
known as established by the equality of the angles. All empirical
perception, on the other hand, and the greater part of experience,
proceeds conversely from the consequent to the reason, and this kind of
knowledge is not infallible, for necessity only attaches to the consequent
on account of the reason being given, and no necessity attaches to the
knowledge of the reason from the consequent, for the same consequent may
follow from different reasons. The latter kind of knowledge is simply
induction, _i.e._, from many consequents which point to one reason, the
reason is accepted as certain; but as the cases can never be all before
us, the truth here is not unconditionally certain. But all knowledge
through sense-perception, and the great bulk of experience, has only this
kind of truth. The affection of one of the senses induces the
understanding to infer a cause of the effect, but, as a conclusion from
the consequent to the reason is never certain, illusion, which is
deception of the senses, is possible, and indeed often occurs, as was
pointed out above. Only when several of the senses, or it may be all the
five, receive impressions which point to the same cause, the possibility
of illusion is reduced to a minimum; but yet it still exists, for there
are cases, for example, the case of counterfeit money, in which all the
senses are deceived. All empirical knowledge, and consequently the whole
of natural science, is in the same position, except only the pure, or as
Kant calls it, metaphysical part of it. Here also the causes are known
from the effects, consequently all natural philosophy rests upon
hypotheses, which are often false, and must then gradually give place to
more correct ones. Only in the case of purposely arranged experiments,
knowledge proceeds from the cause to the effect, that is, it follows the
method that affords certainty; but these experiments themselves are
undertaken in consequence of hypotheses. Therefore, no branch of natural
science, such as physics, or astronomy, or physiology could be discovered
all at once, as was the case with mathematics and logic, but required and
requires the collected and compared experiences of many centuries. In the
first place, repeated confirmation in experience brings the induction,
upon which the hypothesis rests, so near completeness that in practice it
takes the place of certainty, and is regarded as diminishing the value of
the hypothesis, its source, just as little as the incommensurability of
straight and curved lines diminishes the value of the application of
geometry, or that perfect exactness of the logarithm, which is not
attainable, diminishes the value of arithmetic. For as the logarithm, or
the squaring of the circle, approaches infinitely near to correctness
through infinite fractions, so, through manifold experience, the
induction, _i.e._, the knowledge of the cause from the effects,
approaches, not infinitely indeed, but yet so near mathematical evidence,
_i.e._, knowledge of the effects from the cause, that the possibility of
mistake is small enough to be neglected, but yet the possibility exists;
for example, a conclusion from an indefinite number of cases to all cases,
_i.e._, to the unknown ground on which all depend, is an induction. What
conclusion of this kind seems more certain than that all men have the
heart on the left side? Yet there are extremely rare and quite isolated
exceptions of men who have the heart upon the right side. Sense-perception
and empirical science have, therefore, the same kind of evidence. The
advantage which mathematics, pure natural science, and logic have over
them, as _a priori_ knowledge, rests merely upon this, that the formal
element in knowledge upon which all that is _a priori_ is based, is given
as a whole and at once, and therefore in it we can always proceed from the
cause to the effect, while in the former kind of knowledge we are
generally obliged to proceed from the effect to the cause. In other
respects, the law of causality, or the principle of sufficient reason of
change, which guides empirical knowledge, is in itself just as certain as
the other forms of the principle of sufficient reason which are followed
by the _a priori_ sciences referred to above. Logical demonstrations from
concepts or syllogisms have the advantage of proceeding from the reason to
the consequent, just as much as knowledge through perception _a priori_,
and therefore in themselves, _i.e._, according to their form, they are
infallible. This has greatly assisted to bring demonstration in general
into such esteem. But this infallibility is merely relative; the
demonstration merely subsumes under the first principles of the science,
and it is these which contain the whole material truth of science, and
they must not themselves be demonstrated, but must be founded on
perception. In the few _a priori_ sciences we have named above, this
perception is pure, but everywhere else it is empirical, and is only
raised to universality through induction. If, then, in the empirical
sciences also, the particular is proved from the general, yet the general,
on the other hand, has received its truth from the particular; it is only
a store of collected material, not a self-constituted foundation.

So much for the foundation of truth. Of the source and possibility of
error many explanations have been tried since Plato’s metaphorical
solution of the dove-cot where the wrong pigeons are caught, &c.
(Theætetus, p. 167, _et seq._) Kant’s vague, indefinite explanation of the
source of error by means of the diagram of diagonal motion, will be found
in the “Critique of Pure Reason,” p. 294 of the first edition, and p. 350
of the fifth. As truth is the relation of a judgment to its ground of
knowledge, it is always a problem how the person judging can believe that
he has such a ground of knowledge and yet not have it; that is to say, how
error, the deception of reason, is possible. I find this possibility quite
analogous to that of illusion, or the deception of the understanding,
which has been explained above. My opinion is (and this is what gives this
explanation its proper place here) that _every error is an inference from
the consequent to the reason_, which indeed is valid when we know that the
consequent has that reason and can have no other; but otherwise is not
valid. The person who falls into error, either attributes to a consequent
a reason which it cannot have, in which case he shows actual deficiency of
understanding, _i.e._, deficiency in the capacity for immediate knowledge
of the connection between the cause and the effect, or, as more frequently
happens, he attributes to the effect a cause which is possible, but he
adds to the major proposition of the syllogism, in which he infers the
cause from the effect, that this effect _always_ results only from this
cause. Now he could only be assured of this by a complete induction,
which, however, he assumes without having made it. This “always” is
therefore too wide a concept, and instead of it he ought to have used
“sometimes” or “generally.” The conclusion would then be problematical,
and therefore not erroneous. That the man who errs should proceed in this
way is due either to haste, or to insufficient knowledge of what is
possible, on account of which he does not know the necessity of the
induction that ought to be made. Error then is quite analogous to
illusion. Both are inferences from the effect to the cause; the illusion
brought about always in accordance with the law of causality, and by the
understanding alone, thus directly, in perception itself; the error in
accordance with all the forms of the principle of sufficient reason, and
by the reason, thus in thought itself; yet most commonly in accordance
with the law of causality, as will appear from the three following
examples, which may be taken as types or representatives of the three
kinds of error. (1.) The illusion of the senses (deception of the
understanding) induces error (deception of the reason); for example, if
one mistakes a painting for an alto-relief, and actually takes it for
such; the error results from a conclusion from the following major
premise: “If dark grey passes regularly through all shades to white; the
cause is _always_ the light, which strikes differently upon projections
and depressions, _ergo_—.” (2.) “If there is no money in my safe, the
cause is _always_ that my servant has got a key for it: _ergo_—.” (3.) “If
a ray of sunlight, broken through a prism, _i.e._, bent up or down,
appears as a coloured band instead of round and white as before, the cause
must always be that light consists of homogeneous rays, differently
coloured and refrangible to different degrees, which, when forced asunder
on account of the difference of their refrangibility, give an elongated
and variously-coloured spectrum: _ergo—bibamus!_”—It must be possible to
trace every error to such a conclusion, drawn from a major premise which
is often only falsely generalised, hypothetical, and founded on the
assumption that some particular cause is that of a certain effect. Only
certain mistakes in counting are to be excepted, and they are not really
errors, but merely mistakes. The operation prescribed by the concepts of
the numbers has not been carried out in pure intuition or perception, in
counting, but some other operation instead of it.

As regards the _content_ of the sciences generally, it is, in fact, always
the relation of the phenomena of the world to each other, according to the
principle of sufficient reason, under the guidance of the _why_, which has
validity and meaning only through this principle. _Explanation_ is the
establishment of this relation. Therefore explanation can never go further
than to show two ideas standing to each other in the relation peculiar to
that form of the principle of sufficient reason which reigns in the class
to which they belong. If this is done we cannot further be asked the
question, _why_: for the relation proved is that one which absolutely
cannot be imagined as other than it is, _i.e._, it is the form of all
knowledge. Therefore we do not ask why 2 + 2 = 4; or why the equality of
the angles of a triangle determines the equality of the sides; or why its
effect follows any given cause; or why the truth of the conclusion is
evident from the truth of the premises. Every explanation which does not
ultimately lead to a relation of which no “why” can further be demanded,
stops at an accepted _qualitas occulta_; but this is the character of
every original force of nature. Every explanation in natural science must
ultimately end with such a _qualitas occulta_, and thus with complete
obscurity. It must leave the inner nature of a stone just as much
unexplained as that of a human being; it can give as little account of the
weight, the cohesion, the chemical qualities, &c., of the former, as of
the knowing and acting of the latter. Thus, for example, weight is a
_qualitas occulta_, for it can be thought away, and does not proceed as a
necessity from the form of knowledge; which, on the contrary, is not the
case with the law of inertia, for it follows from the law of causality,
and is therefore sufficiently explained if it is referred to that law.
There are two things which are altogether inexplicable,—that is to say, do
not ultimately lead to the relation which the principle of sufficient
reason expresses. These are, first, the principle of sufficient reason
itself in all its four forms, because it is the principle of all
explanation, which has meaning only in relation to it; secondly, that to
which this principle does not extend, but which is the original source of
all phenomena; the thing-in-itself, the knowledge of which is not subject
to the principle of sufficient reason. We must be content for the present
not to understand this thing-in-itself, for it can only be made
intelligible by means of the following book, in which we shall resume this
consideration of the possible achievements of the sciences. But at the
point at which natural science, and indeed every science, leaves things,
because not only its explanation of them, but even the principle of this
explanation, the principle of sufficient reason, does not extend beyond
this point; there philosophy takes them up and treats them after its own
method, which is quite distinct from the method of science. In my essay on
the principle of sufficient reason, § 51, I have shown how in the
different sciences the chief guiding clue is one or other form of that
principle; and, in fact, perhaps the most appropriate classification of
the sciences might be based upon this circumstance. Every explanation
arrived at by the help of this clue is, as we have said, merely relative;
it explains things in relation to each other, but something which indeed
is presupposed is always left unexplained. In mathematics, for example,
this is space and time; in mechanics, physics, and chemistry it is matter,
qualities, original forces and laws of nature; in botany and zoology it is
the difference of species, and life itself; in history it is the human
race with all its properties of thought and will: in all it is that form
of the principle of sufficient reason which is respectively applicable. It
is peculiar to _philosophy_ that it presupposes nothing as known, but
treats everything as equally external and a problem; not merely the
relations of phenomena, but also the phenomena themselves, and even the
principle of sufficient reason to which the other sciences are content to
refer everything. In philosophy nothing would be gained by such a
reference, as one member of the series is just as external to it as
another; and, moreover, that kind of connection is just as much a problem
for philosophy as what is joined together by it, and the latter again is
just as much a problem after its combination has been explained as before
it. For, as we have said, just what the sciences presuppose and lay down
as the basis and the limits of their explanation, is precisely and
peculiarly the problem of philosophy, which may therefore be said to begin
where science ends. It cannot be founded upon demonstrations, for they
lead from known principles to unknown, but everything is equally unknown
and external to philosophy. There can be no principle in consequence of
which the world with all its phenomena first came into existence, and
therefore it is not possible to construct, as Spinoza wished, a philosophy
which demonstrates _ex firmis principiis_. Philosophy is the most general
rational knowledge, the first principles of which cannot therefore be
derived from another principle still more general. The principle of
contradiction establishes merely the agreement of concepts, but does not
itself produce concepts. The principle of sufficient reason explains the
connections of phenomena, but not the phenomena themselves; therefore
philosophy cannot proceed upon these principles to seek a _causa
efficiens_ or a _causa finalis_ of the whole world. My philosophy, at
least, does not by any means seek to know _whence_ or _wherefore_ the
world exists, but merely _what_ the world is. But the _why_ is here
subordinated to the _what_, for it already belongs to the world, as it
arises and has meaning and validity only through the form of its
phenomena, the principle of sufficient reason. We might indeed say that
every one knows what the world is without help, for he is himself that
subject of knowledge of which the world is the idea; and so far this would
be true. But that knowledge is empirical, is in the concrete; the task of
philosophy is to reproduce this in the abstract to raise to permanent
rational knowledge the successive changing perceptions, and in general,
all that is contained under the wide concept of feeling and merely
negatively defined as not abstract, distinct, rational knowledge. It must
therefore consist of a statement in the abstract, of the nature of the
whole world, of the whole, and of all the parts. In order then that it may
not lose itself in the endless multitude of particular judgments, it must
make use of abstraction and think everything individual in the universal,
and its differences also in the universal. It must therefore partly
separate and partly unite, in order to present to rational knowledge the
whole manifold of the world generally, according to its nature,
comprehended in a few abstract concepts. Through these concepts, in which
it fixes the nature of the world, the whole individual must be known as
well as the universal, the knowledge of both therefore must be bound
together to the minutest point. Therefore the capacity for philosophy
consists just in that in which Plato placed it, the knowledge of the one
in the many, and the many in the one. Philosophy will therefore be a
sum-total of general judgments, whose ground of knowledge is immediately
the world itself in its entirety, without excepting anything; thus all
that is to be found in human consciousness; it will be _a complete
recapitulation, as it were, a reflection, of the world in abstract
concepts_, which is only possible by the union of the essentially
identical in _one_ concept and the relegation of the different to another.
This task was already prescribed to philosophy by Bacon of Verulam when he
said: _ea demum vera est philosophia, quae mundi ipsius voces fidelissime
reddit, et veluti dictante mundo conscripta est, et nihil aliud est, quam
ejusdem_ SIMULACRUM ET REFLECTIO, _neque addit quidquam de proprio, sed
tantum iterat et resonat_ (De Augm. Scient., L. 2, c. 13). But we take
this in a wider sense than Bacon could then conceive.

The agreement which all the sides and parts of the world have with each
other, just because they belong to a whole, must also be found in this
abstract copy of it. Therefore the judgments in this sum-total could to a
certain extent be deduced from each other, and indeed always reciprocally
so deduced. Yet to make the first judgment possible, they must all be
present, and thus implied as prior to it in the knowledge of the world in
the concrete, especially as all direct proof is more certain than indirect
proof; their harmony with each other by virtue of which they come together
into the unity of _one_ thought, and which arises from the harmony and
unity of the world of perception itself, which is their common ground of
knowledge, is not therefore to be made use of to establish them, as that
which is prior to them, but is only added as a confirmation of their
truth. This problem itself can only become quite clear in being
solved.(23)

§ 16. After this full consideration of reason as a special faculty of
knowledge belonging to man alone, and the results and phenomena peculiar
to human nature brought about by it, it still remains for me to speak of
reason, so far as it is the guide of human action, and in this respect may
be called _practical_. But what there is to say upon this point has found
its place elsewhere in the appendix to this work, where I controvert the
existence of the so-called practical reason of Kant, which he (certainly
very conveniently) explained as the immediate source of virtue, and as the
seat of an absolute (_i.e._, fallen from heaven) imperative. The detailed
and thorough refutation of this Kantian principle of morality I have given
later in the “Fundamental Problems of Ethics.” There remains, therefore,
but little for me to say here about the actual influence of reason, in the
true sense of the word, upon action. At the commencement of our treatment
of reason we remarked, in general terms, how much the action and behaviour
of men differs from that of brutes, and that this difference is to be
regarded as entirely due to the presence of abstract concepts in
consciousness. The influence of these upon our whole existence is so
penetrating and significant that, on account of them, we are related to
the lower animals very much as those animals that see are related to those
that have no eyes (certain larvae, worms, and zoophytes). Animals without
eyes know only by touch what is immediately present to them in space, what
comes into contact with them; those which see, on the contrary, know a
wide circle of near and distant objects. In the same way the absence of
reason confines the lower animals to the ideas of perception, _i.e._, the
real objects which are immediately present to them in time; we, on the
contrary, on account of knowledge in the abstract, comprehend not only the
narrow actual present, but also the whole past and future, and the wide
sphere of the possible; we view life freely on all its sides, and go far
beyond the present and the actual. Thus what the eye is in space and for
sensuous knowledge, reason is, to a certain extent, in time and for inner
knowledge. But as the visibility of objects has its worth and meaning only
in the fact that it informs us of their tangibility, so the whole worth of
abstract knowledge always consists in its relation to what is perceived.
Therefore men naturally attach far more worth to immediate and perceived
knowledge than to abstract concepts, to that which is merely thought; they
place empirical knowledge before logical. But this is not the opinion of
men who live more in words than in deeds, who have seen more on paper and
in books than in actual life, and who in their greatest degeneracy become
pedants and lovers of the mere letter. Thus only is it conceivable that
Leibnitz and Wolf and all their successors could go so far astray as to
explain knowledge of perception, after the example of Duns Scotus, as
merely confused abstract knowledge! To the honour of Spinoza, I must
mention that his truer sense led him, on the contrary, to explain all
general concepts as having arisen from the confusion of that which was
known in perception (Eth. II., prop. 40, Schol. 1). It is also a result of
perverted opinion that in mathematics the evidence proper to it was
rejected, and logical evidence alone accepted; that everything in general
which was not abstract knowledge was comprehended under the wide name of
feeling, and consequently was little valued; and lastly that the Kantian
ethics regarded the good will which immediately asserts itself upon
knowledge of the circumstances, and guides to right and good action as
mere feeling and emotion, and consequently as worthless and without merit,
and would only recognise actions which proceed from abstract maxims as
having moral worth.

The many-sided view of life as a whole which man, as distinguished from
the lower animals, possesses through reason, may be compared to a
geometrical, colourless, abstract, reduced plan of his actual life. He,
therefore, stands to the lower animals as the navigator who, by means of
chart, compass, and quadrant, knows accurately his course and his position
at any time upon the sea, stands to the uneducated sailors who see only
the waves and the heavens. Thus it is worth noticing, and indeed
wonderful, how, besides his life in the concrete, man always lives another
life in the abstract. In the former he is given as a prey to all the
storms of actual life, and to the influence of the present; he must
struggle, suffer, and die like the brute. But his life in the abstract, as
it lies before his rational consciousness, is the still reflection of the
former, and of the world in which he lives; it is just that reduced chart
or plan to which we have referred. Here in the sphere of quiet
deliberation, what completely possessed him and moved him intensely
before, appears to him cold, colourless, and for the moment external to
him; he is merely the spectator, the observer. In respect of this
withdrawal into reflection he may be compared to an actor who has played
his part in one scene, and who takes his place among the audience till it
is time for him to go upon the stage again, and quietly looks on at
whatever may happen, even though it be the preparation for his own death
(in the piece), but afterwards he again goes on the stage and acts and
suffers as he must. From this double life proceeds that quietness peculiar
to human beings, so very different from the thoughtlessness of the brutes,
and with which, in accordance with previous reflection, or a formed
determination, or a recognised necessity, a man suffers or accomplishes in
cold blood, what is of the utmost and often terrible importance to him;
suicide, execution, the duel, enterprises of every kind fraught with
danger to life, and, in general, things against which his whole animal
nature rebels. Under such circumstances we see to what an extent reason
has mastered the animal nature, and we say to the strong: σιδηρειον νυ τοι
ἡτορ! (_ferreum certe tibi cor_), Il. 24, 521. Here we can say truly that
reason manifests itself practically, and thus wherever action is guided by
reason, where the motives are abstract concepts, wherever we are not
determined by particular ideas of perception, nor by the impression of the
moment which guides the brutes, there _practical reason_ shows itself. But
I have fully explained in the Appendix, and illustrated by examples, that
this is entirely different from and unrelated to the ethical worth of
actions; that rational action and virtuous action are two entirely
different things; that reason may just as well find itself in connection
with great evil as with great good, and by its assistance may give great
power to the one as well as to the other; that it is equally ready and
valuable for the methodical and consistent carrying out of the noble and
of the bad intention, of the wise as of the foolish maxim; which all
results from the constitution of its nature, which is feminine, receptive,
retentive, and not spontaneous; all this I have shown in detail in the
Appendix, and illustrated by examples. What is said there would have been
placed here, but on account of my polemic against Kant’s pretended
practical reason I have been obliged to relegate it to the Appendix, to
which I therefore refer.

The ideal explained in the _Stoical philosophy_ is the most complete
development of _practical reason_ in the true and genuine sense of the
word; it is the highest summit to which man can attain by the mere use of
his reason, and in it his difference from the brutes shows itself most
distinctly. For the ethics of Stoicism are originally and essentially, not
a doctrine of virtue, but merely a guide to a rational life, the end and
aim of which is happiness through peace of mind. Virtuous conduct appears
in it as it were merely by accident, as the means, not as the end.
Therefore the ethical theory of Stoicism is in its whole nature and point
of view fundamentally different from the ethical systems which lay stress
directly upon virtue, such as the doctrines of the Vedas, of Plato, of
Christianity, and of Kant. The aim of Stoical ethics is happiness: τελος
το ευδαι μονειν (_virtutes omnes finem habere beatitudinem_) it is called
in the account of the Stoa by Stobæus (Ecl., L. ii. c. 7, p. 114, and also
p. 138). Yet the ethics of Stoicism teach that happiness can only be
attained with certainty through inward peace and quietness of spirit
(αταραξια), and that this again can only be reached through virtue; this
is the whole meaning of the saying that virtue is the highest good. But if
indeed by degrees the end is lost sight of in the means, and virtue is
inculcated in a way which discloses an interest entirely different from
that of one’s own happiness, for it contradicts this too distinctly; this
is just one of those inconsistencies by means of which, in every system,
the immediately known, or, as it is called, felt truth leads us back to
the right way in defiance of syllogistic reasoning; as, for example, we
see clearly in the ethical teaching of Spinoza, which deduces a pure
doctrine of virtue from the egoistical _suum utile quærere_ by means of
palpable sophisms. According to this, as I conceive the spirit of the
Stoical ethics, their source lies in the question whether the great
prerogative of man, reason, which, by means of planned action and its
results, relieves life and its burdens so much, might not also be capable
of freeing him at once, directly, _i.e._, through mere knowledge,
completely, or nearly so, of the sorrows and miseries of every kind of
which his life is full. They held that it was not in keeping with the
prerogative of reason that the nature given with it, which by means of it
comprehends and contemplates an infinity of things and circumstances,
should yet, through the present, and the accidents that can be contained
in the few years of a life that is short, fleeting, and uncertain, be
exposed to such intense pain, to such great anxiety and suffering, as
arise from the tempestuous strain of the desires and the antipathies; and
they believed that the due application of reason must raise men above
them, and can make them invulnerable. Therefore Antisthenes says: Δει
κτασθαι νουν, η βροχον (_aut mentem parandam, aut laqueum._ Plut. de
stoic. repugn., c. 14), _i.e._, life is so full of troubles and vexations,
that one must either rise above it by means of corrected thoughts, or
leave it. It was seen that want and suffering did not directly and of
necessity spring from not having, but from desiring to have and not
having; that therefore this desire to have is the necessary condition
under which alone it becomes a privation not to have and begets pain. Ου
πενια λυπην εργαζεται, αλλα επιθυμια (_non paupertas dolorem efficit, sed
cupiditas_), Epict., fragm. 25. Men learned also from experience that it
is only the hope of what is claimed that begets and nourishes the wish;
therefore neither the many unavoidable evils which are common to all, nor
unattainable blessings, disquiet or trouble us, but only the trifling more
or less of those things which we can avoid or attain; indeed, not only
what is absolutely unavoidable or unattainable, but also what is merely
relatively so, leaves us quite undisturbed; therefore the ills that have
once become joined to our individuality, or the good things that must of
necessity always be denied us, are treated with indifference, in
accordance with the peculiarity of human nature that every wish soon dies
and can no more beget pain if it is not nourished by hope. It followed
from all this that happiness always depends upon the proportion between
our claims and what we receive. It is all one whether the quantities thus
related be great or small, and the proportion can be established just as
well by diminishing the amount of the first as by increasing the amount of
the second; and in the same way it also follows that all suffering
proceeds from the want of proportion between what we demand and expect and
what we get. Now this want of proportion obviously lies only in knowledge,
and it could be entirely abolished through fuller insight.(24) Therefore
Chrysippus says: δει ζῃν κατ᾽ εμπειριαν των φυσει συμβαινοντων (Stob.
Ecl., L. ii. c. 7, p. 134), that is, one ought to live with a due
knowledge of the transitory nature of the things of the world. For as
often as a man loses self-command, or is struck down by a misfortune, or
grows angry, or becomes faint-hearted, he shows that he finds things
different from what he expected, consequently that he was caught in error,
and did not know the world and life, did not know that the will of the
individual is crossed at every step by the chance of inanimate nature and
the antagonism of aims and the wickedness of other individuals: he has
therefore either not made use of his reason in order to arrive at a
general knowledge of this characteristic of life, or he lacks judgment, in
that he does not recognise in the particular what he knows in general, and
is therefore surprised by it and loses his self-command.(25) Thus also
every keen pleasure is an error and an illusion, for no attained wish can
give lasting satisfaction; and, moreover, every possession and every
happiness is but lent by chance for an uncertain time, and may therefore
be demanded back the next hour. All pain rests on the passing away of such
an illusion; thus both arise from defective knowledge; the wise man
therefore holds himself equally aloof from joy and sorrow, and no event
disturbs his αταραξια.

In accordance with this spirit and aim of the Stoa, Epictetus began and
ended with the doctrine as the kernel of his philosophy, that we should
consider well and distinguish what depends upon us and what does not, and
therefore entirely avoid counting upon the latter, whereby we shall
certainly remain free from all pain, sorrow, and anxiety. But that which
alone is dependent upon us is the will; and here a transition gradually
takes place to a doctrine of virtue, for it is observed that as the outer
world, which is independent of us, determines good and bad fortune, so
inner contentment with ourselves, or the absence of it, proceeds from the
will. But it was then asked whether we ought to apply the words _bonum_
and _malum_ to the two former or to the two latter? This was indeed
arbitrary and a matter of choice, and did not make any real difference,
but yet the Stoics disputed everlastingly with the Peripatetics and
Epicureans about it, and amused themselves with the inadmissible
comparison of two entirely incommensurable quantities, and the
antithetical, paradoxical judgments which proceeded from them, and which
they flung at each other. The _Paradoxa_ of Cicero afford us an
interesting collection of these from the Stoical side.

Zeno, the founder, seems originally to have followed a somewhat different
path. The starting-point with him was that for the attainment of the
highest good, _i.e._, blessedness and spiritual peace, one must live in
harmony with oneself (ὁμολογουμενους ξῃν; δ᾽ εστι καθ᾽ ἑνα λογον και
συμφωνον ξῃν.—_Consonanter vivere: hoc est secundum unam rationem et
concordem sibi vivere._ Stob. Ecl. eth. L. ii., c. 7, p. 132. Also: Αρετην
διαθεσιν ειναι ψυχης συμφωνον ἑαυτῃ περι ὁλον τον βιον. _Virtutem esse
animi affectiomem secum per totam vitam consentientem_, _ibid._, p. 104.)
Now this was only possible for a man if he determined himself entirely
rationally, according to concepts, not according to changing impressions
and moods; since, however, only the maxims of our conduct, not the
consequences nor the outward circumstances, are in our power, in order to
be always consistent we must set before us as our aim only the maxims and
not the consequences and circumstances, and thus again a doctrine of
virtue is introduced.

But the ethical principle of Zeno—to live in harmony with oneself—appeared
even to his immediate successors to be too formal and empty. They
therefore gave it material content by the addition—“to live in harmony
with nature” (ὁμολογουμενως τῃ φυσει ζῃν), which, as Stobæus mentions in
another place, was first added by Kleanthes, and extended the matter very
much on account of the wide sphere of the concept and the vagueness of the
expression. For Kleanthes meant the whole of nature in general, while
Chrysippus meant human nature in particular (Diog. Laert., 7, 89). It
followed that what alone was adapted to the latter was virtue, just as the
satisfaction of animal desires was adapted to animal natures; and thus
ethics had again to be forcibly united to a doctrine of virtue, and in
some way or other established through physics. For the Stoics always aimed
at unity of principle, as for them God and the world were not dissevered.

The ethical system of Stoicism, regarded as a whole, is in fact a very
valuable and estimable attempt to use the great prerogative of man,
reason, for an important and salutary end; to raise him above the
suffering and pain to which all life is exposed, by means of a maxim—


    “_Qua ratione queas traducere leniter œvum:_
    _Ne te semper inops agitet vexetque cupido,_
    _Ne pavor et rerum mediocriter utilium spes,_”


and thus to make him partake, in the highest degree, of the dignity which
belongs to him as a rational being, as distinguished from the brutes; a
dignity of which, in this sense at any rate, we can speak, though not in
any other. It is a consequence of my view of the ethical system of
Stoicism that it must be explained at the part of my work at which I
consider what reason is and what it can do. But although it may to a
certain extent be possible to attain that end through the application of
reason, and through a purely rational system of ethics, and although
experience shows that the happiest men are those purely rational
characters commonly called practical philosophers,—and rightly so, because
just as the true, that is, the theoretical philosopher carries life into
the concept, they carry the concept into life,—yet it is far from the case
that perfection can be attained in this way, and that the reason, rightly
used, can really free us from the burden and sorrow of life, and lead us
to happiness. Rather, there lies an absolute contradiction in wishing to
live without suffering, and this contradiction is also implied in the
commonly used expression, “blessed life.” This will become perfectly clear
to whoever comprehends the whole of the following exposition. In this
purely rational system of ethics the contradiction reveals itself thus,
the Stoic is obliged in his doctrine of the way to the blessed life (for
that is what his ethical system always remains) to insert a recommendation
of suicide (as among the magnificent ornaments and apparel of Eastern
despots there is always a costly vial of poison) for the case in which the
sufferings of the body, which cannot be philosophised away by any
principles or syllogistic reasonings, are paramount and incurable; thus
its one aim, blessedness, is rendered vain, and nothing remains as a mode
of escape from suffering except death; in such a case then death must be
voluntarily accepted, just as we would take any other medicine. Here then
a marked antagonism is brought out between the ethical system of Stoicism
and all those systems referred to above which make virtue in itself
directly, and accompanied by the most grievous sorrows, their aim, and
will not allow a man to end his life in order to escape from suffering.
Not one of them, however, was able to give the true reason for the
rejection of suicide, but they laboriously collected illusory explanations
from all sides: the true reason will appear in the Fourth Book in the
course of the development of our system. But the antagonism referred to
reveals and establishes the essential difference in fundamental principle
between Stoicism, which is just a special form of endæmonism, and those
doctrines we have mentioned, although both are often at one in their
results, and are apparently related. And the inner contradiction referred
to above, with which the ethical system of Stoicism is affected even in
its fundamental thought, shows itself further in the circumstance that its
ideal, the Stoic philosopher, as the system itself represents him, could
never obtain life or inner poetic truth, but remains a wooden, stiff
lay-figure of which nothing can be made. He cannot himself make use of his
wisdom, and his perfect peace, contentment, and blessedness directly
contradict the nature of man, and preclude us from forming any concrete
idea of him. When compared with him, how entirely different appear the
overcomers of the world, and voluntary hermits that Indian philosophy
presents to us, and has actually produced; or indeed, the holy man of
Christianity, that excellent form full of deep life, of the greatest
poetic truth, and the highest significance, which stands before us in
perfect virtue, holiness, and sublimity, yet in a state of supreme
suffering.(26)





SECOND BOOK. THE WORLD AS WILL.




First Aspect. The Objectification Of The Will.


    Nos habitat, non tartara, sed nec sidera coeli:
    Spiritus, in nobis qui viget, illa facit.


§ 17. In the first book we considered the idea merely as such, that is,
only according to its general form. It is true that as far as the abstract
idea, the concept, is concerned, we obtained a knowledge of it in respect
of its content also, because it has content and meaning only in relation
to the idea of perception, without which it would be worthless and empty.
Accordingly, directing our attention exclusively to the idea of
perception, we shall now endeavour to arrive at a knowledge of its
content, its more exact definition, and the forms which it presents to us.
And it will specially interest us to find an explanation of its peculiar
significance, that significance which is otherwise merely felt, but on
account of which it is that these pictures do not pass by us entirely
strange and meaningless, as they must otherwise do, but speak to us
directly, are understood, and obtain an interest which concerns our whole
nature.

We direct our attention to mathematics, natural science, and philosophy,
for each of these holds out the hope that it will afford us a part of the
explanation we desire. Now, taking philosophy first, we find that it is
like a monster with many heads, each of which speaks a different language.
They are not, indeed, all at variance on the point we are here
considering, the significance of the idea of perception. For, with the
exception of the Sceptics and the Idealists, the others, for the most
part, speak very much in the same way of an _object_ which constitutes the
_basis_ of the idea, and which is indeed different in its whole being and
nature from the idea, but yet is in all points as like it as one egg is to
another. But this does not help us, for we are quite unable to distinguish
such an object from the idea; we find that they are one and the same; for
every object always and for ever presupposes a subject, and therefore
remains idea, so that we recognised objectivity as belonging to the most
universal form of the idea, which is the division into subject and object.
Further, the principle of sufficient reason, which is referred to in
support of this doctrine, is for us merely the form of the idea, the
orderly combination of one idea with another, but not the combination of
the whole finite or infinite series of ideas with something which is not
idea at all, and which cannot therefore be presented in perception. Of the
Sceptics and Idealists we spoke above, in examining the controversy about
the reality of the outer world.

If we turn to mathematics to look for the fuller knowledge we desire of
the idea of perception, which we have, as yet, only understood generally,
merely in its form, we find that mathematics only treats of these ideas so
far as they fill time and space, that is, so far as they are quantities.
It will tell us with the greatest accuracy the how-many and the how-much;
but as this is always merely relative, that is to say, merely a comparison
of one idea with others, and a comparison only in the one respect of
quantity, this also is not the information we are principally in search
of.

Lastly, if we turn to the wide province of natural science, which is
divided into many fields, we may, in the first place, make a general
division of it into two parts. It is either the description of forms,
which I call _Morphology_, or the explanation of changes, which I call
_Etiology_. The first treats of the permanent forms, the second of the
changing matter, according to the laws of its transition from one form to
another. The first is the whole extent of what is generally called natural
history. It teaches us, especially in the sciences of botany and zoology,
the various permanent, organised, and therefore definitely determined
forms in the constant change of individuals; and these forms constitute a
great part of the content of the idea of perception. In natural history
they are classified, separated, united, arranged according to natural and
artificial systems, and brought under concepts which make a general view
and knowledge of the whole of them possible. Further, an infinitely fine
analogy both in the whole and in the parts of these forms, and running
through them all (_unité de plan_), is established, and thus they may be
compared to innumerable variations on a theme which is not given. The
passage of matter into these forms, that is to say, the origin of
individuals, is not a special part of natural science, for every
individual springs from its like by generation, which is everywhere
equally mysterious, and has as yet evaded definite knowledge. The little
that is known on the subject finds its place in physiology, which belongs
to that part of natural science I have called etiology. Mineralogy also,
especially where it becomes geology, inclines towards etiology, though it
principally belongs to morphology. Etiology proper comprehends all those
branches of natural science in which the chief concern is the knowledge of
cause and effect. The sciences teach how, according to an invariable rule,
one condition of matter is necessarily followed by a certain other
condition; how one change necessarily conditions and brings about a
certain other change; this sort of teaching is called _explanation_. The
principal sciences in this department are mechanics, physics, chemistry,
and physiology.

If, however, we surrender ourselves to its teaching, we soon become
convinced that etiology cannot afford us the information we chiefly
desire, any more than morphology. The latter presents to us innumerable
and infinitely varied forms, which are yet related by an unmistakable
family likeness. These are for us ideas, and when only treated in this
way, they remain always strange to us, and stand before us like
hieroglyphics which we do not understand. Etiology, on the other hand,
teaches us that, according to the law of cause and effect, this particular
condition of matter brings about that other particular condition, and thus
it has explained it and performed its part. However, it really does
nothing more than indicate the orderly arrangement according to which the
states of matter appear in space and time, and teach in all cases what
phenomenon must necessarily appear at a particular time in a particular
place. It thus determines the position of phenomena in time and space,
according to a law whose special content is derived from experience, but
whose universal form and necessity is yet known to us independently of
experience. But it affords us absolutely no information about the inner
nature of any one of these phenomena: this is called a _force of nature_,
and it lies outside the province of causal explanation, which calls the
constant uniformity with which manifestations of such a force appear
whenever their known conditions are present, a _law of nature_. But this
law of nature, these conditions, and this appearance in a particular place
at a particular time, are all that it knows or ever can know. The force
itself which manifests itself, the inner nature of the phenomena which
appear in accordance with these laws, remains always a secret to it,
something entirely strange and unknown in the case of the simplest as well
as of the most complex phenomena. For although as yet etiology has most
completely achieved its aim in mechanics, and least completely in
physiology, still the force on account of which a stone falls to the
ground or one body repels another is, in its inner nature, not less
strange and mysterious than that which produces the movements and the
growth of an animal. The science of mechanics presupposes matter, weight,
impenetrability, the possibility of communicating motion by impact,
inertia and so forth as ultimate facts, calls them forces of nature, and
their necessary and orderly appearance under certain conditions a law of
nature. Only after this does its explanation begin, and it consists in
indicating truly and with mathematical exactness, how, where and when each
force manifests itself, and in referring every phenomenon which presents
itself to the operation of one of these forces. Physics, chemistry, and
physiology proceed in the same way in their province, only they presuppose
more and accomplish less. Consequently the most complete etiological
explanation of the whole of nature can never be more than an enumeration
of forces which cannot be explained, and a reliable statement of the rule
according to which phenomena appear in time and space, succeed, and make
way for each other. But the inner nature of the forces which thus appear
remains unexplained by such an explanation, which must confine itself to
phenomena and their arrangement, because the law which it follows does not
extend further. In this respect it may be compared to a section of a piece
of marble which shows many veins beside each other, but does not allow us
to trace the course of the veins from the interior of the marble to its
surface. Or, if I may use an absurd but more striking comparison, the
philosophical investigator must always have the same feeling towards the
complete etiology of the whole of nature, as a man who, without knowing
how, has been brought into a company quite unknown to him, each member of
which in turn presents another to him as his friend and cousin, and
therefore as quite well known, and yet the man himself, while at each
introduction he expresses himself gratified, has always the question on
his lips: “But how the deuce do I stand to the whole company?”

Thus we see that, with regard to those phenomena which we know only as our
ideas, etiology can never give us the desired information that shall carry
us beyond this point. For, after all its explanations, they still remain
quite strange to us, as mere ideas whose significance we do not
understand. The causal connection merely gives us the rule and the
relative order of their appearance in space and time, but affords us no
further knowledge of that which so appears. Moreover, the law of causality
itself has only validity for ideas, for objects of a definite class, and
it has meaning only in so far as it presupposes them. Thus, like these
objects themselves, it always exists only in relation to a subject, that
is, conditionally; and so it is known just as well if we start from the
subject, _i.e._, _a priori_, as if we start from the object, _i.e._, _a
posteriori_. Kant indeed has taught us this.

But what now impels us to inquiry is just that we are not satisfied with
knowing that we have ideas, that they are such and such, and that they are
connected according to certain laws, the general expression of which is
the principle of sufficient reason. We wish to know the significance of
these ideas; we ask whether this world is merely idea; in which case it
would pass by us like an empty dream or a baseless vision, not worth our
notice; or whether it is also something else, something more than idea,
and if so, what. Thus much is certain, that this something we seek for
must be completely and in its whole nature different from the idea; that
the forms and laws of the idea must therefore be completely foreign to it;
further, that we cannot arrive at it from the idea under the guidance of
the laws which merely combine objects, ideas, among themselves, and which
are the forms of the principle of sufficient reason.

Thus we see already that we can never arrive at the real nature of things
from without. However much we investigate, we can never reach anything but
images and names. We are like a man who goes round a castle seeking in
vain for an entrance, and sometimes sketching the façades. And yet this is
the method that has been followed by all philosophers before me.

§ 18. In fact, the meaning for which we seek of that world which is
present to us only as our idea, or the transition from the world as mere
idea of the knowing subject to whatever it may be besides this, would
never be found if the investigator himself were nothing more than the pure
knowing subject (a winged cherub without a body). But he is himself rooted
in that world; he finds himself in it as an _individual_, that is to say,
his knowledge, which is the necessary supporter of the whole world as
idea, is yet always given through the medium of a body, whose affections
are, as we have shown, the starting-point for the understanding in the
perception of that world. His body is, for the pure knowing subject, an
idea like every other idea, an object among objects. Its movements and
actions are so far known to him in precisely the same way as the changes
of all other perceived objects, and would be just as strange and
incomprehensible to him if their meaning were not explained for him in an
entirely different way. Otherwise he would see his actions follow upon
given motives with the constancy of a law of nature, just as the changes
of other objects follow upon causes, stimuli, or motives. But he would not
understand the influence of the motives any more than the connection
between every other effect which he sees and its cause. He would then call
the inner nature of these manifestations and actions of his body which he
did not understand a force, a quality, or a character, as he pleased, but
he would have no further insight into it. But all this is not the case;
indeed the answer to the riddle is given to the subject of knowledge who
appears as an individual, and the answer is _will_. This and this alone
gives him the key to his own existence, reveals to him the significance,
shows him the inner mechanism of his being, of his action, of his
movements. The body is given in two entirely different ways to the subject
of knowledge, who becomes an individual only through his identity with it.
It is given as an idea in intelligent perception, as an object among
objects and subject to the laws of objects. And it is also given in quite
a different way as that which is immediately known to every one, and is
signified by the word _will_. Every true act of his will is also at once
and without exception a movement of his body. The act of will and the
movement of the body are not two different things objectively known, which
the bond of causality unites; they do not stand in the relation of cause
and effect; they are one and the same, but they are given in entirely
different ways,—immediately, and again in perception for the
understanding. The action of the body is nothing but the act of the will
objectified, _i.e._, passed into perception. It will appear later that
this is true of every movement of the body, not merely those which follow
upon motives, but also involuntary movements which follow upon mere
stimuli, and, indeed, that the whole body is nothing but objectified will,
_i.e._, will become idea. All this will be proved and made quite clear in
the course of this work. In one respect, therefore, I shall call the body
the _objectivity of will_; as in the previous book, and in the essay on
the principle of sufficient reason, in accordance with the one-sided point
of view intentionally adopted there (that of the idea), I called it _the
immediate object_. Thus in a certain sense we may also say that will is
the knowledge _a priori_ of the body, and the body is the knowledge _a
posteriori_ of the will. Resolutions of the will which relate to the
future are merely deliberations of the reason about what we shall will at
a particular time, not real acts of will. Only the carrying out of the
resolve stamps it as will, for till then it is never more than an
intention that may be changed, and that exists only in the reason _in
abstracto_. It is only in reflection that to will and to act are
different; in reality they are one. Every true, genuine, immediate act of
will is also, at once and immediately, a visible act of the body. And,
corresponding to this, every impression upon the body is also, on the
other hand, at once and immediately an impression upon the will. As such
it is called pain when it is opposed to the will; gratification or
pleasure when it is in accordance with it. The degrees of both are widely
different. It is quite wrong, however, to call pain and pleasure ideas,
for they are by no means ideas, but immediate affections of the will in
its manifestation, the body; compulsory, instantaneous willing or
not-willing of the impression which the body sustains. There are only a
few impressions of the body which do not touch the will, and it is through
these alone that the body is an immediate object of knowledge, for, as
perceived by the understanding, it is already an indirect object like all
others. These impressions are, therefore, to be treated directly as mere
ideas, and excepted from what has been said. The impressions we refer to
are the affections of the purely objective senses of sight, hearing, and
touch, though only so far as these organs are affected in the way which is
specially peculiar to their specific nature. This affection of them is so
excessively weak an excitement of the heightened and specifically modified
sensibility of these parts that it does not affect the will, but only
furnishes the understanding with the data out of which the perception
arises, undisturbed by any excitement of the will. But every stronger or
different kind of affection of these organs of sense is painful, that is
to say, against the will, and thus they also belong to its objectivity.
Weakness of the nerves shows itself in this, that the impressions which
have only such a degree of strength as would usually be sufficient to make
them data for the understanding reach the higher degree at which they
influence the will, that is to say, give pain or pleasure, though more
often pain, which is, however, to some extent deadened and inarticulate,
so that not only particular tones and strong light are painful to us, but
there ensues a generally unhealthy and hypochondriacal disposition which
is not distinctly understood. The identity of the body and the will shows
itself further, among other ways, in the circumstance that every vehement
and excessive movement of the will, _i.e._, every emotion, agitates the
body and its inner constitution directly, and disturbs the course of its
vital functions. This is shown in detail in “Will in Nature,” p. 27 of the
second edition and p. 28 of the third.

Lastly, the knowledge which I have of my will, though it is immediate,
cannot be separated from that which I have of my body. I know my will, not
as a whole, not as a unity, not completely, according to its nature, but I
know it only in its particular acts, and therefore in time, which is the
form of the phenomenal aspect of my body, as of every object. Therefore
the body is a condition of the knowledge of my will. Thus, I cannot really
imagine this will apart from my body. In the essay on the principle of
sufficient reason, the will, or rather the subject of willing, is treated
as a special class of ideas or objects. But even there we saw this object
become one with the subject; that is, we saw it cease to be an object. We
there called this union the miracle κατ᾽ εξοχην, and the whole of the
present work is to a certain extent an explanation of this. So far as I
know my will specially as object, I know it as body. But then I am again
at the first class of ideas laid down in that essay, _i.e._, real objects.
As we proceed we shall see always more clearly that these ideas of the
first class obtain their explanation and solution from those of the fourth
class given in the essay, which could no longer be properly opposed to the
subject as object, and that, therefore, we must learn to understand the
inner nature of the law of causality which is valid in the first class,
and of all that happens in accordance with it from the law of motivation
which governs the fourth class.

The identity of the will and the body, of which we have now given a
cursory explanation, can only be proved in the manner we have adopted
here. We have proved this identity for the first time, and shall do so
more and more fully in the course of this work. By “proved” we mean raised
from the immediate consciousness, from knowledge in the concrete to
abstract knowledge of the reason, or carried over into abstract knowledge.
On the other hand, from its very nature it can never be demonstrated, that
is, deduced as indirect knowledge from some other more direct knowledge,
just because it is itself the most direct knowledge; and if we do not
apprehend it and stick to it as such, we shall expect in vain to receive
it again in some indirect way as derivative knowledge. It is knowledge of
quite a special kind, whose truth cannot therefore properly be brought
under any of the four rubrics under which I have classified all truth in
the essay on the principle of sufficient reason, § 29, the logical, the
empirical, the metaphysical, and the metalogical, for it is not, like all
these, the relation of an abstract idea to another idea, or to the
necessary form of perceptive or of abstract ideation, but it is the
relation of a judgment to the connection which an idea of perception, the
body, has to that which is not an idea at all, but something _toto genere_
different, will. I should like therefore to distinguish this from all
other truth, and call it κατ᾽ εξοχην _philosophical truth_. We can turn
the expression of this truth in different ways and say: My body and my
will are one;—or, What as an idea of perception I call my body, I call my
will, so far as I am conscious of it in an entirely different way which
cannot be compared to any other;—or, My body is the _objectivity_ of my
will;—or, My body considered apart from the fact that it is my idea is
still my will, and so forth.(27)

§ 19. In the first book we were reluctantly driven to explain the human
body as merely idea of the subject which knows it, like all the other
objects of this world of perception. But it has now become clear that what
enables us consciously to distinguish our own body from all other objects
which in other respects are precisely the same, is that our body appears
in consciousness in quite another way _toto genere_ different from idea,
and this we denote by the word _will_; and that it is just this double
knowledge which we have of our own body that affords us information about
it, about its action and movement following on motives, and also about
what it experiences by means of external impressions; in a word, about
what it is, not as idea, but as more than idea; that is to say, what it is
_in itself_. None of this information have we got directly with regard to
the nature, action, and experience of other real objects.

It is just because of this special relation to one body that the knowing
subject is an individual. For regarded apart from this relation, his body
is for him only an idea like all other ideas. But the relation through
which the knowing subject is an _individual_, is just on that account a
relation which subsists only between him and one particular idea of all
those which he has. Therefore he is conscious of this _one_ idea, not
merely as an idea, but in quite a different way as a will. If, however, he
abstracts from that special relation, from that twofold and completely
heterogeneous knowledge of what is one and the same, then that _one_, the
body, is an idea like all other ideas. Therefore, in order to understand
the matter, the individual who knows must either assume that what
distinguishes that one idea from others is merely the fact that his
knowledge stands in this double relation to it alone; that insight in two
ways at the same time is open to him only in the case of this one object
of perception, and that this is to be explained not by the difference of
this object from all others, but only by the difference between the
relation of his knowledge to this one object, and its relation to all
other objects. Or else he must assume that this object is essentially
different from all others; that it alone of all objects is at once both
will and idea, while the rest are only ideas, _i.e._, only phantoms. Thus
he must assume that his body is the only real individual in the world,
_i.e._, the only phenomenon of will and the only immediate object of the
subject. That other objects, considered merely as _ideas_, are like his
body, that is, like it, fill space (which itself can only be present as
idea), and also, like it, are causally active in space, is indeed
demonstrably certain from the law of causality which is _a priori_ valid
for ideas, and which admits of no effect without a cause; but apart from
the fact that we can only reason from an effect to a cause generally, and
not to a similar cause, we are still in the sphere of mere ideas, in which
alone the law of causality is valid, and beyond which it can never take
us. But whether the objects known to the individual only as ideas are yet,
like his own body, manifestations of a will, is, as was said in the First
Book, the proper meaning of the question as to the reality of the external
world. To deny this is _theoretical egoism_, which on that account regards
all phenomena that are outside its own will as phantoms, just as in a
practical reference exactly the same thing is done by practical egoism.
For in it a man regards and treats himself alone as a person, and all
other persons as mere phantoms. Theoretical egoism can never be
demonstrably refuted, yet in philosophy it has never been used otherwise
than as a sceptical sophism, _i.e._, a pretence. As a serious conviction,
on the other hand, it could only be found in a madhouse, and as such it
stands in need of a cure rather than a refutation. We do not therefore
combat it any further in this regard, but treat it as merely the last
stronghold of scepticism, which is always polemical. Thus our knowledge,
which is always bound to individuality and is limited by this
circumstance, brings with it the necessity that each of us can only _be
one_, while, on the other hand, each of us can _know all_; and it is this
limitation that creates the need for philosophy. We therefore who, for
this very reason, are striving to extend the limits of our knowledge
through philosophy, will treat this sceptical argument of theoretical
egoism which meets us, as an army would treat a small frontier fortress.
The fortress cannot indeed be taken, but the garrison can never sally
forth from it, and therefore we pass it by without danger, and are not
afraid to have it in our rear.

The double knowledge which each of us has of the nature and activity of
his own body, and which is given in two completely different ways, has now
been clearly brought out. We shall accordingly make further use of it as a
key to the nature of every phenomenon in nature, and shall judge of all
objects which are not our own bodies, and are consequently not given to
our consciousness in a double way but only as ideas, according to the
analogy of our own bodies, and shall therefore assume that as in one
aspect they are idea, just like our bodies, and in this respect are
analogous to them, so in another aspect, what remains of objects when we
set aside their existence as idea of the subject, must in its inner nature
be the same as that in us which we call _will_. For what other kind of
existence or reality should we attribute to the rest of the material
world? Whence should we take the elements out of which we construct such a
world? Besides will and idea nothing is known to us or thinkable. If we
wish to attribute the greatest known reality to the material world which
exists immediately only in our idea, we give it the reality which our own
body has for each of us; for that is the most real thing for every one.
But if we now analyse the reality of this body and its actions, beyond the
fact that it is idea, we find nothing in it except the will; with this its
reality is exhausted. Therefore we can nowhere find another kind of
reality which we can attribute to the material world. Thus if we hold that
the material world is something more than merely our idea, we must say
that besides being idea, that is, in itself and according to its inmost
nature, it is that which we find immediately in ourselves as _will_. I say
according to its inmost nature; but we must first come to know more
accurately this real nature of the will, in order that we may be able to
distinguish from it what does not belong to itself, but to its
manifestation, which has many grades. Such, for example, is the
circumstance of its being accompanied by knowledge, and the determination
by motives which is conditioned by this knowledge. As we shall see farther
on, this does not belong to the real nature of will, but merely to its
distinct manifestation as an animal or a human being. If, therefore, I
say,—the force which attracts a stone to the earth is according to its
nature, in itself, and apart from all idea, will, I shall not be supposed
to express in this proposition the insane opinion that the stone moves
itself in accordance with a known motive, merely because this is the way
in which will appears in man.(28) We shall now proceed more clearly and in
detail to prove, establish, and develop to its full extent what as yet has
only been provisionally and generally explained.(29)

§ 20. As we have said, the will proclaims itself primarily in the
voluntary movements of our own body, as the inmost nature of this body, as
that which it is besides being object of perception, idea. For these
voluntary movements are nothing else than the visible aspect of the
individual acts of will, with which they are directly coincident and
identical, and only distinguished through the form of knowledge into which
they have passed, and in which alone they can be known, the form of idea.

But these acts of will have always a ground or reason outside themselves
in motives. Yet these motives never determine more than what I will at
_this_ time, in _this_ place, and under _these_ circumstances, not _that_
I will in general, or _what_ I will in general, that is, the maxims which
characterise my volition generally. Therefore the inner nature of my
volition cannot be explained from these motives; but they merely determine
its manifestation at a given point of time: they are merely the occasion
of my will showing itself; but the will itself lies outside the province
of the law of motivation, which determines nothing but its appearance at
each point of time. It is only under the presupposition of my empirical
character that the motive is a sufficient ground of explanation of my
action. But if I abstract from my character, and then ask, why, in
general, I will this and not that, no answer is possible, because it is
only the manifestation of the will that is subject to the principle of
sufficient reason, and not the will itself, which in this respect is to be
called _groundless_. At this point I presuppose Kant’s doctrine of the
empirical and intelligible character, and also my own treatment of the
subject in “The Fundamental Problems of Ethics,” pp. 48, 58, and 178, _et
seq._, of first edition (p. 174, _et seq._, of second edition). I shall
also have to speak more fully on the question in the Fourth Book. For the
present, I have only to draw attention to this, that the fact of one
manifestation being established through another, as here the deed through
the motive, does not at all conflict with the fact that its real nature is
will, which itself has no _ground_; for as the principle of sufficient
reason in all its aspects is only the form of knowledge, its validity
extends only to the idea, to the phenomena, to the visibility of the will,
but not to the will itself, which becomes visible.

If now every action of my body is the manifestation of an act of will in
which my will itself in general, and as a whole, thus my character,
expresses itself under given motives, manifestation of the will must be
the inevitable condition and presupposition of every action. For the fact
of its manifestation cannot depend upon something which does not exist
directly and only through it, which consequently is for it merely
accidental, and through which its manifestation itself would be merely
accidental. Now that condition is just the whole body itself. Thus the
body itself must be manifestation of the will, and it must be related to
my will as a whole, that is, to my intelligible character, whose
phenomenal appearance in time is my empirical character, as the particular
action of the body is related to the particular act of the will. The whole
body, then, must be simply my will become visible, must be my will itself,
so far as this is object of perception, an idea of the first class. It has
already been advanced in confirmation of this that every impression upon
my body also affects my will at once and immediately, and in this respect
is called pain or pleasure, or, in its lower degrees, agreeable or
disagreeable sensation; and also, conversely, that every violent movement
of the will, every emotion or passion, convulses the body and disturbs the
course of its functions. Indeed we can also give an etiological account,
though a very incomplete one, of the origin of my body, and a somewhat
better account of its development and conservation, and this is the
substance of physiology. But physiology merely explains its theme in
precisely the same way as motives explain action. Thus the physiological
explanation of the functions of the body detracts just as little from the
philosophical truth that the whole existence of this body and the sum
total of its functions are merely the objectification of that will which
appears in its outward actions in accordance with a motive, as the
establishment of the individual action through the motive and the
necessary sequence of the action from the motive conflicts with the fact
that action in general, and according to its nature, is only the
manifestation of a will which itself has no ground. If, however,
physiology tries to refer even these outward actions, the immediate
voluntary movements, to causes in the organism,—for example, if it
explains the movement of the muscles as resulting from the presence of
fluids (“like the contraction of a cord when it is wet,” says Reil in his
“Archiv für Physiologie,” vol. vi. p. 153), even supposing it really could
give a thorough explanation of this kind, yet this would never invalidate
the immediately certain truth that every voluntary motion (_functiones
animales_) is the manifestation of an act of will. Now, just as little can
the physiological explanation of vegetative life (_functiones naturales
vitales_), however far it may advance, ever invalidate the truth that the
whole animal life which thus develops itself is the manifestation of will.
In general, then, as we have shown above, no etiological explanation can
ever give us more than the necessarily determined position in time and
space of a particular manifestation, its necessary appearance there,
according to a fixed law; but the inner nature of everything that appears
in this way remains wholly inexplicable, and is presupposed by every
etiological explanation, and merely indicated by the names, force, or law
of nature, or, if we are speaking of action, character or will. Thus,
although every particular action, under the presupposition of the definite
character, necessarily follows from the given motive, and although growth,
the process of nourishment, and all the changes of the animal body take
place according to necessarily acting causes (stimuli), yet the whole
series of actions, and consequently every individual act, and also its
condition, the whole body itself which accomplishes it, and therefore also
the process through which and in which it exists, are nothing but the
manifestation of the will, the becoming visible, _the objectification of
the will_. Upon this rests the perfect suitableness of the human and
animal body to the human and animal will in general, resembling, though
far surpassing, the correspondence between an instrument made for a
purpose and the will of the maker, and on this account appearing as
design, _i.e._, the teleological explanation of the body. The parts of the
body must, therefore, completely correspond to the principal desires
through which the will manifests itself; they must be the visible
expression of these desires. Teeth, throat, and bowels are objectified
hunger; the organs of generation are objectified sexual desire; the
grasping hand, the hurrying feet, correspond to the more indirect desires
of the will which they express. As the human form generally corresponds to
the human will generally, so the individual bodily structure corresponds
to the individually modified will, the character of the individual, and
therefore it is throughout and in all its parts characteristic and full of
expression. It is very remarkable that Parmenides already gave expression
to this in the following verses, quoted by Aristotle (Metaph. iii. 5):—


    Ὁς γαρ ἑκαστος εχει κρασιν μελεων πολυκαμπτων
    Τως νοος ανθρωποισι παρεστηκεν; το γαρ αυτο
    Εστιν, ὁπερ φρονεει, μελεων φυσις ανθρωποισι
    Και πασιν και παντι; το γαρ πλεον εστι νοημα.


(Ut enim cuique complexio membrorum flexibilium se habet, ita mens
hominibus adest: idem namque est, quod sapit, membrorum natura hominibus,
et omnibus et omni: quod enim plus est, intelligentia est.)(30)

§ 21. Whoever has now gained from all these expositions a knowledge _in
abstracto_, and therefore clear and certain, of what every one knows
directly _in concreto_, _i.e._, as feeling, a knowledge that his will is
the real inner nature of his phenomenal being, which manifests itself to
him as idea, both in his actions and in their permanent substratum, his
body, and that his will is that which is most immediate in his
consciousness, though it has not as such completely passed into the form
of idea in which object and subject stand over against each other, but
makes itself known to him in a direct manner, in which he does not quite
clearly distinguish subject and object, yet is not known as a whole to the
individual himself, but only in its particular acts,—whoever, I say, has
with me gained this conviction will find that of itself it affords him the
key to the knowledge of the inmost being of the whole of nature; for he
now transfers it to all those phenomena which are not given to him, like
his own phenomenal existence, both in direct and indirect knowledge, but
only in the latter, thus merely one-sidedly as _idea_ alone. He will
recognise this will of which we are speaking not only in those phenomenal
existences which exactly resemble his own, in men and animals as their
inmost nature, but the course of reflection will lead him to recognise the
force which germinates and vegetates in the plant, and indeed the force
through which the crystal is formed, that by which the magnet turns to the
north pole, the force whose shock he experiences from the contact of two
different kinds of metals, the force which appears in the elective
affinities of matter as repulsion and attraction, decomposition and
combination, and, lastly, even gravitation, which acts so powerfully
throughout matter, draws the stone to the earth and the earth to the
sun,—all these, I say, he will recognise as different only in their
phenomenal existence, but in their inner nature as identical, as that
which is directly known to him so intimately and so much better than
anything else, and which in its most distinct manifestation is called
_will_. It is this application of reflection alone that prevents us from
remaining any longer at the phenomenon, and leads us to the _thing in
itself_. Phenomenal existence is idea and nothing more. All idea, of
whatever kind it may be, all _object_, is _phenomenal_ existence, but the
_will_ alone is a _thing in itself_. As such, it is throughout not idea,
but _toto genere_ different from it; it is that of which all idea, all
object, is the phenomenal appearance, the visibility, the objectification.
It is the inmost nature, the kernel, of every particular thing, and also
of the whole. It appears in every blind force of nature and also in the
preconsidered action of man; and the great difference between these two is
merely in the degree of the manifestation, not in the nature of what
manifests itself.

§ 22. Now, if we are to think as an object this thing-in-itself (we wish
to retain the Kantian expression as a standing formula), which, as such,
is never object, because all object is its mere manifestation, and
therefore cannot be it itself, we must borrow for it the name and concept
of an object, of something in some way objectively given, consequently of
one of its own manifestations. But in order to serve as a clue for the
understanding, this can be no other than the most complete of all its
manifestations, _i.e._, the most distinct, the most developed, and
directly enlightened by knowledge. Now this is the human will. It is,
however, well to observe that here, at any rate, we only make use of a
_denominatio a potiori_, through which, therefore, the concept of will
receives a greater extension than it has hitherto had. Knowledge of the
identical in different phenomena, and of difference in similar phenomena,
is, as Plato so often remarks, a _sine qua non_ of philosophy. But
hitherto it was not recognised that every kind of active and operating
force in nature is essentially identical with will, and therefore the
multifarious kinds of phenomena were not seen to be merely different
species of the same genus, but were treated as heterogeneous. Consequently
there could be no word to denote the concept of this genus. I therefore
name the genus after its most important species, the direct knowledge of
which lies nearer to us and guides us to the indirect knowledge of all
other species. But whoever is incapable of carrying out the required
extension of the concept will remain involved in a permanent
misunderstanding. For by the word _will_ he understands only that species
of it which has hitherto been exclusively denoted by it, the will which is
guided by knowledge, and whose manifestation follows only upon motives,
and indeed merely abstract motives, and thus takes place under the
guidance of the reason. This, we have said, is only the most prominent
example of the manifestation of will. We must now distinctly separate in
thought the inmost essence of this manifestation which is known to us
directly, and then transfer it to all the weaker, less distinct
manifestations of the same nature, and thus we shall accomplish the
desired extension of the concept of will. From another point of view I
should be equally misunderstood by any one who should think that it is all
the same in the end whether we denote this inner nature of all phenomena
by the word _will_ or by any other. This would be the case if the
thing-in-itself were something whose existence we merely _inferred_, and
thus knew indirectly and only in the abstract. Then, indeed, we might call
it what we pleased; the name would stand merely as the symbol of an
unknown quantity. But the word _will_, which, like a magic spell,
discloses to us the inmost being of everything in nature, is by no means
an unknown quantity, something arrived at only by inference, but is fully
and immediately comprehended, and is so familiar to us that we know and
understand what will is far better than anything else whatever. The
concept of will has hitherto commonly been subordinated to that of force,
but I reverse the matter entirely, and desire that every force in nature
should be thought as will. It must not be supposed that this is mere
verbal quibbling or of no consequence; rather, it is of the greatest
significance and importance. For at the foundation of the concept of
force, as of all other concepts, there ultimately lies the knowledge in
sense-perception of the objective world, that is to say, the phenomenon,
the idea; and the concept is constructed out of this. It is an abstraction
from the province in which cause and effect reign, _i.e._, from ideas of
perception, and means just the causal nature of causes at the point at
which this causal nature is no further etiologically explicable, but is
the necessary presupposition of all etiological explanation. The concept
will, on the other hand, is of all possible concepts the only one which
has its source _not_ in the phenomenal, _not_ in the mere idea of
perception, but comes from within, and proceeds from the most immediate
consciousness of each of us, in which each of us knows his own
individuality, according to its nature, immediately, apart from all form,
even that of subject and object, and which at the same time is this
individuality, for here the subject and the object of knowledge are one.
If, therefore, we refer the concept of _force_ to that of _will_, we have
in fact referred the less known to what is infinitely better known;
indeed, to the one thing that is really immediately and fully known to us,
and have very greatly extended our knowledge. If, on the contrary, we
subsume the concept of will under that of force, as has hitherto always
been done, we renounce the only immediate knowledge which we have of the
inner nature of the world, for we allow it to disappear in a concept which
is abstracted from the phenomenal, and with which we can therefore never
go beyond the phenomenal.

§ 23. The _will_ as a thing in itself is quite different from its
phenomenal appearance, and entirely free from all the forms of the
phenomenal, into which it first passes when it manifests itself, and which
therefore only concern its _objectivity_, and are foreign to the will
itself. Even the most universal form of all idea, that of being object for
a subject, does not concern it; still less the forms which are subordinate
to this and which collectively have their common expression in the
principle of sufficient reason, to which we know that time and space
belong, and consequently multiplicity also, which exists and is possible
only through these. In this last regard I shall call time and space the
_principium individuationis_, borrowing an expression from the old
schoolmen, and I beg to draw attention to this, once for all. For it is
only through the medium of time and space that what is one and the same,
both according to its nature and to its concept, yet appears as different,
as a multiplicity of co-existent and successive phenomena. Thus time and
space are the _principium individuationis_, the subject of so many
subtleties and disputes among the schoolmen, which may be found collected
in Suarez (Disp. 5, Sect. 3). According to what has been said, the will as
a thing-in-itself lies outside the province of the principle of sufficient
reason in all its forms, and is consequently completely groundless,
although all its manifestations are entirely subordinated to the principle
of sufficient reason. Further, it is free from all _multiplicity_,
although its manifestations in time and space are innumerable. It is
itself one, though not in the sense in which an object is one, for the
unity of an object can only be known in opposition to a possible
multiplicity; nor yet in the sense in which a concept is one, for the
unity of a concept originates only in abstraction from a multiplicity; but
it is one as that which lies outside time and space, the _principium
individuationis_, _i.e._, the possibility of multiplicity. Only when all
this has become quite clear to us through the subsequent examination of
the phenomena and different manifestations of the will, shall we fully
understand the meaning of the Kantian doctrine that time, space and
causality do not belong to the thing-in-itself, but are only forms of
knowing.

The uncaused nature of will has been actually recognised, where it
manifests itself most distinctly, as the will of man, and this has been
called free, independent. But on account of the uncaused nature of the
will itself, the necessity to which its manifestation is everywhere
subjected has been overlooked, and actions are treated as free, which they
are not. For every individual action follows with strict necessity from
the effect of the motive upon the character. All necessity is, as we have
already said, the relation of the consequent to the reason, and nothing
more. The principle of sufficient reason is the universal form of all
phenomena, and man in his action must be subordinated to it like every
other phenomenon. But because in self-consciousness the will is known
directly and in itself, in this consciousness lies also the consciousness
of freedom. The fact is, however, overlooked that the individual, the
person, is not will as a thing-in-itself, but is a _phenomenon_ of will,
is already determined as such, and has come under the form of the
phenomenal, the principle of sufficient reason. Hence arises the strange
fact that every one believes himself _a priori_ to be perfectly free, even
in his individual actions, and thinks that at every moment he can commence
another manner of life, which just means that he can become another
person. But _a posteriori_, through experience, he finds to his
astonishment that he is not free, but subjected to necessity; that in
spite of all his resolutions and reflections he does not change his
conduct, and that from the beginning of his life to the end of it, he must
carry out the very character which he himself condemns, and as it were
play the part he has undertaken to the end. I cannot pursue this subject
further at present, for it belongs, as ethical, to another part of this
work. In the meantime, I only wish to point out here that the _phenomenon_
of the will which in itself is uncaused, is yet as such subordinated to
the law of necessity, that is, the principle of sufficient reason, so that
in the necessity with which the phenomena of nature follow each other, we
may find nothing to hinder us from recognising in them the manifestations
of will.

Only those changes which have no other ground than a motive, _i.e._, an
idea, have hitherto been regarded as manifestations of will. Therefore in
nature a will has only been attributed to man, or at the most to animals;
for knowledge, the idea, is of course, as I have said elsewhere, the true
and exclusive characteristic of animal life. But that the will is also
active where no knowledge guides it, we see at once in the instinct and
the mechanical skill of animals.(31) That they have ideas and knowledge is
here not to the point, for the end towards which they strive as definitely
as if it were a known motive, is yet entirely unknown to them. Therefore
in such cases their action takes place without motive, is not guided by
the idea, and shows us first and most distinctly how the will may be
active entirely without knowledge. The bird of a year old has no idea of
the eggs for which it builds a nest; the young spider has no idea of the
prey for which it spins a web; nor has the ant-lion any idea of the ants
for which he digs a trench for the first time. The larva of the
stag-beetle makes the hole in the wood, in which it is to await its
metamorphosis, twice as big if it is going to be a male beetle as if it is
going to be a female, so that if it is a male there may be room for the
horns, of which, however, it has no idea. In such actions of these
creatures the will is clearly operative as in their other actions, but it
is in blind activity, which is indeed accompanied by knowledge but not
guided by it. If now we have once gained insight into the fact, that idea
as motive is not a necessary and essential condition of the activity of
the will, we shall more easily recognise the activity of will where it is
less apparent. For example, we shall see that the house of the snail is no
more made by a will which is foreign to the snail itself, than the house
which we build is produced through another will than our own; but we shall
recognise in both houses the work of a will which objectifies itself in
both the phenomena—a will which works in us according to motives, but in
the snail still blindly as formative impulse directed outwards. In us also
the same will is in many ways only blindly active: in all the functions of
our body which are not guided by knowledge, in all its vital and
vegetative processes, digestion, circulation, secretion, growth,
reproduction. Not only the actions of the body, but the whole body itself
is, as we have shown above, phenomenon of the will, objectified will,
concrete will. All that goes on in it must therefore proceed through will,
although here this will is not guided by knowledge, but acts blindly
according to causes, which in this case are called _stimuli_.

I call a _cause_, in the narrowest sense of the word, that state of
matter, which, while it introduces another state with necessity, yet
suffers just as great a change itself as that which it causes; which is
expressed in the rule, “action and reaction are equal.” Further, in the
case of what is properly speaking a cause, the effect increases directly
in proportion to the cause, and therefore also the reaction. So that, if
once the mode of operation be known, the degree of the effect may be
measured and calculated from the degree of the intensity of the cause; and
conversely the degree of the intensity of the cause may be calculated from
the degree of the effect. Such causes, properly so called, operate in all
the phenomena of mechanics, chemistry, and so forth; in short, in all the
changes of unorganised bodies. On the other hand, I call a _stimulus_,
such a cause as sustains no reaction proportional to its effect, and the
intensity of which does not vary directly in proportion to the intensity
of its effect, so that the effect cannot be measured by it. On the
contrary, a small increase of the stimulus may cause a very great increase
of the effect, or conversely, it may eliminate the previous effect
altogether, and so forth. All effects upon organised bodies as such are of
this kind. All properly organic and vegetative changes of the animal body
must therefore be referred to stimuli, not to mere causes. But the
stimulus, like every cause and motive generally, never determines more
than the point of time and space at which the manifestation of every force
is to take place, and does not determine the inner nature of the force
itself which is manifested. This inner nature we know, from our previous
investigation, is will, to which therefore we ascribe both the unconscious
and the conscious changes of the body. The stimulus holds the mean, forms
the transition between the motive, which is causality accompanied
throughout by knowledge, and the cause in the narrowest sense. In
particular cases it is sometimes nearer a motive, sometimes nearer a
cause, but yet it can always be distinguished from both. Thus, for
example, the rising of the sap in a plant follows upon stimuli, and cannot
be explained from mere causes, according to the laws of hydraulics or
capillary attraction; yet it is certainly assisted by these, and
altogether approaches very near to a purely causal change. On the other
hand, the movements of the _Hedysarum gyrans_ and the _Mimosa pudica_,
although still following upon mere stimuli, are yet very like movements
which follow upon motives, and seem almost to wish to make the transition.
The contraction of the pupils of the eyes as the light is increased is due
to stimuli, but it passes into movement which is due to motive; for it
takes place, because too strong lights would affect the retina painfully,
and to avoid this we contract the pupils. The occasion of an erection is a
motive, because it is an idea, yet it operates with the necessity of a
stimulus, _i.e._, it cannot be resisted, but we must put the idea away in
order to make it cease to affect us. This is also the case with disgusting
things, which excite the desire to vomit. Thus we have treated the
instinct of animals as an actual link, of quite a distinct kind, between
movement following upon stimuli, and action following upon a known motive.
Now we might be asked to regard breathing as another link of this kind. It
has been disputed whether it belongs to the voluntary or the involuntary
movements, that is to say, whether it follows upon motive or stimulus, and
perhaps it may be explained as something which is between the two.
Marshall Hall (“On the Diseases of the Nervous System,” § 293 sq.)
explains it as a mixed function, for it is partly under the influence of
the cerebral (voluntary), and partly under that of the spinal
(non-voluntary) nerves. However, we are finally obliged to number it with
the expressions of will which result from motives. For other motives,
_i.e._, mere ideas, can determine the will to check it or accelerate it,
and, as is the case with every other voluntary action, it seems to us that
we could give up breathing altogether and voluntarily suffocate. And in
fact we could do so if any other motive influenced the will sufficiently
strongly to overcome the pressing desire for air. According to some
accounts Diogenes actually put an end to his life in this way (Diog.
Laert. VI. 76). Certain negroes also are said to have done this (F. B.
Osiander “On Suicide” [1813] pp. 170-180). If this be true, it affords us
a good example of the influence of abstract motives, _i.e._, of the
victory of distinctively rational over merely animal will. For, that
breathing is at least partially conditioned by cerebral activity is shown
by the fact that the primary cause of death from prussic acid is that it
paralyses the brain, and so, indirectly, restricts the breathing; but if
the breathing be artificially maintained till the stupefaction of the
brain has passed away, death will not ensue. We may also observe in
passing that breathing affords us the most obvious example of the fact
that motives act with just as much necessity as stimuli, or as causes in
the narrowest sense of the word, and their operation can only be
neutralised by antagonistic motives, as action is neutralised by
re-action. For, in the case of breathing, the illusion that we can stop
when we like is much weaker than in the case of other movements which
follow upon motives; because in breathing the motive is very powerful,
very near to us, and its satisfaction is very easy, for the muscles which
accomplish it are never tired, nothing, as a rule, obstructs it, and the
whole process is supported by the most inveterate habit of the individual.
And yet all motives act with the same necessity. The knowledge that
necessity is common to movements following upon motives, and those
following upon stimuli, makes it easier for us to understand that that
also which takes place in our bodily organism in accordance with stimuli
and in obedience to law, is yet, according to its inner nature—will, which
in all its manifestations, though never in itself, is subordinated to the
principle of sufficient reason, that is, to necessity.(32) Accordingly, we
shall not rest contented with recognising that animals, both in their
actions and also in their whole existence, bodily structure and
organisation, are manifestations of will; but we shall extend to plants
also this immediate knowledge of the essential nature of things which is
given to us alone. Now all the movements of plants follow upon stimuli;
for the absence of knowledge, and the movement following upon motives
which is conditioned by knowledge, constitutes the only essential
difference between animals and plants. Therefore, what appears for the
idea as plant life, as mere vegetation, as blindly impelling force, we
shall claim, according to its inner nature, for will, and recognise it as
just that which constitutes the basis of our own phenomenal being, as it
expresses itself in our actions, and also in the whole existence of our
body itself.

It only remains for us to take the final step, the extension of our way of
looking at things to all those forces which act in nature in accordance
with universal, unchangeable laws, in conformity with which the movements
of all those bodies take place, which are wholly without organs, and have
therefore no susceptibility for stimuli, and have no knowledge, which is
the necessary condition of motives. Thus we must also apply the key to the
understanding of the inner nature of things, which the immediate knowledge
of our own existence alone can give us, to those phenomena of the
unorganised world which are most remote from us. And if we consider them
attentively, if we observe the strong and unceasing impulse with which the
waters hurry to the ocean, the persistency with which the magnet turns
ever to the north pole, the readiness with which iron flies to the magnet,
the eagerness with which the electric poles seek to be re-united, and
which, just like human desire, is increased by obstacles; if we see the
crystal quickly and suddenly take form with such wonderful regularity of
construction, which is clearly only a perfectly definite and accurately
determined impulse in different directions, seized and retained by
crystallisation; if we observe the choice with which bodies repel and
attract each other, combine and separate, when they are set free in a
fluid state, and emancipated from the bonds of rigidness; lastly, if we
feel directly how a burden which hampers our body by its gravitation
towards the earth, unceasingly presses and strains upon it in pursuit of
its one tendency; if we observe all this, I say, it will require no great
effort of the imagination to recognise, even at so great a distance, our
own nature. That which in us pursues its ends by the light of knowledge;
but here, in the weakest of its manifestations, only strives blindly and
dumbly in a one-sided and unchangeable manner, must yet in both cases come
under the name of will, as it is everywhere one and the same—just as the
first dim light of dawn must share the name of sunlight with the rays of
the full mid-day. For the name _will_ denotes that which is the inner
nature of everything in the world, and the one kernel of every phenomenon.

Yet the remoteness, and indeed the appearance of absolute difference
between the phenomena of unorganised nature and the will which we know as
the inner reality of our own being, arises chiefly from the contrast
between the completely determined conformity to law of the one species of
phenomena, and the apparently unfettered freedom of the other. For in man,
individuality makes itself powerfully felt. Every one has a character of
his own; and therefore the same motive has not the same influence over
all, and a thousand circumstances which exist in the wide sphere of the
knowledge of the individual, but are unknown to others, modify its effect.
Therefore action cannot be predetermined from the motive alone, for the
other factor is wanting, the accurate acquaintance with the individual
character, and with the knowledge which accompanies it. On the other hand,
the phenomena of the forces of nature illustrate the opposite extreme.
They act according to universal laws, without variation, without
individuality in accordance with openly manifest circumstances, subject to
the most exact predetermination; and the same force of nature appears in
its million phenomena in precisely the same way. In order to explain this
point and prove the identity of the _one_ indivisible will in all its
different phenomena, in the weakest as in the strongest, we must first of
all consider the relation of the will as thing-in-itself to its phenomena,
that is, the relation of the world as will to the world as idea; for this
will open to us the best way to a more thorough investigation of the whole
subject we are considering in this second book.(33)

§ 24. We have learnt from the great Kant that time, space, and causality,
with their entire constitution, and the possibility of all their forms,
are present in our consciousness quite independently of the objects which
appear in them, and which constitute their content; or, in other words,
they can be arrived at just as well if we start from the subject as if we
start from the object. Therefore, with equal accuracy, we may call them
either forms of intuition or perception of the subject, or qualities of
the object _as object_ (with Kant, phenomenon), _i.e._, _idea_. We may
also regard these forms as the irreducible boundary between object and
subject. All objects must therefore exist in them, yet the subject,
independently of the phenomenal object, possesses and surveys them
completely. But if the objects appearing in these forms are not to be
empty phantoms, but are to have a meaning, they must refer to something,
must be the expression of something which is not, like themselves, object,
idea, a merely relative existence for a subject, but which exists without
such dependence upon something which stands over against it as a condition
of its being, and independent of the forms of such a thing, _i.e._, _is
not idea_, but a _thing-in-itself_. Consequently it may at least be asked:
Are these ideas, these objects, something more than or apart from the fact
that they are ideas, objects of the subject? And what would they be in
this sense? What is that other side of them which is _toto genere_
different from idea? What is the thing-in-itself? _The will_, we have
answered, but for the present I set that answer aside.

Whatever the thing-in-itself may be, Kant is right in his conclusion that
time, space, and causality (which we afterwards found to be forms of the
principle of sufficient reason, the general expression of the forms of the
phenomenon) are not its properties, but come to it only after, and so far
as, it has become idea. That is, they belong only to its phenomenal
existence, not to itself. For since the subject fully understands and
constructs them out of itself, independently of all object, they must be
dependent upon _existence as idea_ as such, not upon that which becomes
idea. They must be the form of the idea as such; but not qualities of that
which has assumed this form. They must be already given with the mere
antithesis of subject and object (not as concepts but as facts), and
consequently they must be only the more exact determination of the form of
knowledge in general, whose most universal determination is that
antithesis itself. Now, that in the phenomenon, in the object, which is in
its turn conditioned by time, space and causality, inasmuch as it can only
become idea by means of them, namely _multiplicity_, through co-existence
and succession, _change_ and _permanence_ through the law of causality,
_matter_ which can only become idea under the presupposition of causality,
and lastly, all that becomes idea only by means of these,—all this, I say,
as a whole, does not in reality belong to that which appears, to that
which has passed into the form of idea, but belongs merely to this form
itself. And conversely, that in the phenomenon which is not conditioned
through time, space and causality, and which cannot be referred to them,
nor explained in accordance with them, is precisely that in which the
thing manifested, the thing-in-itself, directly reveals itself. It follows
from this that the most complete capacity for being known, that is to say,
the greatest clearness, distinctness, and susceptibility of exhaustive
explanation, will necessarily belong to that which pertains to knowledge
_as such_, and thus to the _form_ of knowledge; but not to that which in
itself is not idea, not object, but which has become knowledge only
through entering these forms; in other words, has become idea, object.
Thus only that which depends entirely upon being an object of knowledge,
upon existing as idea in general and _as such_ (not upon that which
_becomes_ known, and has only _become_ idea), which therefore belongs
without distinction to everything that is known, and which, on that
account, is found just as well if we start from the subject as if we start
from the object,—this alone can afford us without reserve a sufficient,
exhaustive knowledge, a knowledge which is clear to the very foundation.
But this consists of nothing but those forms of all phenomena of which we
are conscious _a priori_, and which may be generally expressed as the
principle of sufficient reason. Now, the forms of this principle which
occur in knowledge of perception (with which alone we are here concerned)
are time, space, and causality. The whole of pure mathematics and pure
natural science _a priori_ is based entirely upon these. Therefore it is
only in these sciences that knowledge finds no obscurity, does not rest
upon what is incomprehensible (groundless, _i.e._, will), upon what cannot
be further deduced. It is on this account that Kant wanted, as we have
said, to apply the name science specially and even exclusively to these
branches of knowledge together with logic. But, on the other hand, these
branches of knowledge show us nothing more than mere connections,
relations of one idea to another, form devoid of all content. All content
which they receive, every phenomenon which fills these forms, contains
something which is no longer completely knowable in its whole nature,
something which can no longer be entirely explained through something
else, something then which is groundless, through which consequently the
knowledge loses its evidence and ceases to be completely lucid. This that
withholds itself from investigation, however, is the thing-in-itself, is
that which is essentially not idea, not object of knowledge, but has only
become knowable by entering that form. The form is originally foreign to
it, and the thing-in-itself can never become entirely one with it, can
never be referred to mere form, and, since this form is the principle of
sufficient reason, can never be completely explained. If therefore all
mathematics affords us an exhaustive knowledge of that which in the
phenomena is quantity, position, number, in a word, spatial and temporal
relations; if all etiology gives us a complete account of the regular
conditions under which phenomena, with all their determinations, appear in
time and space, but, with it all, teaches us nothing more than why in each
case this particular phenomenon must appear just at this time here, and at
this place now; it is clear that with their assistance we can never
penetrate to the inner nature of things. There always remains something
which no explanation can venture to attack, but which it always
presupposes; the forces of nature, the definite mode of operation of
things, the quality and character of every phenomenon, that which is
without ground, that which does not depend upon the form of the
phenomenal, the principle of sufficient reason, but is something to which
this form in itself is foreign, something which has yet entered this form,
and now appears according to its law, a law, however, which only
determines the appearance, not that which appears, only the how, not the
what, only the form, not the content. Mechanics, physics, and chemistry
teach the rules and laws according to which the forces of impenetrability,
gravitation, rigidity, fluidity, cohesion, elasticity, heat, light,
affinity, magnetism, electricity, &c., operate; that is to say, the law,
the rule which these forces observe whenever they enter time and space.
But do what we will, the forces themselves remain _qualitates occultæ_.
For it is just the thing-in-itself, which, because it is manifested,
exhibits these phenomena, which are entirely different from itself. In its
manifestation, indeed, it is completely subordinated to the principle of
sufficient reason as the form of the idea, but it can never itself be
referred to this form, and therefore cannot be fully explained
etiologically, can never be completely fathomed. It is certainly perfectly
comprehensible so far as it has assumed that form, that is, so far as it
is phenomenon, but its inner nature is not in the least explained by the
fact that it can thus be comprehended. Therefore the more necessity any
knowledge carries with it, the more there is in it of that which cannot be
otherwise thought or presented in perception—as, for example,
space-relations—the clearer and more sufficing then it is, the less pure
objective content it has, or the less reality, properly so called, is
given in it. And conversely, the more there is in it which must be
conceived as mere chance, and the more it impresses us as given merely
empirically, the more proper objectivity and true reality is there in such
knowledge, and at the same time, the more that is inexplicable, that is,
that cannot be deduced from anything else.

It is true that at all times an etiology, unmindful of its real aim, has
striven to reduce all organised life to chemism or electricity; all
chemism, that is to say quality, again to mechanism (action determined by
the shape of the atom), this again sometimes to the object of phoronomy,
_i.e._, the combination of time and space, which makes motion possible,
sometimes to the object of mere geometry, _i.e._, position in space (much
in the same way as we rightly deduce the diminution of an effect from the
square of the distance, and the theory of the lever in a purely
geometrical manner): geometry may finally be reduced to arithmetic, which,
on account of its one dimension, is of all the forms of the principle of
sufficient reason, the most intelligible, comprehensible, and completely
susceptible of investigation. As instances of the method generally
indicated here, we may refer to the atoms of Democritus, the vortex of
Descartes, the mechanical physics of Lesage, which towards the end of last
century tried to explain both chemical affinities and gravitation
mechanically by impact and pressure, as may be seen in detail in “_Lucrèce
Neutonien_;” Reil’s form and combination as the cause of animal life, also
tends in this direction. Finally, the crude materialism which even now in
the middle of the nineteenth century has been served up again under the
ignorant delusion that it is original, belongs distinctly to this class.
It stupidly denies vital force, and first of all tries to explain the
phenomena of life from physical and chemical forces, and those again from
the mechanical effects of the matter, position, form, and motion of
imagined atoms, and thus seeks to reduce all the forces of nature to
action and reaction as its thing-in-itself. According to this teaching,
light is the mechanical vibration or undulation of an imaginary ether,
postulated for this end. This ether, if it reaches the eye, beats rapidly
upon the retina, and gives us the knowledge of colour. Thus, for example,
four hundred and eighty-three billion beats in a second give red, and
seven hundred and twenty-seven billion beats in a second give violet. Upon
this theory, persons who are colour-blind must be those who are unable to
count the beats, must they not? Such crass, mechanical, clumsy, and
certainly knotty theories, which remind one of Democritus, are quite
worthy of those who, fifty years after the appearance of Goethe’s doctrine
of colour, still believe in Newton’s homogeneous light, and are not
ashamed to say so. They will find that what is overlooked in the child
(Democritus) will not be forgiven to the man. They might indeed, some day,
come to an ignominious end; but then every one would slink away and
pretend that he never had anything to do with them. We shall soon have to
speak again of this false reduction of the forces of nature to each other;
so much for the present. Supposing this theory were possible, all would
certainly be explained and established and finally reduced to an
arithmetical problem, which would then be the holiest thing in the temple
of wisdom, to which the principle of sufficient reason would at last have
happily conducted us. But all content of the phenomenon would have
disappeared, and the mere form would remain. The “what appears” would be
referred to the “how it appears,” and this “how” would be what is _a
priori_ knowable, therefore entirely dependent on the subject, therefore
only for the subject, therefore, lastly, mere phantom, idea and form of
idea, through and through: no thing-in-itself could be demanded.
Supposing, then, that this were possible, the whole world would be derived
from the subject, and in fact, that would be accomplished which Fichte
wanted to _seem_ to accomplish by his empty bombast. But it is not
possible: phantasies, sophisms, castles in the air, have been constructed
in this way, but science never. The many and multifarious phenomena in
nature have been successfully referred to particular original forces, and
as often as this has been done, a real advance has been made. Several
forces and qualities, which were at first regarded as different, have been
derived from each other, and thus their number has been curtailed. (For
example, magnetism from electricity.) Etiology will have reached its goal
when it has recognised and exhibited as such all the original forces of
nature, and established their mode of operation, _i.e._, the law according
to which, under the guidance of causality, their phenomena appear in time
and space, and determine their position with regard to each other. But
certain original forces will always remain over; there will always remain
as an insoluble residuum a content of phenomena which cannot be referred
to their form, and thus cannot be explained from something else in
accordance with the principle of sufficient reason. For in everything in
nature there is something of which no ground can ever be assigned, of
which no explanation is possible, and no ulterior cause is to be sought.
This is the specific nature of its action, _i.e._, the nature of its
existence, its being. Of each particular effect of the thing a cause may
be certainly indicated, from which it follows that it must act just at
this time and in this place; but no cause can ever be found from which it
follows that a thing acts in general, and precisely in the way it does. If
it has no other qualities, if it is merely a mote in a sunbeam, it yet
exhibits this unfathomable something, at least as weight and
impenetrability. But this, I say, is to the mote what his will is to a
man; and, like the human will, it is, according to its inner nature, not
subject to explanation; nay, more—it is in itself identical with this
will. It is true that a motive may be given for every manifestation of
will, for every act of will at a particular time and in a particular
place, upon which it must necessarily follow, under the presupposition of
the character of the man. But no reason can ever be given that the man has
this character; that he wills at all; that, of several motives, just this
one and no other, or indeed that any motive at all, moves his will. That
which in the case of man is the unfathomable character which is
presupposed in every explanation of his actions from motives is, in the
case of every unorganised body, its definitive quality—the mode of its
action, the manifestations of which are occasioned by impressions from
without, while it itself, on the contrary, is determined by nothing
outside itself, and thus is also inexplicable. Its particular
manifestations, through which alone it becomes visible, are subordinated
to the principle of sufficient reason; it itself is groundless. This was
in substance rightly understood by the schoolmen, who called it _forma
substantialis_. (Cf. Suarez, Disput. Metaph., disp. xv. sect. 1.)

It is a greater and a commoner error that the phenomena which we best
understand are those which are of most frequent occurrence, and which are
most universal and simple; for, on the contrary, these are just the
phenomena that we are most accustomed to see about us, and to be ignorant
of. It is just as inexplicable to us that a stone should fall to the earth
as that an animal should move itself. It has been supposed, as we have
remarked above, that, starting from the most universal forces of nature
(gravitation, cohesion, impenetrability), it was possible to explain from
them the rarer forces, which only operate under a combination of
circumstances (for example, chemical quality, electricity, magnetism),
and, lastly, from these to understand the organism and the life of
animals, and even the nature of human knowing and willing. Men resigned
themselves without a word to starting from mere _qualitates occultæ_, the
elucidation of which was entirely given up, for they intended to build
upon them, not to investigate them. Such an intention cannot, as we have
already said, be carried out. But apart from this, such structures would
always stand in the air. What is the use of explanations which ultimately
refer us to something which is quite as unknown as the problem with which
we started? Do we in the end understand more of the inner nature of these
universal natural forces than of the inner nature of an animal? Is not the
one as much a sealed book to us as the other? Unfathomable because it is
without ground, because it is the content, that which the phenomenon is,
and which can never be referred to the form, to the how, to the principle
of sufficient reason. But we, who have in view not etiology but
philosophy, that is, not relative but unconditioned knowledge of the real
nature of the world, take the opposite course, and start from that which
is immediately and most completely known to us, and fully and entirely
trusted by us—that which lies nearest to us, in order to understand that
which is known to us only at a distance, one-sidedly and indirectly. From
the most powerful, most significant, and most distinct phenomenon we seek
to arrive at an understanding of those that are less complete and weaker.
With the exception of my own body, all things are known to me only on
_one_ side, that of the idea. Their inner nature remains hidden from me
and a profound secret, even if I know all the causes from which their
changes follow. Only by comparison with that which goes on in me if my
body performs an action when I am influenced by a motive—only by
comparison, I say, with what is the inner nature of my own changes
determined by external reasons, can I obtain insight into the way in which
these lifeless bodies change under the influence of causes, and so
understand what is their inner nature. For the knowledge of the causes of
the manifestation of this inner nature affords me merely the rule of its
appearance in time and space, and nothing more. I can make this comparison
because my body is the only object of which I know not merely the _one_
side, that of the idea, but also the other side which is called will.
Thus, instead of believing that I would better understand my own
organisation, and then my own knowing and willing, and my movements
following upon motives, if I could only refer them to movements due to
electrical, chemical, and mechanical causes, I must, seeing that I seek
philosophy and not etiology, learn to understand from my own movements
following upon motives the inner nature of the simplest and commonest
movements of an unorganised body which I see following upon causes. I must
recognise the inscrutable forces which manifest themselves in all natural
bodies as identical in kind with that which in me is the will, and as
differing from it only in degree. That is to say, the fourth class of
ideas given in the Essay on the Principle of Sufficient Reason must be the
key to the knowledge of the inner nature of the first class, and by means
of the law of motivation I must come to understand the inner meaning of
the law of causation.

Spinoza (Epist. 62) says that if a stone which has been projected through
the air had consciousness, it would believe that it was moving of its own
will. I add to this only that the stone would be right. The impulse given
it is for the stone what the motive is for me, and what in the case of the
stone appears as cohesion, gravitation, rigidity, is in its inner nature
the same as that which I recognise in myself as will, and what the stone
also, if knowledge were given to it, would recognise as will. In the
passage referred to, Spinoza had in view the necessity with which the
stone flies, and he rightly desires to transfer this necessity to that of
the particular act of will of a person. I, on the other hand, consider the
inner being, which alone imparts meaning and validity to all real
necessity (_i.e._, effect following upon a cause) as its presupposition.
In the case of men this is called character; in the case of a stone it is
called quality, but it is the same in both. When it is immediately known
it is called will. In the stone it has the weakest, and in man the
strongest degree of visibility, of objectivity. St. Augustine recognises,
with a true instinct, this identity of the tendencies of all things with
our own willing, and I cannot refrain from quoting his naïve account of
the matter:—“_Si pecora essemus, carnalem vitam et quod secundum sensum
ejusdem est amaremus, idque esset sufficiens bonum nostrum, et secundum
hoc si esset nobis bene, nihil aliud quæreremus. Item, si arbores essemus,
nihil quidem sentientes motu amare possemus: verumtamen id quasi appetere
videremur, quo feracius essemus, uberiusque fructuosæ. Si essemus lapides,
aut fluctus, aut ventus, aut flamma, vel quid ejusmodi, sine ullo quidem
sensu atque vita, non tamen nobis deesset quasi quidam nostrorum locorum
atque ordinis appetitus. Nam velut amores corporum momenta sunt ponderum,
sive deorsum gravitate, sive sursum levitate nitantur: ita enim corpus
pondere, sicut animus amore fertur quocunque fertur_” (De Civ. Dei, xi.
28).

It ought further to be mentioned that Euler saw that the inner nature of
gravitation must ultimately be referred to an “inclination and desire”
(thus will) peculiar to material bodies (in the 68th letter to the
Princess). Indeed, it is just this that makes him averse to the conception
of gravitation as it existed for Newton, and he is inclined to try a
modification of it in accordance with the earlier Cartesian theory, and so
to derive gravitation from the impact of an ether upon the bodies, as
being “more rational and more suitable for persons who like clear and
intelligible principles.” He wishes to banish attraction from physics as a
_qualitas occulta_. This is only in keeping with the dead view of nature
which prevailed at Euler’s time as the correlative of the immaterial soul.
It is only worth noticing because of its bearing upon the fundamental
truth established by me, which even at that time this fine intellect saw
glimmering in the distance. He hastened to turn in time, and then, in his
anxiety at seeing all the prevalent fundamental views endangered, he
sought safety in the old and already exploded absurdities.

We know that _multiplicity_ in general is necessarily conditioned by space
and time, and is only thinkable in them. In this respect they are called
the _principium individuationis_. But we have found that space and time
are forms of the principle of sufficient reason. In this principle all our
knowledge _a priori_ is expressed, but, as we showed above, this _a
priori_ knowledge, as such, only applies to the knowableness of things,
not to the things themselves, _i.e._, it is only our form of knowledge, it
is not a property of the thing-in-itself. The thing-in-itself is, as such,
free from all forms of knowledge, even the most universal, that of being
an object for the subject. In other words, the thing-in-itself is
something altogether different from the idea. If, now, this
thing-in-itself is _the will_, as I believe I have fully and convincingly
proved it to be, then, regarded as such and apart from its manifestation,
it lies outside time and space, and therefore knows no multiplicity, and
is consequently _one_. Yet, as I have said, it is not one in the sense in
which an individual or a concept is one, but as something to which the
condition of the possibility of multiplicity, the _principium
individuationis_, is foreign. The multiplicity of things in space and
time, which collectively constitute the objectification of will, does not
affect the will itself, which remains indivisible notwithstanding it. It
is not the case that, in some way or other, a smaller part of will is in
the stone and a larger part in the man, for the relation of part and whole
belongs exclusively to space, and has no longer any meaning when we go
beyond this form of intuition or perception. The more and the less have
application only to the phenomenon of will, that is, its visibility, its
objectification. Of this there is a higher grade in the plant than in the
stone; in the animal a higher grade than in the plant: indeed, the passage
of will into visibility, its objectification, has grades as innumerable as
exist between the dimmest twilight and the brightest sunshine, the loudest
sound and the faintest echo. We shall return later to the consideration of
these grades of visibility which belong to the objectification of the
will, to the reflection of its nature. But as the grades of its
objectification do not directly concern the will itself, still less is it
concerned by the multiplicity of the phenomena of these different grades,
_i.e._, the multitude of individuals of each form, or the particular
manifestations of each force. For this multiplicity is directly
conditioned by time and space, into which the will itself never enters.
The will reveals itself as completely and as much in _one_ oak as in
millions. Their number and multiplication in space and time has no meaning
with regard to it, but only with regard to the multiplicity of individuals
who know in space and time, and who are themselves multiplied and
dispersed in these. The multiplicity of these individuals itself belongs
not to the will, but only to its manifestation. We may therefore say that
if, _per impossibile_, a single real existence, even the most
insignificant, were to be entirely annihilated, the whole world would
necessarily perish with it. The great mystic Angelus Silesius feels this
when he says—


    “I know God cannot live an instant without me,
    He must give up the ghost if I should cease to be.”


Men have tried in various ways to bring the immeasurable greatness of the
material universe nearer to the comprehension of us all, and then they
have seized the opportunity to make edifying remarks. They have referred
perhaps to the relative smallness of the earth, and indeed of man; or, on
the contrary, they have pointed out the greatness of the mind of this man
who is so insignificant—the mind that can solve, comprehend, and even
measure the greatness of the universe, and so forth. Now, all this is very
well, but to me, when I consider the vastness of the world, the most
important point is this, that the thing-in-itself, whose manifestation is
the world—whatever else it may be—cannot have its true self spread out and
dispersed after this fashion in boundless space, but that this endless
extension belongs only to its manifestation. The thing-in-itself, on the
contrary, is present entire and undivided in every object of nature and in
every living being. Therefore we lose nothing by standing still beside any
single individual thing, and true wisdom is not to be gained by measuring
out the boundless world, or, what would be more to the purpose, by
actually traversing endless space. It is rather to be attained by the
thorough investigation of any individual thing, for thus we seek to arrive
at a full knowledge and understanding of its true and peculiar nature.

The subject which will therefore be fully considered in the next book, and
which has, doubtless, already presented itself to the mind of every
student of Plato, is, that these different grades of the objectification
of will which are manifested in innumerable individuals, and exist as
their unattained types or as the eternal forms of things, not entering
themselves into time and space, which are the medium of individual things,
but remaining fixed, subject to no change, always being, never becoming,
while the particular things arise and pass away, always become and never
are,—that these _grades of the objectification of will_ are, I say, simply
_Plato’s Ideas_. I make this passing reference to the matter here in order
that I may be able in future to use the word _Idea_ in this sense. In my
writings, therefore, the word is always to be understood in its true and
original meaning given to it by Plato, and has absolutely no reference to
those abstract productions of dogmatising scholastic reason, which Kant
has inaptly and illegitimately used this word to denote, though Plato had
already appropriated and used it most fitly. By Idea, then, I understand
every definite and fixed grade of the objectification of will, so far as
it is thing-in-itself, and therefore has no multiplicity. These grades are
related to individual things as their eternal forms or prototypes. The
shortest and most concise statement of this famous Platonic doctrine is
given us by Diogenes Laertes (iii. 12): “ὁ Πλατων φησι, εν τῃ φυσει τας
ιδεας ἑσταναι, καθαπερ παραδειγματα, τα δ᾽ αλλα ταυταις εοικεναι, τουτων
ὁμοιωματα καθεστωτα”—(“_Plato ideas in natura velut exemplaria dixit
subsistere; cetera his esse similia, ad istarum similitudinem
consistentia_”). Of Kant’s misuse of the word I take no further notice;
what it is needful to say about it will be found in the Appendix.

§ 26. The lowest grades of the objectification of will are to be found in
those most universal forces of nature which partly appear in all matter
without exception, as gravity and impenetrability, and partly have shared
the given matter among them, so that certain of them reign in one species
of matter and others in another species, constituting its specific
difference, as rigidity, fluidity, elasticity, electricity, magnetism,
chemical properties and qualities of every kind. They are in themselves
immediate manifestations of will, just as much as human action; and as
such they are groundless, like human character. Only their particular
manifestations are subordinated to the principle of sufficient reason,
like the particular actions of men. They themselves, on the other hand,
can never be called either effect or cause, but are the prior and
presupposed conditions of all causes and effects through which their real
nature unfolds and reveals itself. It is therefore senseless to demand a
cause of gravity or electricity, for they are original forces. Their
expressions, indeed, take place in accordance with the law of cause and
effect, so that every one of their particular manifestations has a cause,
which is itself again just a similar particular manifestation which
determines that this force must express itself here, must appear in space
and time; but the force itself is by no means the effect of a cause, nor
the cause of an effect. It is therefore a mistake to say “gravity is the
cause of a stone falling;” for the cause in this case is rather the
nearness of the earth, because it attracts the stone. Take the earth away
and the stone will not fall, although gravity remains. The force itself
lies quite outside the chain of causes and effects, which presupposes
time, because it only has meaning in relation to it; but the force lies
outside time. The individual change always has for its cause another
change just as individual as itself, and not the force of which it is the
expression. For that which always gives its efficiency to a cause, however
many times it may appear, is a force of nature. As such, it is groundless,
_i.e._, it lies outside the chain of causes and outside the province of
the principle of sufficient reason in general, and is philosophically
known as the immediate objectivity of will, which is the “in-itself” of
the whole of nature; but in etiology, which in this reference is physics,
it is set down as an original force, _i.e._, a _qualitas occulta_.

In the higher grades of the objectivity of will we see individuality
occupy a prominent position, especially in the case of man, where it
appears as the great difference of individual characters, _i.e._, as
complete personality, outwardly expressed in strongly marked individual
physiognomy, which influences the whole bodily form. None of the brutes
have this individuality in anything like so high a degree, though the
higher species of them have a trace of it; but the character of the
species completely predominates over it, and therefore they have little
individual physiognomy. The farther down we go, the more completely is
every trace of the individual character lost in the common character of
the species, and the physiognomy of the species alone remains. We know the
physiological character of the species, and from that we know exactly what
is to be expected from the individual; while, on the contrary, in the
human species every individual has to be studied and fathomed for himself,
which, if we wish to forecast his action with some degree of certainty,
is, on account of the possibility of concealment that first appears with
reason, a matter of the greatest difficulty. It is probably connected with
this difference of the human species from all others, that the folds and
convolutions of the brain, which are entirely wanting in birds, and very
weakly marked in rodents, are even in the case of the higher animals far
more symmetrical on both sides, and more constantly the same in each
individual, than in the case of human beings.(34) It is further to be
regarded as a phenomenon of this peculiar individual character which
distinguishes men from all the lower animals, that in the case of the
brutes the sexual instinct seeks its satisfaction without observable
choice of objects, while in the case of man this choice is, in a purely
instinctive manner and independent of all reflection, carried so far that
it rises into a powerful passion. While then every man is to be regarded
as a specially determined and characterised phenomenon of will, and indeed
to a certain extent as a special Idea, in the case of the brutes this
individual character as a whole is wanting, because only the species has a
special significance. And the farther we go from man, the fainter becomes
the trace of this individual character, so that plants have no individual
qualities left, except such as may be fully explained from the favourable
or unfavourable external influences of soil, climate, and other accidents.
Finally, in the inorganic kingdom of nature all individuality disappears.
The crystal alone is to be regarded as to a certain extent individual. It
is a unity of the tendency in definite directions, fixed by
crystallisation, which makes the trace of this tendency permanent. It is
at the same time a cumulative repetition of its primitive form, bound into
unity by an idea, just as the tree is an aggregate of the single
germinating fibre which shows itself in every rib of the leaves, in every
leaf, in every branch; which repeats itself, and to some extent makes each
of these appear as a separate growth, nourishing itself from the greater
as a parasite, so that the tree, resembling the crystal, is a systematic
aggregate of small plants, although only the whole is the complete
expression of an individual Idea, _i.e._, of this particular grade of the
objectification of will. But the individuals of the same species of
crystal can have no other difference than such as is produced by external
accidents; indeed we can make at pleasure large or small crystals of every
species. The individual, however, as such, that is, with traces of an
individual character, does not exist further in unorganised nature. All
its phenomena are expressions of general forces of nature, _i.e._, of
those grades of the objectification of will which do not objectify
themselves (as is the case in organised nature), by means of the
difference of the individualities which collectively express the whole of
the Idea, but show themselves only in the species, and as a whole, without
any variation in each particular example of it. Time, space, multiplicity,
and existence conditioned by causes, do not belong to the will or to the
Idea (the grade of the objectification of will), but only to their
particular phenomena. Therefore such a force of nature as, for example,
gravity or electricity, must show itself as such in precisely the same way
in all its million phenomena, and only external circumstances can modify
these. This unity of its being in all its phenomena, this unchangeable
constancy of the appearance of these, whenever, under the guidance of
causality, the necessary conditions are present, is called a _law of
nature_. If such a law is once learned from experience, then the
phenomenon of that force of nature, the character of which is expressed
and laid down in it, may be accurately forecast and counted upon. But it
is just this conformity to law of the phenomena of the lower grades of the
objectification of will which gives them such a different aspect from the
phenomena of the same will in the higher, _i.e._, the more distinct,
grades of its objectification, in animals, and in men and their actions,
where the stronger or weaker influence of the individual character and the
susceptibility to motives which often remain hidden from the spectator,
because they lie in knowledge, has had the result that the identity of the
inner nature of the two kinds of phenomena has hitherto been entirely
overlooked.

If we start from the knowledge of the particular, and not from that of the
Idea, there is something astonishing, and sometimes even terrible, in the
absolute uniformity of the laws of nature. It might astonish us that
nature never once forgets her laws; that if, for example, it has once been
according to a law of nature that where certain materials are brought
together under given conditions, a chemical combination will take place,
or gas will be evolved, or they will go on fire; if these conditions are
fulfilled, whether by our interposition or entirely by chance (and in this
case the accuracy is the more astonishing because unexpected), to-day just
as well as a thousand years ago, the determined phenomenon will take place
at once and without delay. We are most vividly impressed with the
marvellousness of this fact in the case of rare phenomena, which only
occur under very complex circumstances, but which we are previously
informed will take place if these conditions are fulfilled. For example,
when we are told that if certain metals, when arranged alternately in
fluid with which an acid has been mixed, are brought into contact, silver
leaf brought between the extremities of this combination will suddenly be
consumed in a green flame; or that under certain conditions the hard
diamond turns into carbonic acid. It is the ghostly omnipresence of
natural forces that astonishes us in such cases, and we remark here what
in the case of phenomena which happen daily no longer strikes us, how the
connection between cause and effect is really as mysterious as that which
is imagined between a magic formula and a spirit that must appear when
invoked by it. On the other hand, if we have attained to the philosophical
knowledge that a force of nature is a definite grade of the
objectification of will, that is to say, a definite grade of that which we
recognise as our own inmost nature, and that this will, in itself, and
distinguished from its phenomena and their forms, lies outside time and
space, and that, therefore, the multiplicity, which is conditioned by time
and space, does not belong to it, nor directly to the grade of its
objectification, _i.e._, the Idea, but only to the phenomena of the Idea;
and if we remember that the law of causality has significance only in
relation to time and space, inasmuch as it determines the position of the
multitude of phenomena of the different Ideas in which the will reveals
itself, governing the order in which they must appear; if, I say, in this
knowledge the inner meaning of the great doctrine of Kant has been fully
grasped, the doctrine that time, space, and causality do not belong to the
thing-in-itself, but merely to the phenomenon, that they are only the
forms of our knowledge, not qualities of things in themselves; then we
shall understand that this astonishment at the conformity to law and
accurate operation of a force of nature, this astonishment at the complete
sameness of all its million phenomena and the infallibility of their
occurrence, is really like that of a child or a savage who looks for the
first time through a glass with many facets at a flower, and marvels at
the complete similarity of the innumerable flowers which he sees, and
counts the leaves of each of them separately.

Thus every universal, original force of nature is nothing but a low grade
of the objectification of will, and we call every such grade an eternal
_Idea_ in Plato’s sense. But a _law of nature_ is the relation of the Idea
to the form of its manifestation. This form is time, space, and causality,
which are necessarily and inseparably connected and related to each other.
Through time and space the Idea multiplies itself in innumerable
phenomena, but the order according to which it enters these forms of
multiplicity is definitely determined by the law of causality; this law is
as it were the norm of the limit of these phenomena of different Ideas, in
accordance with which time, space, and matter are assigned to them. This
norm is therefore necessarily related to the identity of the aggregate of
existing matter, which is the common substratum of all those different
phenomena. If all these were not directed to that common matter in the
possession of which they must be divided, there would be no need for such
a law to decide their claims. They might all at once and together fill a
boundless space throughout an endless time. Therefore, because all these
phenomena of the eternal Ideas are directed to one and the same matter,
must there be a rule for their appearance and disappearance; for if there
were not, they would not make way for each other. Thus the law of
causality is essentially bound up with that of the permanence of
substance; they reciprocally derive significance from each other. Time and
space, again, are related to them in the same way. For time is merely the
possibility of conflicting states of the same matter, and space is merely
the possibility of the permanence of the same matter under all sorts of
conflicting states. Accordingly, in the preceding book we explained matter
as the union of space and time, and this union shows itself as change of
the accidents in the permanence of the substance, of which causality or
becoming is the universal possibility. And accordingly, we said that
matter is through and through causality. We explained the understanding as
the subjective correlative of causality, and said matter (and thus the
whole world as idea) exists only for the understanding; the understanding
is its condition, its supporter as its necessary correlative. I repeat all
this in passing, merely to call to mind what was demonstrated in the First
Book, for it is necessary for the complete understanding of these two
books that their inner agreement should be observed, since what is
inseparably united in the actual world as its two sides, will and idea,
has, in order that we might understand each of them more clearly in
isolation, been dissevered in these two books.

It may not perhaps be superfluous to elucidate further by an example how
the law of causality has meaning only in relation to time and space, and
the matter which consists in the union of the two. For it determines the
limits in accordance with which the phenomena of the forces of nature
divide themselves in the possession of matter, while the original forces
of nature, as the immediate objectification of will, which, as a thing in
itself, is not subordinated to the principle of sufficient reason, lie
outside these forms, within which alone all etiological explanation has
validity and meaning, and just on that account can never lead us to the
inner reality of nature. For this purpose let us think of some kind of
machine constructed according to the laws of mechanics. Iron weights begin
the motion by their gravity; copper wheels resist by their rigidity,
affect and raise each other and the lever by their impenetrability, and so
on. Here gravity, rigidity, and impenetrability are original unexplained
forces; mechanics only gives us the condition under which, and the manner
in which, they manifest themselves, appear, and govern a definite matter,
time, and place. If, now, a strong magnet is made to attract the iron of
the weight, and overcome its gravity, the movement of the machine stops,
and the matter becomes forthwith the scene of quite a different force of
nature—magnetism, of which etiology again gives no further explanation
than the condition under which it appears. Or let us suppose that the
copper discs of such a machine are laid upon zinc plates, and an acid
solution introduced between them. At once the same matter of the machine
has become subject to another original force, galvanism, which now governs
it according to its own laws, and reveals itself in it through its
phenomena; and etiology can again tell us nothing about this force except
the conditions under which, and the laws in accordance with which, it
manifests itself. Let us now raise the temperature and add pure acid; the
whole machine burns; that is to say, once more an entirely different force
of nature, chemical energy, asserts at this time and in this place
irresistible claims to this particular matter, and reveals itself in it as
Idea, as a definite grade of the objectification of will. The calcined
metal thus produced now unites with an acid, and a salt is obtained which
forms itself into crystals. These are the phenomena of another Idea, which
in itself is again quite inexplicable, while the appearance of its
phenomena is dependent upon certain conditions which etiology can give us.
The crystals dissolve, mix with other materials, and vegetation springs up
from them—a new phenomenon of will: and so the same permanent matter may
be followed _ad infinitum_, to observe how now this and now that natural
force obtains a right to it and temporarily takes possession of it, in
order to appear and reveal its own nature. The condition of this right,
the point of time and space at which it becomes valid, is given by
causality, but the explanation founded upon this law only extends thus
far. The force itself is a manifestation of will, and as such is not
subject to the forms of the principle of sufficient reason, that is, it is
groundless. It lies outside all time, is omnipresent, and seems as it were
to wait constantly till the circumstances occur under which it can appear
and take possession of a definite matter, supplanting the forces which
have reigned in it till then. All time exists only for the phenomena of
such a force, and is without significance for the force itself. Through
thousands of years chemical forces slumber in matter till the contact with
the reagents sets them free; then they appear; but time exists only for
the phenomena, not for the forces themselves. For thousands of years
galvanism slumbered in copper and zinc, and they lay quietly beside
silver, which must be consumed in flame as soon as all three are brought
together under the required conditions. Even in the organic kingdom we see
a dry seed preserve the slumbering force through three thousand years, and
when at last the favourable circumstances occur, grow up as a plant.(35)

If by this exposition the difference between a force of nature and all its
phenomena has been made quite distinct; if we have seen clearly that the
former is the will itself at this particular grade of its objectification,
but that multiplicity comes to phenomena only through time and space, and
that the law of causality is nothing but the determination of the position
of these phenomena in time and space; then we shall recognise the complete
truth and the deep meaning of Malebranche’s doctrine of occasional causes
(_causes occasionelles_). It is well worth while comparing this doctrine
of his, as he explains it in the “_Recherches de la Vérite_,” both in the
3rd Chapter of the second part of the 6th Book, and in the
_éclaircissements_ appended to this chapter, with this exposition of mine,
and observing the complete agreement of the two doctrines in the case of
such different systems of thought. Indeed I cannot help admiring how
Malebranche, though thoroughly involved in the positive dogmas which his
age inevitably forced upon him, yet, in such bonds and under such a
burden, hit the truth so happily, so correctly, and even knew how to
combine it with these dogmas, at all events verbally.

For the power of truth is incredibly great and of unspeakable endurance.
We find constant traces of it in all, even the most eccentric and absurd
dogmas, of different times and different lands,—often indeed in strange
company, curiously mixed up with other things, but still recognisable. It
is like a plant that germinates under a heap of great stones, but still
struggles up to the light, working itself through with many deviations and
windings, disfigured, worn out, stunted in its growth,—but yet, to the
light.

In any case Malebranche is right: every natural cause is only an
occasional cause. It only gives opportunity or occasion for the
manifestation of the one indivisible will which is the “in-itself” of all
things, and whose graduated objectification is the whole visible world.
Only the appearance, the becoming visible, in this place, at this time, is
brought about by the cause and is so far dependent on it, but not the
whole of the phenomenon, nor its inner nature. This is the will itself, to
which the principle of sufficient reason has not application, and which is
therefore groundless. Nothing in the world has a sufficient cause of its
existence generally, but only a cause of existence just here and just now.
That a stone exhibits now gravity, now rigidity, now electricity, now
chemical qualities, depends upon causes, upon impressions upon it from
without, and is to be explained from these. But these qualities
themselves, and thus the whole inner nature of the stone which consists in
them, and therefore manifests itself in all the ways referred to; thus, in
general, that the stone is such as it is, that it exists generally—all
this, I say, has no ground, but is the visible appearance of the
groundless will. Every cause is thus an occasional cause. We have found it
to be so in nature, which is without knowledge, and it is also precisely
the same when motives and not causes or stimuli determine the point at
which the phenomena are to appear, that is to say, in the actions of
animals and human beings. For in both cases it is one and the same will
which appears; very different in the grades of its manifestation,
multiplied in the phenomena of these grades, and, in respect of these,
subordinated to the principle of sufficient reason, but in itself free
from all this. Motives do not determine the character of man, but only the
phenomena of his character, that is, his actions; the outward fashion of
his life, not its inner meaning and content. These proceed from the
character which is the immediate manifestation of the will, and is
therefore groundless. That one man is bad and another good, does not
depend upon motives or outward influences, such as teaching and preaching,
and is in this sense quite inexplicable. But whether a bad man shows his
badness in petty acts of injustice, cowardly tricks, and low knavery which
he practises in the narrow sphere of his circumstances, or whether as a
conqueror he oppresses nations, throws a world into lamentation, and sheds
the blood of millions; this is the outward form of his manifestation, that
which is unessential to it, and depends upon the circumstances in which
fate has placed him, upon his surroundings, upon external influences, upon
motives; but his decision upon these motives can never be explained from
them; it proceeds from the will, of which this man is a manifestation. Of
this we shall speak in the Fourth Book. The manner in which the character
discloses its qualities is quite analogous to the way in which those of
every material body in unconscious nature are disclosed. Water remains
water with its intrinsic qualities, whether as a still lake it reflects
its banks, or leaps in foam from the cliffs, or, artificially confined,
spouts in a long jet into the air. All that depends upon external causes;
the one form is as natural to it as the other, but it will always show the
same form in the same circumstances; it is equally ready for any, but in
every case true to its character, and at all times revealing this alone.
So will every human character under all circumstances reveal itself, but
the phenomena which proceed from it will always be in accordance with the
circumstances.

§ 27. If, from the foregoing consideration of the forces of nature and
their phenomena, we have come to see clearly how far an explanation from
causes can go, and where it must stop if it is not to degenerate into the
vain attempt to reduce the content of all phenomena to their mere form, in
which case there would ultimately remain nothing but form, we shall be
able to settle in general terms what is to be demanded of etiology as a
whole. It must seek out the causes of all phenomena in nature, _i.e._, the
circumstances under which they invariably appear. Then it must refer the
multitude of phenomena which have various forms in various circumstances
to what is active in every phenomenon, and is presupposed in the
cause,—original forces of nature. It must correctly distinguish between a
difference of the phenomenon which arises from a difference of the force,
and one which results merely from a difference of the circumstances under
which the force expresses itself; and with equal care it must guard
against taking the expressions of one and the same force under different
circumstances for the manifestations of different forces, and conversely
against taking for manifestations of one and the same force what
originally belongs to different forces. Now this is the direct work of the
faculty of judgment, and that is why so few men are capable of increasing
our insight in physics, while all are able to enlarge experience.
Indolence and ignorance make us disposed to appeal too soon to original
forces. This is exemplified with an exaggeration that savours of irony in
the entities and quidities of the schoolmen. Nothing is further from my
desire than to favour their resuscitation. We have just as little right to
appeal to the objectification of will, instead of giving a physical
explanation, as we have to appeal to the creative power of God. For
physics demands causes, and the will is never a cause. Its whole relation
to the phenomenon is not in accordance with the principle of sufficient
reason. But that which in itself is the will exists in another aspect as
idea; that is to say, is phenomenon. As such, it obeys the laws which
constitute the form of the phenomenon. Every movement, for example,
although it is always a manifestation of will, must yet have a cause from
which it is to be explained in relation to a particular time and space;
that is, not in general in its inner nature, but as a _particular_
phenomenon. In the case of the stone, this is a mechanical cause; in that
of the movement of a man, it is a motive; but in no case can it be
wanting. On the other hand, the universal common nature of all phenomena
of one particular kind, that which must be presupposed if the explanation
from causes is to have any sense and meaning, is the general force of
nature, which, in physics, must remain a _qualitas occulta_, because with
it the etiological explanation ends and the metaphysical begins. But the
chain of causes and effects is never broken by an original force to which
it has been necessary to appeal. It does not run back to such a force as
if it were its first link, but the nearest link, as well as the remotest,
presupposes the original force, and could otherwise explain nothing. A
series of causes and effects may be the manifestation of the most
different kinds of forces, whose successive visible appearances are
conducted through it, as I have illustrated above by the example of a
metal machine. But the difference of these original forces, which cannot
be referred to each other, by no means breaks the unity of that chain of
causes, and the connection between all its links. The etiology and the
philosophy of nature never do violence to each other, but go hand in hand,
regarding the same object from different points of view. Etiology gives an
account of the causes which necessarily produce the particular phenomenon
to be explained. It exhibits, as the foundation of all its explanations,
the universal forces which are active in all these causes and effects. It
accurately defines, enumerates, and distinguishes these forces, and then
indicates all the different effects in which each force appears, regulated
by the difference of the circumstances, always in accordance with its own
peculiar character, which it discloses in obedience to an invariable rule,
called _a law of nature_. When all this has been thoroughly accomplished
by physics in every particular, it will be complete, and its work will be
done. There will then remain no unknown force in unorganised nature, nor
any effect, which has not been proved to be the manifestation of one of
these forces under definite circumstances, in accordance with a law of
nature. Yet a law of nature remains merely the observed rule according to
which nature invariably proceeds whenever certain definite circumstances
occur. Therefore a law of nature may be defined as a fact expressed
generally—_un fait généralisé_—and thus a complete enumeration of all the
laws of nature would only be a complete register of facts. The
consideration of nature as a whole is thus completed in _morphology_,
which enumerates, compares, and arranges all the enduring forms of
organised nature. Of the causes of the appearance of the individual
creature it has little to say, for in all cases this is procreation (the
theory of which is a separate matter), and in rare cases the _generatio
æquivoca_. But to this last belongs, strictly speaking, the manner in
which all the lower grades of the objectification of will, that is to say,
physical and chemical phenomena, appear as individual, and it is precisely
the task of etiology to point out the conditions of this appearance.
Philosophy, on the other hand, concerns itself only with the universal, in
nature as everywhere else. The original forces themselves are here its
object, and it recognises in them the different grades of the objectivity
of will, which is the inner nature, the “in-itself” of this world; and
when it regards the world apart from will, it explains it as merely the
idea of the subject. But if etiology, instead of preparing the way for
philosophy, and supplying its doctrines with practical application by
means of instances, supposes that its aim is rather to deny the existence
of all original forces, except perhaps _one_, the most general, for
example, impenetrability, which it imagines it thoroughly understands, and
consequently seeks forcibly to refer all the others to it—it forsakes its
own province and can only give us error instead of truth. The content of
nature is supplanted by its form, everything is ascribed to the
circumstances which work from without, and nothing to the inner nature of
the thing. Now if it were possible to succeed by this method, a problem in
arithmetic would ultimately, as we have already remarked, solve the riddle
of the universe. But this is the method adopted by those, referred to
above, who think that all physiological effects ought to be reduced to
form and combination, this, perhaps, to electricity, and this again to
chemism, and chemism to mechanism. The mistake of Descartes, for example,
and of all the Atomists, was of this last description. They referred the
movements of the globe to the impact of a fluid, and the qualities of
matter to the connection and form of the atoms, and hence they laboured to
explain all the phenomena of nature as merely manifestations of
impenetrability and cohesion. Although this has been given up, precisely
the same error is committed in our own day by the electrical, chemical,
and mechanical physiologists, who obstinately attempt to explain the whole
of life and all the functions of the organism from “form and combination.”
In Meckel’s “Archiv für Physiologie” (1820, vol. v. p. 185) we still find
it stated that the aim of physiological explanation is the reduction of
organic life to the universal forces with which physics deals. Lamarck
also, in his “_Philosophie Zoologique_,” explains life as merely the
effect of warmth and electricity: _le calorique et la matière électrique
suffisent parfaitement pour composer ensemble cette cause essentielle de
la vie_ (p. 16). According to this, warmth and electricity would be the
“thing-in-itself,” and the world of animals and plants its phenomenal
appearance. The absurdity of this opinion becomes glaringly apparent at
the 306th and following pages of that work. It is well known that all
these opinions, that have been so often refuted, have reappeared quite
recently with renewed confidence. If we carefully examine the foundation
of these views, we shall find that they ultimately involve the
presupposition that the organism is merely an aggregate of phenomena of
physical, chemical, and mechanical forces, which have come together here
by chance, and produced the organism as a freak of nature without further
significance. The organism of an animal or of a human being would
therefore be, if considered philosophically, not the exhibition of a
special Idea, that is, not itself immediate objectivity of the will at a
definite higher grade, but in it would appear only those Ideas which
objectify the will in electricity, in chemism, and in mechanism. Thus the
organism would be as fortuitously constructed by the concurrence of these
forces as the forms of men and beasts in clouds and stalactites, and would
therefore in itself be no more interesting than they are. However, we
shall see immediately how far the application of physical and chemical
modes of explanation to the organism may yet, within certain limits, be
allowable and useful; for I shall explain that the vital force certainly
avails itself of and uses the forces of unorganised nature; yet these
forces no more constitute the vital force than a hammer and anvil make a
blacksmith. Therefore even the most simple example of plant life can never
be explained from these forces by any theory of capillary attraction and
endosmose, much less animal life. The following observations will prepare
the way for this somewhat difficult discussion.

It follows from all that has been said that it is certainly an error on
the part of natural science to seek to refer the higher grades of the
objectification of will to the lower; for the failure to recognise, or the
denial of, original and self-existing forces of nature is just as wrong as
the groundless assumption of special forces when what occurs is merely a
peculiar kind of manifestation of what is already known. Thus Kant rightly
says that it would be absurd to hope for a blade of grass from a Newton,
that is, from one who reduced the blade of grass to the manifestations of
physical and chemical forces, of which it was the chance product, and
therefore a mere freak of nature, in which no special Idea appeared,
_i.e._, the will did not directly reveal itself in it in a higher and
specific grade, but just as in the phenomena of unorganised nature and by
chance in this form. The schoolmen, who certainly would not have allowed
such a doctrine, would rightly have said that it was a complete denial of
the _forma substantialis_, and a degradation of it to the _forma
accidentalis_. For the _forma substantialis_ of Aristotle denotes exactly
what I call the grade of the objectification of will in a thing. On the
other hand, it is not to be overlooked that in all Ideas, that is, in all
forces of unorganised, and all forms of organised nature, it is _one and
the same_ will that reveals itself, that is to say, which enters the form
of the idea and passes into _objectivity_. Its unity must therefore be
also recognisable through an inner relationship between all its phenomena.
Now this reveals itself in the higher grades of the objectification of
will, where the whole phenomenon is more distinct, thus in the vegetable
and animal kingdoms, through the universally prevailing analogy of all
forms, the fundamental type which recurs in all phenomena. This has,
therefore, become the guiding principle of the admirable zoological system
which was originated by the French in this century, and it is most
completely established in comparative anatomy as _l’unité de plan_,
_l’uniformité de l’élément anatomique_. To discover this fundamental type
has been the chief concern, or at any rate the praiseworthy endeavour, of
the natural philosophers of the school of Schelling, who have in this
respect considerable merit, although in many cases their hunt after
analogies in nature degenerated into mere conceits. They have, however,
rightly shown that that general relationship and family likeness exists
also in the Ideas of unorganised nature; for example, between electricity
and magnetism, the identity of which was afterwards established; between
chemical attraction and gravitation, and so forth. They specially called
attention to the fact that _polarity_, that is, the sundering of a force
into two qualitatively different and opposed activities striving after
reunion, which also shows itself for the most part in space as a
dispersion in opposite directions, is a fundamental type of almost all the
phenomena of nature, from the magnet and the crystal to man himself. Yet
this knowledge has been current in China from the earliest times, in the
doctrine of opposition of Yin and Yang. Indeed, since all things in the
world are the objectification of one and the same will, and therefore in
their inner nature identical, it must not only be the case that there is
that unmistakable analogy between them, and that in every phenomenon the
trace, intimation, and plan of the higher phenomenon that lies next to it
in point of development shows itself, but also because all these forms
belong to the world as _idea_, it is indeed conceivable that even in the
most universal forms of the idea, in that peculiar framework of the
phenomenal world space and time, it may be possible to discern and
establish the fundamental type, intimation, and plan of what fills the
forms. It seems to have been a dim notion of this that was the origin of
the Cabala and all the mathematical philosophy of the Pythagoreans, and
also of the Chinese in Y-king. In the school of Schelling also, to which
we have already referred, we find, among their efforts to bring to light
the similarity among the phenomena of nature, several attempts (though
rather unfortunate ones) to deduce laws of nature from the laws of pure
space and time. However, one can never tell to what extent a man of genius
will realise both endeavours.

Now, although the difference between phenomenon and thing-in-itself is
never lost sight of, and therefore the identity of the will which
objectifies itself in all Ideas can never (because it has different grades
of its objectification) be distorted to mean identity of the particular
Ideas themselves in which it appears, so that, for example, chemical or
electrical attraction can never be reduced to the attraction of
gravitation, although this inner analogy is known, and the former may be
regarded as, so to speak, higher powers of the latter, just as little does
the similarity of the construction of all animals warrant us in mixing and
identifying the species and explaining the more developed as mere
variations of the less developed; and although, finally, the physiological
functions are never to be reduced to chemical or physical processes, yet,
in justification of this procedure, within certain limits, we may accept
the following observations as highly probable.

If several of the phenomena of will in the lower grades of its
objectification—that is, in unorganised nature—come into conflict because
each of them, under the guidance of causality, seeks to possess a given
portion of matter, there arises from the conflict the phenomenon of a
higher Idea which prevails over all the less developed phenomena
previously there, yet in such a way that it allows the essence of these to
continue to exist in a subordinate manner, in that it takes up into itself
from them something which is analogous to them. This process is only
intelligible from the identity of the will which manifests itself in all
the Ideas, and which is always striving after higher objectification. We
thus see, for example, in the hardening of the bones, an unmistakable
analogy to crystallisation, as the force which originally had possession
of the chalk, although ossification is never to be reduced to
crystallisation. The analogy shows itself in a weaker degree in the flesh
becoming firm. The combination of humours in the animal body and secretion
are also analogous to chemical combination and separation. Indeed, the
laws of chemistry are still strongly operative in this case, but
subordinated, very much modified, and mastered by a higher Idea; therefore
mere chemical forces outside the organism will never afford us such
humours; but


    “Encheiresin naturæ nennt es die Chemie,
    Spottet ihrer selbst und weiss nicht wie.”


The more developed Idea resulting from this victory over several lower
Ideas or objectifications of will, gains an entirely new character by
taking up into itself from every Idea over which it has prevailed a
strengthened analogy. The will objectifies itself in a new, more distinct
way. It originally appears in _generatio æquivoca_; afterwards in
assimilation to the given germ, organic moisture, plant, animal, man. Thus
from the strife of lower phenomena the higher arise, swallowing them all
up, but yet realising in the higher grade the tendency of all the lower.
Here, then, already the law applies—_Serpens nisi serpentem comederit non
fit draco._

I wish it had been possible for me to dispel by clearness of explanation
the obscurity which clings to the subject of these thoughts; but I see
very well that the reader’s own consideration of the matter must
materially aid me if I am not to remain uncomprehended or misunderstood.
According to the view I have expressed, the traces of chemical and
physical modes of operation will indeed be found in the organism, but it
can never be explained from them; because it is by no means a phenomenon
even accidentally brought about through the united actions of such forces,
but a higher Idea which has overcome these lower ideas by _subduing
assimilation_; for the _one_ will which objectifies itself in all Ideas
always seeks the highest possible objectification, and has therefore in
this case given up the lower grades of its manifestation after a conflict,
in order to appear in a higher grade, and one so much the more powerful.
No victory without conflict: since the higher Idea or objectification of
will can only appear through the conquest of the lower, it endures the
opposition of these lower Ideas, which, although brought into subjection,
still constantly strive to obtain an independent and complete expression
of their being. The magnet that has attracted a piece of iron carries on a
perpetual conflict with gravitation, which, as the lower objectification
of will, has a prior right to the matter of the iron; and in this constant
battle the magnet indeed grows stronger, for the opposition excites it, as
it were, to greater effort. In the same way every manifestation of the
will, including that which expresses itself in the human organism, wages a
constant war against the many physical and chemical forces which, as lower
Ideas, have a prior right to that matter. Thus the arm falls which for a
while, overcoming gravity, we have held stretched out; thus the pleasing
sensation of health, which proclaims the victory of the Idea of the
self-conscious organism over the physical and chemical laws, which
originally governed the humours of the body, is so often interrupted, and
is indeed always accompanied by greater or less discomfort, which arises
from the resistance of these forces, and on account of which the
vegetative part of our life is constantly attended by slight pain. Thus
also digestion weakens all the animal functions, because it requires the
whole vital force to overcome the chemical forces of nature by
assimilation. Hence also in general the burden of physical life, the
necessity of sleep, and, finally, of death; for at last these subdued
forces of nature, assisted by circumstances, win back from the organism,
wearied even by the constant victory, the matter it took from them, and
attain to an unimpeded expression of their being. We may therefore say
that every organism expresses the Idea of which it is the image, only
after we have subtracted the part of its force which is expended in
subduing the lower Ideas that strive with it for matter. This seems to
have been running in the mind of Jacob Böhm when he says somewhere that
all the bodies of men and animals, and even all plants, are really half
dead. According as the subjection in the organism of these forces of
nature, which express the lower grades of the objectification of will, is
more or less successful, the more or the less completely does it attain to
the expression of its Idea; that is to say, the nearer it is to the
_ideal_ or the further from it—the _ideal_ of beauty in its species.

Thus everywhere in nature we see strife, conflict, and alternation of
victory, and in it we shall come to recognise more distinctly that
variance with itself which is essential to the will. Every grade of the
objectification of will fights for the matter, the space, and the time of
the others. The permanent matter must constantly change its form; for
under the guidance of causality, mechanical, physical, chemical, and
organic phenomena, eagerly striving to appear, wrest the matter from each
other, for each desires to reveal its own Idea. This strife may be
followed through the whole of nature; indeed nature exists only through
it: ει γαρ μη ην το νεικος εν τοις πραγμασιν, ἑν αν ην ἁπαντα, ὡς φησιν
Εμπεδοκλης; (nam si non inesset in rebus contentio, unum omnia essent, ut
ait Empedocles. Aris. Metaph., B. 5). Yet this strife itself is only the
revelation of that variance with itself which is essential to the will.
This universal conflict becomes most distinctly visible in the animal
kingdom. For animals have the whole of the vegetable kingdom for their
food, and even within the animal kingdom every beast is the prey and the
food of another; that is, the matter in which its Idea expresses itself
must yield itself to the expression of another Idea, for each animal can
only maintain its existence by the constant destruction of some other.
Thus the will to live everywhere preys upon itself, and in different forms
is its own nourishment, till finally the human race, because it subdues
all the others, regards nature as a manufactory for its use. Yet even the
human race, as we shall see in the Fourth Book, reveals in itself with
most terrible distinctness this conflict, this variance with itself of the
will, and we find _homo homini lupus_. Meanwhile we can recognise this
strife, this subjugation, just as well in the lower grades of the
objectification of will. Many insects (especially ichneumon-flies) lay
their eggs on the skin, and even in the body of the larvæ of other
insects, whose slow destruction is the first work of the newly hatched
brood. The young hydra, which grows like a bud out of the old one, and
afterwards separates itself from it, fights while it is still joined to
the old one for the prey that offers itself, so that the one snatches it
out of the mouth of the other (Trembley, Polypod., ii. p. 110, and iii. p.
165). But the bulldog-ant of Australia affords us the most extraordinary
example of this kind; for if it is cut in two, a battle begins between the
head and the tail. The head seizes the tail with its teeth, and the tail
defends itself bravely by stinging the head: the battle may last for half
an hour, until they die or are dragged away by other ants. This contest
takes place every time the experiment is tried. (From a letter by Howitt
in the W. Journal, reprinted in Galignani’s Messenger, 17th November
1855.) On the banks of the Missouri one sometimes sees a mighty oak the
stem and branches of which are so encircled, fettered, and interlaced by a
gigantic wild vine, that it withers as if choked. The same thing shows
itself in the lowest grades; for example, when water and carbon are
changed into vegetable sap, or vegetables or bread into blood by organic
assimilation; and so also in every case in which animal secretion takes
place, along with the restriction of chemical forces to a subordinate mode
of activity. This also occurs in unorganised nature, when, for example,
crystals in process of formation meet, cross, and mutually disturb each
other to such an extent that they are unable to assume the pure
crystalline form, so that almost every cluster of crystals is an image of
such a conflict of will at this low grade of its objectification; or
again, when a magnet forces its magnetism upon iron, in order to express
its Idea in it; or when galvanism overcomes chemical affinity, decomposes
the closest combinations, and so entirely suspends the laws of chemistry
that the acid of a decomposed salt at the negative pole must pass to the
positive pole without combining with the alkalies through which it goes on
its way, or turning red the litmus paper that touches it. On a large scale
it shows itself in the relation between the central body and the planet,
for although the planet is in absolute dependence, yet it always resists,
just like the chemical forces in the organism; hence arises the constant
tension between centripetal and centrifugal force, which keeps the globe
in motion, and is itself an example of that universal essential conflict
of the manifestation of will which we are considering. For as every body
must be regarded as the manifestation of a will, and as will necessarily
expresses itself as a struggle, the original condition of every world that
is formed into a globe cannot be rest, but motion, a striving forward in
boundless space without rest and without end. Neither the law of inertia
nor that of causality is opposed to this: for as, according to the former,
matter as such is alike indifferent to rest and motion, its original
condition may just as well be the one as the other, therefore if we first
find it in motion, we have just as little right to assume that this was
preceded by a condition of rest, and to inquire into the cause of the
origin of the motion, as, conversely, if we found it at rest, we would
have to assume a previous motion and inquire into the cause of its
suspension. It is, therefore, not needful to seek for a first impulse for
centrifugal force, for, according to the hypothesis of Kant and Laplace,
it is, in the case of the planets, the residue of the original rotation of
the central body, from which the planets have separated themselves as it
contracted. But to this central body itself motion is essential; it always
continues its rotation, and at the same time rushes forward in endless
space, or perhaps circulates round a greater central body invisible to us.
This view entirely agrees with the conjecture of astronomers that there is
a central sun, and also with the observed advance of our whole solar
system, and perhaps of the whole stellar system to which our sun belongs.
From this we are finally led to assume a general advance of fixed stars,
together with the central sun, and this certainly loses all meaning in
boundless space (for motion in absolute space cannot be distinguished from
rest), and becomes, as is already the case from its striving and aimless
flight, an expression of that nothingness, that failure of all aim, which,
at the close of this book, we shall be obliged to recognise in the
striving of will in all its phenomena. Thus boundless space and endless
time must be the most universal and essential forms of the collective
phenomena of will, which exist for the expression of its whole being.
Lastly, we can recognise that conflict which we are considering of all
phenomena of will against each other in simple matter regarded as such;
for the real characteristic of matter is correctly expressed by Kant as
repulsive and attractive force; so that even crude matter has its
existence only in the strife of conflicting forces. If we abstract from
all chemical differences in matter, or go so far back in the chain of
causes and effects that as yet there is no chemical difference, there
remains mere matter,—the world rounded to a globe, whose life, _i.e._,
objectification of will, is now constituted by the conflict between
attractive and repulsive forces, the former as gravitation pressing from
all sides towards the centre, the latter as impenetrability always
opposing the former either as rigidity or elasticity; and this constant
pressure and resistance may be regarded as the objectivity of will in its
very lowest grade, and even there it expresses its character.

We should see the will express itself here in the lowest grade as blind
striving, an obscure, inarticulate impulse, far from susceptible of being
directly known. It is the simplest and the weakest mode of its
objectification. But it appears as this blind and unconscious striving in
the whole of unorganised nature, in all those original forces of which it
is the work of physics and chemistry to discover and to study the laws,
and each of which manifests itself to us in millions of phenomena which
are exactly similar and regular, and show no trace of individual
character, but are mere multiplicity through space and time, _i.e._,
through the _principium individuationis_, as a picture is multiplied
through the facets of a glass.

From grade to grade objectifying itself more distinctly, yet still
completely without consciousness as an obscure striving force, the will
acts in the vegetable kingdom also, in which the bond of its phenomena
consists no longer properly of causes, but of stimuli; and, finally, also
in the vegetative part of the animal phenomenon, in the production and
maturing of the animal, and in sustaining its inner economy, in which the
manifestation of will is still always necessarily determined by stimuli.
The ever-ascending grades of the objectification of will bring us at last
to the point at which the individual that expresses the Idea could no
longer receive food for its assimilation through mere movement following
upon stimuli. For such a stimulus must be waited for, but the food has now
come to be of a more special and definite kind, and with the
ever-increasing multiplicity of the individual phenomena, the crowd and
confusion has become so great that they interfere with each other, and the
chance of the individual that is moved merely by stimuli and must wait for
its food would be too unfavourable. From the point, therefore, at which
the animal has delivered itself from the egg or the womb in which it
vegetated without consciousness, its food must be sought out and selected.
For this purpose movement following upon motives, and therefore
consciousness, becomes necessary, and consequently it appears as an agent,
μηχανη, called in at this stage of the objectification of will for the
conservation of the individual and the propagation of the species. It
appears represented by the brain or a large ganglion, just as every other
effort or determination of the will which objectifies itself is
represented by an organ, that is to say, manifests itself for the idea as
an organ.(36) But with this means of assistance, this μηχανη, the _world
as idea_ comes into existence at a stroke, with all its forms, object and
subject, time, space, multiplicity, and causality. The world now shows its
second side. Till now _mere will_, it becomes also _idea_, object of the
knowing subject. The will, which up to this point followed its tendency in
the dark with unerring certainty, has at this grade kindled for itself a
light as a means which became necessary for getting rid of the
disadvantage which arose from the throng and the complicated nature of its
manifestations, and which would have accrued precisely to the most perfect
of them. The hitherto infallible certainty and regularity with which it
worked in unorganised and merely vegetative nature, rested upon the fact
that it alone was active in its original nature, as blind impulse, will,
without assistance, and also without interruption, from a second and
entirely different world, the world as idea, which is indeed only the
image of its own inner being, but is yet of quite another nature, and now
encroaches on the connected whole of its phenomena. Hence its infallible
certainty comes to an end. Animals are already exposed to illusion, to
deception. They have, however, merely ideas of perception, no conceptions,
no reflection, and they are therefore bound to the present; they cannot
have regard for the future. It seems as if this knowledge without reason
was not in all cases sufficient for its end, and at times required, as it
were, some assistance. For the very remarkable phenomenon presents itself,
that the blind working of the will and the activity enlightened by
knowledge encroach in a most astonishing manner upon each other’s spheres
in two kinds of phenomena. In the one case we find in the very midst of
those actions of animals which are guided by perceptive knowledge and its
motives one kind of action which is accomplished apart from these, and
thus through the necessity of the blindly acting will. I refer to those
mechanical instincts which are guided by no motive or knowledge, and which
yet have the appearance of performing their work from abstract rational
motives. The other case, which is opposed to this, is that in which, on
the contrary, the light of knowledge penetrates into the workshop of the
blindly active will, and illuminates the vegetative functions of the human
organism. I mean clairvoyance. Finally, when the will has attained to the
highest grade of its objectification, that knowledge of the understanding
given to brutes to which the senses supply the data, out of which there
arises mere perception confined to what is immediately present, does not
suffice. That complicated, many-sided, imaginative being, man, with his
many needs, and exposed as he is to innumerable dangers, must, in order to
exist, be lighted by a double knowledge; a higher power, as it were, of
perceptive knowledge must be given him, and also reason, as the faculty of
framing abstract conceptions. With this there has appeared reflection,
surveying the future and the past, and, as a consequence, deliberation,
care, the power of premeditated action independent of the present, and
finally, the full and distinct consciousness of one’s own deliberate
volition as such. Now if with mere knowledge of perception there arose the
possibility of illusion and deception, by which the previous infallibility
of the blind striving of will was done away with, so that mechanical and
other instincts, as expressions of unconscious will, had to lend their
help in the midst of those that were conscious, with the entrance of
reason that certainty and infallibility of the expressions of will (which
at the other extreme in unorganised nature appeared as strict conformity
to law) is almost entirely lost; instinct disappears altogether;
deliberation, which is supposed to take the place of everything else,
begets (as was shown in the First Book) irresolution and uncertainty; then
error becomes possible, and in many cases obstructs the adequate
objectification of the will in action. For although in the character the
will has already taken its definite and unchangeable bent or direction, in
accordance with which volition, when occasioned by the presence of a
motive, invariably takes place, yet error can falsify its expressions, for
it introduces illusive motives that take the place of the real ones which
they resemble;(37) as, for example, when superstition forces on a man
imaginary motives which impel him to a course of action directly opposed
to the way in which the will would otherwise express itself in the given
circumstances. Agamemnon slays his daughter; a miser dispenses alms, out
of pure egotism, in the hope that he will some day receive an
hundred-fold; and so on.

Thus knowledge generally, rational as well as merely sensuous, proceeds
originally from the will itself, belongs to the inner being of the higher
grades of its objectification as a mere μηχανη, a means of supporting the
individual and the species, just like any organ of the body. Originally
destined for the service of the will for the accomplishment of its aims,
it remains almost throughout entirely subjected to its service: it is so
in all brutes and in almost all men. Yet we shall see in the Third Book
how in certain individual men knowledge can deliver itself from this
bondage, throw off its yoke, and, free from all the aims of will, exist
purely for itself, simply as a clear mirror of the world, which is the
source of art. Finally, in the Fourth Book, we shall see how, if this kind
of knowledge reacts on the will, it can bring about self-surrender,
_i.e._, resignation, which is the final goal, and indeed the inmost nature
of all virtue and holiness, and is deliverance from the world.

§ 28. We have considered the great multiplicity and diversity of the
phenomena in which the will objectifies itself, and we have seen their
endless and implacable strife with each other. Yet, according to the whole
discussion up to this point, the will itself, as thing-in-itself, is by no
means included in that multiplicity and change. The diversity of the
(Platonic) Ideas, _i.e._, grades of objectification, the multitude of
individuals in which each of these expresses itself, the struggle of forms
for matter,—all this does not concern it, but is only the manner of its
objectification, and only through this has an indirect relation to it, by
virtue of which it belongs to the expression of the nature of will for the
idea. As the magic-lantern shows many different pictures, which are all
made visible by one and the same light, so in all the multifarious
phenomena which fill the world together or throng after each other as
events, only _one will_ manifests itself, of which everything is the
visibility, the objectivity, and which remains unmoved in the midst of
this change; it alone is thing-in-itself; all objects are manifestations,
or, to speak the language of Kant, phenomena. Although in man, as
(Platonic) Idea, the will finds its clearest and fullest objectification,
yet man alone could not express its being. In order to manifest the full
significance of the will, the Idea of man would need to appear, not alone
and sundered from everything else, but accompanied by the whole series of
grades, down through all the forms of animals, through the vegetable
kingdom to unorganised nature. All these supplement each other in the
complete objectification of will; they are as much presupposed by the Idea
of man as the blossoms of a tree presuppose leaves, branches, stem, and
root; they form a pyramid, of which man is the apex. If fond of similes,
one might also say that their manifestations accompany that of man as
necessarily as the full daylight is accompanied by all the gradations of
twilight, through which, little by little, it loses itself in darkness; or
one might call them the echo of man, and say: Animal and plant are the
descending fifth and third of man, the inorganic kingdom is the lower
octave. The full truth of this last comparison will only become clear to
us when, in the following book, we attempt to fathom the deep significance
of music, and see how a connected, progressive melody, made up of high,
quick notes, may be regarded as in some sense expressing the life and
efforts of man connected by reflection, while the unconnected complemental
notes and the slow bass, which make up the harmony necessary to perfect
the music, represent the rest of the animal kingdom and the whole of
nature that is without knowledge. But of this in its own place, where it
will not sound so paradoxical. We find, however, that the _inner
necessity_ of the gradation of its manifestations, which is inseparable
from the adequate objectification of the will, is expressed by an _outer
necessity_ in the whole of these manifestations themselves, by reason of
which man has need of the beasts for his support, the beasts in their
grades have need of each other as well as of plants, which in their turn
require the ground, water, chemical elements and their combinations, the
planet, the sun, rotation and motion round the sun, the curve of the
ellipse, &c., &c. At bottom this results from the fact that the will must
live on itself, for there exists nothing beside it, and it is a hungry
will. Hence arise eager pursuit, anxiety, and suffering.

It is only the knowledge of the unity of will as thing-in-itself, in the
endless diversity and multiplicity of the phenomena, that can afford us
the true explanation of that wonderful, unmistakable analogy of all the
productions of nature, that family likeness on account of which we may
regard them as variations on the same ungiven theme. So in like measure,
through the distinct and thoroughly comprehended knowledge of that
harmony, that essential connection of all the parts of the world, that
necessity of their gradation which we have just been considering, we shall
obtain a true and sufficient insight into the inner nature and meaning of
the undeniable _teleology_ of all organised productions of nature, which,
indeed, we presupposed _a priori_, when considering and investigating
them.

This _teleology_ is of a twofold description; sometimes an _inner
teleology_, that is, an agreement of all the parts of a particular
organism, so ordered that the sustenance of the individual and the species
results from it, and therefore presents itself as the end of that
disposition or arrangement. Sometimes, however, there is an _outward
teleology_, a relation of unorganised to organised nature in general, or
of particular parts of organised nature to each other, which makes the
maintenance of the whole of organised nature, or of the particular animal
species, possible, and therefore presents itself to our judgment as the
means to this end.

_Inner teleology_ is connected with the scheme of our work in the
following way. If, in accordance with what has been said, all variations
of form in nature, and all multiplicity of individuals, belong not to the
will itself, but merely to its objectivity and the form of this
objectivity, it necessarily follows that the will is indivisible and is
present as a whole in every manifestation, although the grades of its
objectification, the (Platonic) Ideas, are very different from each other.
We may, for the sake of simplicity, regard these different Ideas as in
themselves individual and simple acts of the will, in which it expresses
its nature more or less. Individuals, however, are again manifestations of
the Ideas, thus of these acts, in time, space, and multiplicity. Now, in
the lowest grades of objectivity, such an act (or an Idea) retains its
unity in the manifestation; while, in order to appear in higher grades, it
requires a whole series of conditions and developments in time, which only
collectively express its nature completely. Thus, for example the Idea
that reveals itself in any general force of nature has always one single
expression, although it presents itself differently according to the
external relations that are present: otherwise its identity could not be
proved, for this is done by abstracting the diversity that arises merely
from external relations. In the same way the crystal has only _one_
manifestation of life, crystallisation, which afterwards has its fully
adequate and exhaustive expression in the rigid form, the corpse of that
momentary life. The plant, however, does not express the Idea, whose
phenomenon it is, at once and through a single manifestation, but in a
succession of developments of its organs in time. The animal not only
develops its organism in the same manner, in a succession of forms which
are often very different (metamorphosis), but this form itself, although
it is already objectivity of will at this grade, does not attain to a full
expression of its Idea. This expression must be completed through the
actions of the animal, in which its empirical character, common to the
whole species, manifests itself, and only then does it become the full
revelation of the Idea, a revelation which presupposes the particular
organism as its first condition. In the case of man, the empirical
character is peculiar to every individual (indeed, as we shall see in the
Fourth Book, even to the extent of supplanting entirely the character of
the species, through the self-surrender of the whole will). That which is
known as the empirical character, through the necessary development in
time, and the division into particular actions that is conditioned by it,
is, when we abstract from this temporal form of the manifestation the
_intelligible character_, according to the expression of Kant, who shows
his undying merit especially in establishing this distinction and
explaining the relation between freedom and necessity, _i.e._, between the
will as thing-in-itself and its manifestations in time.(38) Thus the
intelligible character coincides with the Idea, or, more accurately, with
the original act of will which reveals itself in it. So far then, not only
the empirical character of every man, but also that of every species of
animal and plant, and even of every original force of unorganised nature,
is to be regarded as the manifestation of an intelligible character, that
is, of a timeless, indivisible act of will. I should like here to draw
attention in passing to the naïveté with which every plant expresses and
lays open its whole character in its mere form, reveals its whole being
and will. This is why the physiognomy of plants is so interesting; while
in order to know an animal in its Idea, it is necessary to observe the
course of its action. As for man, he must be fully investigated and
tested, for reason makes him capable of a high degree of dissimulation.
The beast is as much more naïve than the man as the plant is more naïve
than the beast. In the beast we see the will to live more naked, as it
were, than in the man, in whom it is clothed with so much knowledge, and
is, moreover, so veiled through the capacity for dissimulation, that it is
almost only by chance, and here and there, that its true nature becomes
apparent. In the plant it shows itself quite naked, but also much weaker,
as mere blind striving for existence without end or aim. For the plant
reveals its whole being at the first glance, and with complete innocence,
which does not suffer from the fact that it carries its organs of
generation exposed to view on its upper surface, though in all animals
they have been assigned to the most hidden part. This innocence of the
plant results from its complete want of knowledge. Guilt does not lie in
willing, but in willing with knowledge. Every plant speaks to us first of
all of its home, of the climate, and the nature of the ground in which it
has grown. Therefore, even those who have had little practice easily tell
whether an exotic plant belongs to the tropical or the temperate zone, and
whether it grows in water, in marshes, on mountain, or on moorland.
Besides this, however, every plant expresses the special will of its
species, and says something that cannot be uttered in any other tongue.
But we must now apply what has been said to the teleological consideration
of the organism, so far as it concerns its inner design. If in unorganised
nature the Idea, which is everywhere to be regarded as a single act of
will, reveals itself also in a single manifestation which is always the
same, and thus one may say that here the empirical character directly
partakes of the unity of the intelligible, coincides, as it were, with it,
so that no inner design can show itself here; if, on the contrary, all
organisms express their Ideas through a series of successive developments,
conditioned by a multiplicity of co-existing parts, and thus only the sum
of the manifestations of the empirical character collectively constitute
the expression of the intelligible character; this necessary co-existence
of the parts and succession of the stages of development does not destroy
the unity of the appearing Idea, the act of will which expresses itself;
nay, rather this unity finds its expression in the necessary relation and
connection of the parts and stages of development with each other, in
accordance with the law of causality. Since it is the will which is one,
indivisible, and therefore entirely in harmony with itself, that reveals
itself in the whole Idea as in act, its manifestation, although broken up
into a number of different parts and conditions, must yet show this unity
again in the thorough agreement of all of these. This is effected by a
necessary relation and dependence of all the parts upon each other, by
means of which the unity of the Idea is re-established in the
manifestation. In accordance with this, we now recognise these different
parts and functions of the organism as related to each other reciprocally
as means and end, but the organism itself as the final end of all.
Consequently, neither the breaking up of the Idea, which in itself is
simple, into the multiplicity of the parts and conditions of the organism,
on the one hand, nor, on the other hand, the re-establishment of its unity
through the necessary connection of the parts and functions which arises
from the fact that they are the cause and effect, the means and end, of
each other, is peculiar and essential to the appearing will as such, to
the thing-in-itself, but only to its manifestation in space, time, and
causality (mere modes of the principle of sufficient reason, the form of
the phenomenon). They belong to the world as idea, not to the world as
will; they belong to the way in which the will becomes object, _i.e._,
idea at this grade of its objectivity. Every one who has grasped the
meaning of this discussion—a discussion which is perhaps somewhat
difficult—will now fully understand the doctrine of Kant, which follows
from it, that both the design of organised and the conformity to law of
unorganised nature are only introduced by our understanding, and therefore
both belong only to the phenomenon, not to the thing-in-itself. The
surprise, which was referred to above, at the infallible constancy of the
conformity to law of unorganised nature, is essentially the same as the
surprise that is excited by design in organised nature; for in both cases
what we wonder at is only the sight of the original unity of the Idea,
which, for the phenomenon, has assumed the form of multiplicity and
diversity.(39)

As regards the second kind of teleology, according to the division made
above, the _outer_ design, which shows itself, not in the inner economy of
the organisms, but in the support and assistance they receive from
without, both from unorganised nature and from each other; its general
explanation is to be found in the exposition we have just given. For the
whole world, with all its phenomena, is the objectivity of the one
indivisible will, the Idea, which is related to all other Ideas as harmony
is related to the single voice. Therefore that unity of the will must show
itself also in the agreement of all its manifestations. But we can very
much increase the clearness of this insight if we go somewhat more closely
into the manifestations of that outer teleology and agreement of the
different parts of nature with each other, an inquiry which will also
throw some light on the foregoing exposition. We shall best attain this
end by considering the following analogy.

The character of each individual man, so far as it is thoroughly
individual, and not entirely included in that of the species, may be
regarded as a special Idea, corresponding to a special act of the
objectification of will. This act itself would then be his intelligible
character, and his empirical character would be the manifestation of it.
The empirical character is entirely determined through the intelligible,
which is without ground, _i.e._, as thing-in-itself is not subordinated to
the principle of sufficient reason (the form of the phenomenon). The
empirical character must in the course of life afford us the express image
of the intelligible, and can only become what the nature of the latter
demands. But this property extends only to the essential, not to the
unessential in the course of life to which it applies. To this unessential
belong the detailed events and actions which are the material in which the
empirical character shows itself. These are determined by outward
circumstances, which present the motives upon which the character reacts
according to its nature; and as they may be very different, the outward
form of the manifestation of the empirical character, that is, the
definite actual or historical form of the course of life, will have to
accommodate itself to their influence. Now this form may be very
different, although what is essential to the manifestation, its content,
remains the same. Thus, for example it is immaterial whether a man plays
for nuts or for crowns; but whether a man cheats or plays fairly, that is
the real matter; the latter is determined by the intelligible character,
the former by outward circumstances. As the same theme may be expressed in
a hundred different variations, so the same character may be expressed in
a hundred very different lives. But various as the outward influence may
be, the empirical character which expresses itself in the course of life
must yet, whatever form it takes, accurately objectify the intelligible
character, for the latter adapts its objectification to the given material
of actual circumstances. We have now to assume something analogous to the
influence of outward circumstances upon the life that is determined in
essential matters by the character, if we desire to understand how the
will, in the original act of its objectification, determines the various
Ideas in which it objectifies itself, that is, the different forms of
natural existence of every kind, among which it distributes its
objectification, and which must therefore necessarily have a relation to
each other in the manifestation. We must assume that between all these
manifestations of the _one_ will there existed a universal and reciprocal
adaptation and accommodation of themselves to each other, by which,
however, as we shall soon see more clearly, all time-determination is to
be excluded, for the Idea lies outside time. In accordance with this,
every manifestation must have adapted itself to the surroundings into
which it entered, and these again must have adapted themselves to it,
although it occupied a much later position in time; and we see this
_consensus naturæ_ everywhere. Every plant is therefore adapted to its
soil and climate, every animal to its element and the prey that will be
its food, and is also in some way protected, to a certain extent, against
its natural enemy: the eye is adapted to the light and its refrangibility,
the lungs and the blood to the air, the air-bladder of fish to water, the
eye of the seal to the change of the medium in which it must see, the
water-pouch in the stomach of the camel to the drought of the African
deserts, the sail of the nautilus to the wind that is to drive its little
bark, and so on down to the most special and astonishing outward
adaptations.(40) We must abstract however here from all temporal
relations, for these can only concern the manifestation of the Idea, not
the Idea itself. Accordingly this kind of explanation must also be used
retrospectively, and we must not merely admit that every species
accommodated itself to the given environment, but also that this
environment itself, which preceded it in time, had just as much regard for
the being that would some time come into it. For it is one and the same
will that objectifies itself in the whole world; it knows no time, for
this form of the principle of sufficient reason does not belong to it, nor
to its original objectivity, the Ideas, but only to the way in which these
are known by the individuals who themselves are transitory, _i.e._, to the
manifestation of the Ideas. Thus, time has no significance for our present
examination of the manner in which the objectification of the will
distributes itself among the Ideas, and the Ideas whose _manifestations_
entered into the course of time earlier, according to the law of
causality, to which as phenomena they are subject, have no advantage over
those whose manifestation entered later; nay rather, these last are the
completest objectifications of the will, to which the earlier
manifestations must adapt themselves just as much as they must adapt
themselves to the earlier. Thus the course of the planets, the tendency to
the ellipse, the rotation of the earth, the division of land and sea, the
atmosphere, light, warmth, and all such phenomena, which are in nature
what bass is in harmony, adapted themselves in anticipation of the coming
species of living creatures of which they were to become the supporter and
sustainer. In the same way the ground adapted itself to the nutrition of
plants, plants adapted themselves to the nutrition of animals, animals to
that of other animals, and conversely they all adapted themselves to the
nutrition of the ground. All the parts of nature correspond to each other,
for it is _one_ will that appears in them all, but the course of time is
quite foreign to its original and only _adequate objectification_ (this
expression will be explained in the following book), the Ideas. Even now,
when the species have only to sustain themselves, no longer to come into
existence, we see here and there some such forethought of nature extending
to the future, and abstracting as it were from the process of time, a
self-adaptation of what is to what is yet to come. The bird builds the
nest for the young which it does not yet know; the beaver constructs a dam
the object of which is unknown to it; ants, marmots, and bees lay in
provision for the winter they have never experienced; the spider and the
ant-lion make snares, as if with deliberate cunning, for future unknown
prey; insects deposit their eggs where the coming brood finds future
nourishment. In the spring-time the female flower of the diœcian
valisneria unwinds the spirals of its stalk, by which till now it was held
at the bottom of the water, and thus rises to the surface. Just then the
male flower, which grows on a short stalk from the bottom, breaks away,
and so, at the sacrifice of its life, reaches the surface, where it swims
about in search of the female. The latter is fructified, and then draws
itself down again to the bottom by contracting its spirals, and there the
fruit grows.(41) I must again refer here to the larva of the male
stag-beetle, which makes the hole in the wood for its metamorphosis as big
again as the female does, in order to have room for its future horns. The
instinct of animals in general gives us the best illustration of what
remains of teleology in nature. For as instinct is an action, like that
which is guided by the conception of an end, and yet is entirely without
this; so all construction of nature resembles that which is guided by the
conception of an end, and yet is entirely without it. For in the outer as
in the inner teleology of nature, what we are obliged to think as means
and end is, in every case, _the manifestation of the unity of the one will
so thoroughly agreeing with itself_, which has assumed multiplicity in
space and time for our manner of knowing.

The reciprocal adaptation and self-accommodation of phenomena that springs
from this unity cannot, however, annul the inner contradiction which
appears in the universal conflict of nature described above, and which is
essential to the will. That harmony goes only so far as to render possible
the duration of the world and the different kinds of existences in it,
which without it would long since have perished. Therefore it only extends
to the continuance of the species, and the general conditions of life, but
not to that of the individual. If, then, by reason of that harmony and
accommodation, the _species_ in organised nature and the _universal
forces_ in unorganised nature continue to exist beside each other, and
indeed support each other reciprocally, on the other hand, the inner
contradiction of the will which objectifies itself in all these ideas
shows itself in the ceaseless internecine war of the _individuals_ of
these species, and in the constant struggle of the _manifestations_ of
these natural forces with each other, as we pointed out above. The scene
and the object of this conflict is matter, which they try to wrest from
each other, and also space and time, the combination of which through the
form of causality is, in fact, matter, as was explained in the First
Book.(42)

§ 29. I here conclude the second principal division of my exposition, in
the hope that, so far as is possible in the case of an entirely new
thought, which cannot be quite free from traces of the individuality in
which it originated, I have succeeded in conveying to the reader the
complete certainty that this world in which we live and have our being is
in its whole nature through and through _will_, and at the same time
through and through _idea_: that this idea, as such, already presupposes a
form, object and subject, is therefore relative; and if we ask what
remains if we take away this form, and all those forms which are
subordinate to it, and which express the principle of sufficient reason,
the answer must be that as something _toto genere_ different from idea,
this can be nothing but _will_, which is thus properly the
_thing-in-itself_. Every one finds that he himself is this will, in which
the real nature of the world consists, and he also finds that he is the
knowing subject, whose idea the whole world is, the world which exists
only in relation to his consciousness, as its necessary supporter. Every
one is thus himself in a double aspect the whole world, the microcosm;
finds both sides whole and complete in himself. And what he thus
recognises as his own real being also exhausts the being of the whole
world—the macrocosm; thus the world, like man, is through and through
_will_, and through and through _idea_, and nothing more than this. So we
see the philosophy of Thales, which concerned the macrocosm, unite at this
point with that of Socrates, which dealt with the microcosm, for the
object of both is found to be the same. But all the knowledge that has
been communicated in the two first books will gain greater completeness,
and consequently greater certainty, from the two following books, in which
I hope that several questions that have more or less distinctly arisen in
the course of our work will also be sufficiently answered.

In the meantime _one_ such question may be more particularly considered,
for it can only properly arise so long as one has not fully penetrated the
meaning of the foregoing exposition, and may so far serve as an
illustration of it. It is this: Every will is a will towards something,
has an object, an end of its willing; what then is the final end, or
towards what is that will striving that is exhibited to us as the
being-in-itself of the world? This question rests, like so many others,
upon the confusion of the thing-in-itself with the manifestation. The
principle of sufficient reason, of which the law of motivation is also a
form, extends only to the latter, not to the former. It is only of
phenomena, of individual things, that a ground can be given, never of the
will itself, nor of the Idea in which it adequately objectifies itself. So
then of every particular movement or change of any kind in nature, a cause
is to be sought, that is, a condition that of necessity produced it, but
never of the natural force itself which is revealed in this and
innumerable similar phenomena; and it is therefore simple
misunderstanding, arising from want of consideration, to ask for a cause
of gravity, electricity, and so on. Only if one had somehow shown that
gravity and electricity were not original special forces of nature, but
only the manifestations of a more general force already known, would it be
allowable to ask for the cause which made this force produce the phenomena
of gravity or of electricity here. All this has been explained at length
above. In the same way every particular act of will of a knowing
individual (which is itself only a manifestation of will as the
thing-in-itself) has necessarily a motive without which that act would
never have occurred; but just as material causes contain merely the
determination that at this time, in this place, and in this matter, a
manifestation of this or that natural force must take place, so the motive
determines only the act of will of a knowing being, at this time, in this
place, and under these circumstances, as a particular act, but by no means
determines that that being wills in general or wills in this manner; this
is the expression of his intelligible character, which, as will itself,
the thing-in-itself, is without ground, for it lies outside the province
of the principle of sufficient reason. Therefore every man has permanent
aims and motives by which he guides his conduct, and he can always give an
account of his particular actions; but if he were asked why he wills at
all, or why in general he wills to exist, he would have no answer, and the
question would indeed seem to him meaningless; and this would be just the
expression of his consciousness that he himself is nothing but will, whose
willing stands by itself and requires more particular determination by
motives only in its individual acts at each point of time.

In fact, freedom from all aim, from all limits, belongs to the nature of
the will, which is an endless striving. This was already touched on above
in the reference to centrifugal force. It also discloses itself in its
simplest form in the lowest grade of the objectification of will, in
gravitation, which we see constantly exerting itself, though a final goal
is obviously impossible for it. For if, according to its will, all
existing matter were collected in one mass, yet within this mass gravity,
ever striving towards the centre, would still wage war with
impenetrability as rigidity or elasticity. The tendency of matter can
therefore only be confined, never completed or appeased. But this is
precisely the case with all tendencies of all phenomena of will. Every
attained end is also the beginning of a new course, and so on _ad
infinitum_. The plant raises its manifestation from the seed through the
stem and the leaf to the blossom and the fruit, which again is the
beginning of a new seed, a new individual, that runs through the old
course, and so on through endless time. Such also is the life of the
animal; procreation is its highest point, and after attaining to it, the
life of the first individual quickly or slowly sinks, while a new life
ensures to nature the endurance of the species and repeats the same
phenomena. Indeed, the constant renewal of the matter of every organism is
also to be regarded as merely the manifestation of this continual pressure
and change, and physiologists are now ceasing to hold that it is the
necessary reparation of the matter wasted in motion, for the possible
wearing out of the machine can by no means be equivalent to the support it
is constantly receiving through nourishment. Eternal becoming, endless
flux, characterises the revelation of the inner nature of will. Finally,
the same thing shows itself in human endeavours and desires, which always
delude us by presenting their satisfaction as the final end of will. As
soon as we attain to them they no longer appear the same, and therefore
they soon grow stale, are forgotten, and though not openly disowned, are
yet always thrown aside as vanished illusions. We are fortunate enough if
there still remains something to wish for and to strive after, that the
game may be kept up of constant transition from desire to satisfaction,
and from satisfaction to a new desire, the rapid course of which is called
happiness, and the slow course sorrow, and does not sink into that
stagnation that shows itself in fearful ennui that paralyses life, vain
yearning without a definite object, deadening languor. According to all
this, when the will is enlightened by knowledge, it always knows what it
wills now and here, never what it wills in general; every particular act
of will has its end, the whole will has none; just as every particular
phenomenon of nature is determined by a sufficient cause so far as
concerns its appearance in this place at this time, but the force which
manifests itself in it has no general cause, for it belongs to the
thing-in-itself, to the groundless will. The single example of
self-knowledge of the will as a whole is the idea as a whole, the whole
world of perception. It is the objectification, the revelation, the mirror
of the will. What the will expresses in it will be the subject of our
further consideration.(43)





THIRD BOOK. THE WORLD AS IDEA.




Second Aspect. The Idea Independent Of The Principle Of Sufficient Reason:
The Platonic Idea: The Object Of Art.


    Τί τὸ ὄν μὲν ἀεί, γένεσιν δὲ οὐκ ἔχον; καὶ τί τό γιγνόμενον μὲν
    καὶ ἀπολλύμενον, ὄντως δε οὐδέποτε ὄν.——ΠΛΑΤΩΝ.


§ 30. In the First Book the world was explained as mere _idea_, object for
a subject. In the Second Book we considered it from its other side, and
found that in this aspect it is _will_, which proved to be simply that
which this world is besides being idea. In accordance with this knowledge
we called the world as idea, both as a whole and in its parts, the
_objectification of will_, which therefore means the will become object,
_i.e._, idea. Further, we remember that this objectification of will was
found to have many definite grades, in which, with gradually increasing
distinctness and completeness, the nature of will appears in the idea,
that is to say, presents itself as object. In these grades we already
recognised the Platonic Ideas, for the grades are just the determined
species, or the original unchanging forms and qualities of all natural
bodies, both organised and unorganised, and also the general forces which
reveal themselves according to natural laws. These Ideas, then, as a whole
express themselves in innumerable individuals and particulars, and are
related to these as archetypes to their copies. The multiplicity of such
individuals is only conceivable through time and space, their appearing
and passing away through causality, and in all these forms we recognise
merely the different modes of the principle of sufficient reason, which is
the ultimate principle of all that is finite, of all individual existence,
and the universal form of the idea as it appears in the knowledge of the
individual as such. The Platonic Idea, on the other hand, does not come
under this principle, and has therefore neither multiplicity nor change.
While the individuals in which it expresses itself are innumerable, and
unceasingly come into being and pass away, it remains unchanged as one and
the same, and the principle of sufficient reason has for it no meaning.
As, however, this is the form under which all knowledge of the subject
comes, so far as the subject knows as an _individual_, the Ideas lie quite
outside the sphere of its knowledge. If, therefore, the Ideas are to
become objects of knowledge, this can only happen by transcending the
individuality of the knowing subject. The more exact and detailed
explanation of this is what will now occupy our attention.

§ 31. First, however, the following very essential remark. I hope that in
the preceding book I have succeeded in producing the conviction that what
is called in the Kantian philosophy the _thing-in-itself_, and appears
there as so significant, and yet so obscure and paradoxical a doctrine,
and especially on account of the manner in which Kant introduced it as an
inference from the caused to the cause, was considered a stumbling-stone,
and, in fact, the weak side of his philosophy,—that this, I say, if it is
reached by the entirely different way by which we have arrived at it, is
nothing but the _will_ when the sphere of that conception is extended and
defined in the way I have shown. I hope, further, that after what has been
said there will be no hesitation in recognising the definite grades of the
objectification of the will, which is the inner reality of the world, to
be what Plato called the _eternal Ideas_ or unchangeable forms (ειδῆ); a
doctrine which is regarded as the principal, but at the same time the most
obscure and paradoxical dogma of his system, and has been the subject of
reflection and controversy of ridicule and of reverence to so many and
such differently endowed minds in the course of many centuries.

If now the will is for us the _thing-in-itself_, and the Idea is the
immediate objectivity of that will at a definite grade, we find that
Kant’s thing-in-itself, and Plato’s Idea, which to him is the only οντως
ον, these two great obscure paradoxes of the two greatest philosophers of
the West are not indeed identical, but yet very closely related, and only
distinguished by a single circumstance. The purport of these two great
paradoxes, with all inner harmony and relationship, is yet so very
different on account of the remarkable diversity of the individuality of
their authors, that they are the best commentary on each other, for they
are like two entirely different roads that conduct us to the same goal.
This is easily made clear. What Kant says is in substance this:—“Time,
space, and causality are not determinations of the thing-in-itself, but
belong only to its phenomenal existence, for they are nothing but the
forms of our knowledge. Since, however, all multiplicity, and all coming
into being and passing away, are only possible through time, space, and
causality, it follows that they also belong only to the phenomenon, not to
the thing-in-itself. But as our knowledge is conditioned by these forms,
the whole of experience is only knowledge of the phenomenon, not of the
thing-in-itself; therefore its laws cannot be made valid for the
thing-in-itself. This extends even to our own _ego_, and we know it only
as phenomenon, and not according to what it may be in itself.” This is the
meaning and content of the doctrine of Kant in the important respect we
are considering. What Plato says is this:—“The things of this world which
our senses perceive have no true being; _they always become, they never
are:_ they have only a relative being; they all exist merely in and
through their relations to each other; their whole being may, therefore,
quite as well be called a non-being. They are consequently not objects of
a true knowledge (επιστημη), for such a knowledge can only be of what
exists for itself, and always in the same way; they, on the contrary, are
only the objects of an opinion based on sensation (δοξα μετ᾽ αισθησεως
αλογου). So long as we are confined to the perception of these, we are
like men who sit in a dark cave, bound so fast that they cannot turn their
heads, and who see nothing but the shadows of real things which pass
between them and a fire burning behind them, the light of which casts the
shadows on the wall opposite them; and even of themselves and of each
other they see only the shadows on the wall. Their wisdom would thus
consist in predicting the order of the shadows learned from experience.
The real archetypes, on the other hand, to which these shadows correspond,
the eternal Ideas, the original forms of all things, can alone be said to
have true being (οντως ον), because they _always are, but never become nor
pass away_. To them belongs _no multiplicity_; for each of them is
according to its nature only one, for it is the archetype itself, of which
all particular transitory things of the same kind which are named after it
are copies or shadows. They have also _no coming into being nor passing
away_, for they are truly being, never becoming nor vanishing, like their
fleeting shadows. (It is necessarily presupposed, however, in these two
negative definitions, that time, space, and causality have no significance
or validity for these Ideas, and that they do not exist in them.) Of these
only can there be true knowledge, for the object of such knowledge can
only be that which always and in every respect (thus in-itself) is; not
that which is and again is not, according as we look at it.” This is
Plato’s doctrine. It is clear, and requires no further proof that the
inner meaning of both doctrines is entirely the same; that both explain
the visible world as a manifestation, which in itself is nothing, and
which only has meaning and a borrowed reality through that which expresses
itself in it (in the one case the thing-in-itself, in the other the Idea).
To this last, which has true being, all the forms of that phenomenal
existence, even the most universal and essential, are, according to both
doctrines, entirely foreign. In order to disown these forms Kant has
directly expressed them even in abstract terms, and distinctly refused
time, space, and causality as mere forms of the phenomenon to the
thing-in-itself. Plato, on the other hand, did not attain to the fullest
expression, and has only distinctly refused these forms to his Ideas in
that he denies of the Ideas what is only possible through these forms,
multiplicity of similar things, coming into being and passing away. Though
it is perhaps superfluous, I should like to illustrate this remarkable and
important agreement by an example. There stands before us, let us suppose,
an animal in the full activity of life. Plato would say, “This animal has
no true existence, but merely an apparent existence, a constant becoming,
a relative existence which may just as well be called non-being as being.
Only the Idea which expresses itself in that animal is truly ‘being,’ or
the animal in-itself (αυτο το θηριον), which is dependent upon nothing,
but is in and for itself (καθ᾽ ἑαυτο, αει ὡς αυτως); it has not become, it
will not end, but always is in the same way (αει ον, και μηδεποτε ουτε
γυγνομενον ουτε απολλυμενον). If now we recognise its Idea in this animal,
it is all one and of no importance whether we have this animal now before
us or its progenitor of a thousand years ago, whether it is here or in a
distant land, whether it presents itself in this or that manner, position,
or action; whether, lastly, it is this or any other individual of the same
species; all this is nothing, and only concerns the phenomenon; the Idea
of the animal alone has true being, and is the object of real knowledge.”
So Plato; Kant would say something of this kind, “This animal is a
phenomenon in time, space, and causality, which are collectively the
conditions _a priori_ of the possibility of experience, lying in our
faculty of knowledge, not determinations of the thing-in-itself. Therefore
this animal as we perceive it at this definite point of time, in this
particular place, as an individual in the connection of experience
(_i.e._, in the chain of causes and effects), which has come into being,
and will just as necessarily pass away, is not a thing-in-itself, but a
phenomenon which only exists in relation to our knowledge. To know it as
what it may be in itself, that is to say, independent of all the
determinations which lie in time, space, and causality, would demand
another kind of knowledge than that which is possible for us through the
senses and the understanding.”

In order to bring Kant’s mode of expression nearer the Platonic, we might
say: Time, space, and causality are that arrangement of our intellect by
virtue of which the _one_ being of each kind which alone really is,
manifests itself to us as a multiplicity of similar beings, constantly
appearing and disappearing in endless succession. The apprehension of
things by means of and in accordance with this arrangement is _immanent_
knowledge; that, on the other hand, which is conscious of the true state
of the case, is _transcendental_ knowledge. The latter is obtained _in
abstracto_ through the criticism of pure reason, but in exceptional cases
it may also appear intuitively. This last is an addition of my own, which
I am endeavouring in this Third Book to explain.

If the doctrine of Kant had ever been properly understood and grasped, and
since Kant’s time that of Plato, if men had truly and earnestly reflected
on the inner meaning and content of the teaching of these two great
masters, instead of involving themselves in the technicalities of the one
and writing parodies of the style of the other, they could not have failed
to discern long ago to what an extent these two great philosophers agree,
and that the true meaning, the aim of both systems, is the same. Not only
would they have refrained from constantly comparing Plato to Leibnitz, on
whom his spirit certainly did not rest, or indeed to a well-known
gentleman who is still alive,(44) as if they wanted to mock the manes of
the great thinker of the past; but they would have advanced much farther
in general, or rather they would not have fallen so disgracefully far
behind as they have in the last forty years. They would not have let
themselves be led by the nose, to-day by one vain boaster and to-morrow by
another, nor would they have opened the nineteenth century, which promised
so much in Germany, with the philosophical farces that were performed over
the grave of Kant (as the ancients sometimes did at the funeral obsequies
of their dead), and which deservedly called forth the derision of other
nations, for such things least become the earnest and strait-laced German.
But so small is the chosen public of true philosophers, that even students
who understand are but scantily brought them by the centuries—Εισι δη
ναρθηκοφοροι μεν πολλοι, βακχοι δε γε παυροι (_Thyrsigeri quidem multi,
Baachi vero pauci_). Ἡ ατιμια φιλοσοφιᾳ δια ταυτα προσπεπτωκεν, ὁτι ου κατ
αξιαν αυτης ἁπτονται; ου γαρ νοθους εδει ἁπτεσθαι, αλλα γνησιους (_Eam ob
rem philosophia in infamiam incidit, quad non pro dignitate ipsam
attingunt: neque enim a spuriis, sad a legitimis erat
attrectanda_).—Plato.

Men followed the words,—such words as “_a priori_ ideas,” “forms of
perception and thought existing in consciousness independently of
experience,” “fundamental conceptions of the pure understanding,” &c.,
&c.,—and asked whether Plato’s Ideas, which were also original
conceptions, and besides this were supposed to be reminiscences of a
perception before life of the truly real things, were in some way the same
as Kant’s forms of perception and thought, which lie _a priori_ in our
consciousness. On account of some slight resemblance in the expression of
these two entirely different doctrines, the Kantian doctrine of the forms
which limit the knowledge of the individual to the phenomenon, and the
Platonic doctrine of Ideas, the knowledge of which these very forms
expressly deny, these so far diametrically opposed doctrines were
carefully compared, and men deliberated and disputed as to whether they
were identical, found at last that they were not the same, and concluded
that Plato’s doctrine of Ideas and Kant’s “Critique of Reason” had nothing
in common. But enough of this.(45)

§ 32. It follows from our consideration of the subject, that, for us, Idea
and thing-in-itself are not entirely one and the same, in spite of the
inner agreement between Kant and Plato, and the identity of the aim they
had before them, or the conception of the world which roused them and led
them to philosophise. The Idea is for us rather the direct, and therefore
adequate, objectivity of the thing-in-itself, which is, however, itself
the _will_—the will as not yet objectified, not yet become idea. For the
thing-in-itself must, even according to Kant, be free from all the forms
connected with knowing as such; and it is merely an error on his part (as
is shown in the Appendix) that he did not count among these forms, before
all others, that of being object for a subject, for it is the first and
most universal form of all phenomena, _i.e._, of all idea; he should
therefore have distinctly denied objective existence to his
thing-in-itself, which would have saved him from a great inconsistency
that was soon discovered. The Platonic Idea, on the other hand, is
necessarily object, something known, an idea, and in that respect is
different from the thing-in-itself, but in that respect only. It has
merely laid aside the subordinate forms of the phenomenon, all of which we
include in the principle of sufficient reason, or rather it has not yet
assumed them; but it has retained the first and most universal form, that
of the idea in general, the form of being object for a subject. It is the
forms which are subordinate to this (whose general expression is the
principle of sufficient reason) that multiply the Idea in particular
transitory individuals, whose number is a matter of complete indifference
to the Idea. The principle of sufficient reason is thus again the form
into which the Idea enters when it appears in the knowledge of the subject
as individual. The particular thing that manifests itself in accordance
with the principle of sufficient reason is thus only an indirect
objectification of the thing-in-itself (which is the will), for between it
and the thing-in-itself stands the Idea as the only direct objectivity of
the will, because it has assumed none of the special forms of knowledge as
such, except that of the idea in general, _i.e._, the form of being object
for a subject. Therefore it alone is the most _adequate objectivity_ of
the will or thing-in-itself which is possible; indeed it is the whole
thing-in-itself, only under the form of the idea; and here lies the ground
of the great agreement between Plato and Kant, although, in strict
accuracy, that of which they speak is not the same. But the particular
things are no really adequate objectivity of the will, for in them it is
obscured by those forms whose general expression is the principle of
sufficient reason, but which are conditions of the knowledge which belongs
to the individual as such. If it is allowable to draw conclusions from an
impossible presupposition, we would, in fact, no longer know particular
things, nor events, nor change, nor multiplicity, but would comprehend
only Ideas,—only the grades of the objectification of that one will, of
the thing-in-itself, in pure unclouded knowledge. Consequently our world
would be a _nunc stans_, if it were not that, as knowing subjects, we are
also individuals, _i.e._, our perceptions come to us through the medium of
a body, from the affections of which they proceed, and which is itself
only concrete willing, objectivity of the will, and thus is an object
among objects, and as such comes into the knowing consciousness in the
only way in which an object can, through the forms of the principle of
sufficient reason, and consequently already presupposes, and therefore
brings in, time, and all other forms which that principle expresses. Time
is only the broken and piecemeal view which the individual being has of
the Ideas, which are outside time, and consequently _eternal_. Therefore
Plato says time is the moving picture of eternity: αιωνος εικων κινητη ὁ
χρονος.(46)

§ 33. Since now, as individuals, we have no other knowledge than that
which is subject to the principle of sufficient reason, and this form of
knowledge excludes the Ideas, it is certain that if it is possible for us
to raise ourselves from the knowledge of particular things to that of the
Ideas, this can only happen by an alteration taking place in the subject
which is analogous and corresponds to the great change of the whole nature
of the object, and by virtue of which the subject, so far as it knows an
Idea, is no more individual.

It will be remembered from the preceding book that knowledge in general
belongs to the objectification of will at its higher grades, and
sensibility, nerves, and brain, just like the other parts of the organised
being, are the expression of the will at this stage of its objectivity,
and therefore the idea which appears through them is also in the same way
bound to the service of will as a means (μηχανη) for the attainment of its
now complicated (πολυτελεστερα) aims for sustaining a being of manifold
requirements. Thus originally and according to its nature, knowledge is
completely subject to the will, and, like the immediate object, which, by
means of the application of the law of causality, is its starting-point,
all knowledge which proceeds in accordance with the principle of
sufficient reason remains in a closer or more distant relation to the
will. For the individual finds his body as an object among objects, to all
of which it is related and connected according to the principle of
sufficient reason. Thus all investigations of these relations and
connections lead back to his body, and consequently to his will. Since it
is the principle of sufficient reason which places the objects in this
relation to the body, and, through it, to the will, the one endeavour of
the knowledge which is subject to this principle will be to find out the
relations in which objects are placed to each other through this
principle, and thus to trace their innumerable connections in space, time,
and causality. For only through these is the object _interesting_ to the
individual, _i.e._, related to the will. Therefore the knowledge which is
subject to the will knows nothing further of objects than their relations,
knows the objects only so far as they exist at this time, in this place,
under these circumstances, from these causes, and with these effects—in a
word, as particular things; and if all these relations were to be taken
away, the objects would also have disappeared for it, because it knew
nothing more about them. We must not disguise the fact that what the
sciences consider in things is also in reality nothing more than this;
their relations, the connections of time and space, the causes of natural
changes, the resemblance of forms, the motives of actions,—thus merely
relations. What distinguishes science from ordinary knowledge is merely
its systematic form, the facilitating of knowledge by the comprehension of
all particulars in the universal, by means of the subordination of
concepts, and the completeness of knowledge which is thereby attained. All
relation has itself only a relative existence; for example, all being in
time is also non-being; for time is only that by means of which opposite
determinations can belong to the same thing; therefore every phenomenon
which is in time again is not, for what separates its beginning from its
end is only time, which is essentially a fleeting, inconstant, and
relative thing, here called duration. But time is the most universal form
of all objects of the knowledge which is subject to the will, and the
prototype of its other forms.

Knowledge now, as a rule, remains always subordinate to the service of the
will, as indeed it originated for this service, and grew, so to speak, to
the will, as the head to the body. In the case of the brutes this
subjection of knowledge to the will can never be abolished. In the case of
men it can be abolished only in exceptional cases, which we shall
presently consider more closely. This distinction between man and brute is
outwardly expressed by the difference of the relation of the head to the
body. In the case of the lower brutes both are deformed: in all brutes the
head is directed towards the earth, where the objects of its will lie;
even in the higher species the head and the body are still far more one
than in the case of man, whose head seems freely set upon his body, as if
only carried by and not serving it. This human excellence is exhibited in
the highest degree by the Apollo of Belvedere; the head of the god of the
Muses, with eyes fixed on the far distance, stands so freely on his
shoulders that it seems wholly delivered from the body, and no more
subject to its cares.

§ 34. The transition which we have referred to as possible, but yet to be
regarded as only exceptional, from the common knowledge of particular
things to the knowledge of the Idea, takes place suddenly; for knowledge
breaks free from the service of the will, by the subject ceasing to be
merely individual, and thus becoming the pure will-less subject of
knowledge, which no longer traces relations in accordance with the
principle of sufficient reason, but rests in fixed contemplation of the
object presented to it, out of its connection with all others, and rises
into it.

A full explanation is necessary to make this clear, and the reader must
suspend his surprise for a while, till he has grasped the whole thought
expressed in this work, and then it will vanish of itself.

If, raised by the power of the mind, a man relinquishes the common way of
looking at things, gives up tracing, under the guidance of the forms of
the principle of sufficient reason, their relations to each other, the
final goal of which is always a relation to his own will; if he thus
ceases to consider the where, the when, the why, and the whither of
things, and looks simply and solely at the _what_; if, further, he does
not allow abstract thought, the concepts of the reason, to take possession
of his consciousness, but, instead of all this, gives the whole power of
his mind to perception, sinks himself entirely in this, and lets his whole
consciousness be filled with the quiet contemplation of the natural object
actually present, whether a landscape, a tree, a mountain, a building, or
whatever it may be; inasmuch as he _loses_ himself in this object (to use
a pregnant German idiom), _i.e._, forgets even his individuality, his
will, and only continues to exist as the pure subject, the clear mirror of
the object, so that it is as if the object alone were there, without any
one to perceive it, and he can no longer separate the perceiver from the
perception, but both have become one, because the whole consciousness is
filled and occupied with one single sensuous picture; if thus the object
has to such an extent passed out of all relation to something outside it,
and the subject out of all relation to the will, then that which is so
known is no longer the particular thing as such; but it is the _Idea_, the
eternal form, the immediate objectivity of the will at this grade; and,
therefore, he who is sunk in this perception is no longer individual, for
in such perception the individual has lost himself; but he is _pure_,
will-less, painless, timeless _subject of knowledge_. This, which in
itself is so remarkable (which I well know confirms the saying that
originated with Thomas Paine, _Du sublime au ridicule il n’y a qu’un
pas_), will by degrees become clearer and less surprising from what
follows. It was this that was running in Spinoza’s mind when he wrote:
_Meus æterna est, quatenus res sub æternitatis specie __ concipit_ (Eth.
V. pr. 31, Schol.)(47) In such contemplation the particular thing becomes
at once the _Idea_ of its species, and the perceiving individual becomes
_pure subject of knowledge_. The individual, as such, knows only
particular things; the pure subject of knowledge knows only Ideas. For the
individual is the subject of knowledge in its relation to a definite
particular manifestation of will, and in subjection to this. This
particular manifestation of will is, as such, subordinated to the
principle of sufficient reason in all its forms; therefore, all knowledge
which relates itself to it also follows the principle of sufficient
reason, and no other kind of knowledge is fitted to be of use to the will
but this, which always consists merely of relations to the object. The
knowing individual as such, and the particular things known by him, are
always in some place, at some time, and are links in the chain of causes
and effects. The pure subject of knowledge and his correlative, the Idea,
have passed out of all these forms of the principle of sufficient reason:
time, place, the individual that knows, and the individual that is known,
have for them no meaning. When an individual knower has raised himself in
the manner described to be pure subject of knowledge, and at the same time
has raised the observed object to the Platonic Idea, the _world as idea_
appears complete and pure, and the full objectification of the will takes
place, for the Platonic Idea alone is its _adequate objectivity_. The Idea
includes object and subject in like manner in itself, for they are its one
form; but in it they are absolutely of equal importance; for as the object
is here, as elsewhere, simply the idea of the subject, the subject, which
passes entirely into the perceived object has thus become this object
itself, for the whole consciousness is nothing but its perfectly distinct
picture. Now this consciousness constitutes the whole _world as idea_, for
one imagines the whole of the Platonic Ideas, or grades of the objectivity
of will, in their series passing through it. The particular things of all
time and space are nothing but Ideas multiplied through the principle of
sufficient reason (the form of the knowledge of the individual as such),
and thus obscured as regards their pure objectivity. When the Platonic
Idea appears, in it subject and object are no longer to be distinguished,
for the Platonic Idea, the adequate objectivity of will, the true world as
idea, arises only when the subject and object reciprocally fill and
penetrate each other completely; and in the same way the knowing and the
known individuals, as things in themselves, are not to be distinguished.
For if we look entirely away from the true _world as idea_, there remains
nothing but the _world as will_. The will is the “in-itself” of the
Platonic Idea, which fully objectifies it; it is also the “in-itself” of
the particular thing and of the individual that knows it, which objectify
it incompletely. As will, outside the idea and all its forms, it is one
and the same in the object contemplated and in the individual, who soars
aloft in this contemplation, and becomes conscious of himself as pure
subject. These two are, therefore, in themselves not different, for in
themselves they are will, which here knows itself; and multiplicity and
difference exist only as the way in which this knowledge comes to the
will, _i.e._, only in the phenomenon, on account of its form, the
principle of sufficient reason.

Now the known thing, without me as the subject of knowledge, is just as
little an object, and not mere will, blind effort, as without the object,
without the idea, I am a knowing subject and not mere blind will. This
will is in itself, _i.e._, outside the idea, one and the same with mine:
only in the world as idea, whose form is always at least that of subject
and object, we are separated as the known and the knowing individual. As
soon as knowledge, the world as idea, is abolished, there remains nothing
but mere will, blind effort. That it should receive objectivity, become
idea, supposes at once both subject and object; but that this should be
pure, complete, and adequate objectivity of the will, supposes the object
as Platonic Idea, free from the forms of the principle of sufficient
reason, and the subject as the pure subject of knowledge, free from
individuality and subjection to the will.

Whoever now, has, after the manner referred to, become so absorbed and
lost in the perception of nature that he only continues to exist as the
pure knowing subject, becomes in this way directly conscious that, as
such, he is the condition, that is, the supporter, of the world and all
objective existence; for this now shows itself as dependent upon his
existence. Thus he draws nature into himself, so that he sees it to be
merely an accident of his own being. In this sense Byron says—


    “Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part
      Of me and of my soul, as I of them?”


But how shall he who feels this, regard himself as absolutely transitory,
in contrast to imperishable nature? Such a man will rather be filled with
the consciousness, which the Upanishad of the Veda expresses: _Hæ omnes
creaturæ in totum ego sum, et præter me aliud ens non est_ (Oupnek’hat, i.
122).(48)

§ 35. In order to gain a deeper insight into the nature of the world, it
is absolutely necessary that we should learn to distinguish the will as
thing-in-itself from its adequate objectivity, and also the different
grades in which this appears more and more distinctly and fully, _i.e._,
the Ideas themselves, from the merely phenomenal existence of these Ideas
in the forms of the principle of sufficient reason, the restricted method
of knowledge of the individual. We shall then agree with Plato when he
attributes actual being only to the Ideas, and allows only an illusive,
dream-like existence to things in space and time, the real world for the
individual. Then we shall understand how one and the same Idea reveals
itself in so many phenomena, and presents its nature only bit by bit to
the individual, one side after another. Then we shall also distinguish the
Idea itself from the way in which its manifestation appears in the
observation of the individual, and recognise the former as essential and
the latter as unessential. Let us consider this with the help of examples
taken from the most insignificant things, and also from the greatest. When
the clouds move, the figures which they form are not essential, but
indifferent to them; but that as elastic vapour they are pressed together,
drifted along, spread out, or torn asunder by the force of the wind: this
is their nature, the essence of the forces which objectify themselves in
them, the Idea; their actual forms are only for the individual observer.
To the brook that flows over stones, the eddies, the waves, the
foam-flakes which it forms are indifferent and unessential; but that it
follows the attraction of gravity, and behaves as inelastic, perfectly
mobile, formless, transparent fluid: this is its nature; this, _if known
through perception_, is its Idea; these accidental forms are only for us
so long as we know as individuals. The ice on the window-pane forms itself
into crystals according to the laws of crystallisation, which reveal the
essence of the force of nature that appears here, exhibit the Idea; but
the trees and flowers which it traces on the pane are unessential, and are
only there for us. What appears in the clouds, the brook, and the crystal
is the weakest echo of that will which appears more fully in the plant,
more fully still in the beast, and most fully in man. But only the
essential in all these grades of its objectification constitutes the Idea;
on the other hand, its unfolding or development, because broken up in the
forms of the principle of sufficient reason into a multiplicity of
many-sided phenomena, is unessential to the Idea, lies merely in the kind
of knowledge that belongs to the individual and has reality only for this.
The same thing necessarily holds good of the unfolding of that Idea which
is the completest objectivity of will. Therefore, the history of the human
race, the throng of events, the change of times, the multifarious forms of
human life in different lands and countries, all this is only the
accidental form of the manifestation of the Idea, does not belong to the
Idea itself, in which alone lies the adequate objectivity of the will, but
only to the phenomenon which appears in the knowledge of the individual,
and is just as foreign, unessential, and indifferent to the Idea itself as
the figures which they assume are to the clouds, the form of its eddies
and foam-flakes to the brook, or its trees and flowers to the ice.

To him who has thoroughly grasped this, and can distinguish between the
will and the Idea, and between the Idea and its manifestation, the events
of the world will have significance only so far as they are the letters
out of which we may read the Idea of man, but not in and for themselves.
He will not believe with the vulgar that time may produce something
actually new and significant; that through it, or in it, something
absolutely real may attain to existence, or indeed that it itself as a
whole has beginning and end, plan and development, and in some way has for
its final aim the highest perfection (according to their conception) of
the last generation of man, whose life is a brief thirty years. Therefore
he will just as little, with Homer, people a whole Olympus with gods to
guide the events of time, as, with Ossian, he will take the forms of the
clouds for individual beings; for, as we have said, both have just as much
meaning as regards the Idea which appears in them. In the manifold forms
of human life and in the unceasing change of events, he will regard the
Idea only as the abiding and essential, in which the will to live has its
fullest objectivity, and which shows its different sides in the
capacities, the passions, the errors and the excellences of the human
race; in self-interest, hatred, love, fear, boldness, frivolity,
stupidity, slyness, wit, genius, and so forth, all of which crowding
together and combining in thousands of forms (individuals), continually
create the history of the great and the little world, in which it is all
the same whether they are set in motion by nuts or by crowns. Finally, he
will find that in the world it is the same as in the dramas of Gozzi, in
all of which the same persons appear, with like intention, and with a like
fate; the motives and incidents are certainly different in each piece, but
the spirit of the incidents is the same; the actors in one piece know
nothing of the incidents of another, although they performed in it
themselves; therefore, after all experience of former pieces, Pantaloon
has become no more agile or generous, Tartaglia no more conscientious,
Brighella no more courageous, and Columbine no more modest.

Suppose we were allowed for once a clearer glance into the kingdom of the
possible, and over the whole chain of causes and effects; if the
earth-spirit appeared and showed us in a picture all the greatest men,
enlighteners of the world, and heroes, that chance destroyed before they
were ripe for their work; then the great events that would have changed
the history of the world and brought in periods of the highest culture and
enlightenment, but which the blindest chance, the most insignificant
accident, hindered at the outset; lastly, the splendid powers of great
men, that would have enriched whole ages of the world, but which, either
misled by error or passion, or compelled by necessity, they squandered
uselessly on unworthy or unfruitful objects, or even wasted in play. If we
saw all this, we would shudder and lament at the thought of the lost
treasures of whole periods of the world. But the earth-spirit would smile
and say, “The source from which the individuals and their powers proceed
is inexhaustible and unending as time and space; for, like these forms of
all phenomena, they also are only phenomena, visibility of the will. No
finite measure can exhaust that infinite source; therefore an undiminished
eternity is always open for the return of any event or work that was
nipped in the bud. In this world of phenomena true loss is just as little
possible as true gain. The will alone is; it is the thing in-itself, and
the source of all these phenomena. Its self-knowledge and its assertion or
denial, which is then decided upon, is the only event in-itself.”(49)

§ 36. History follows the thread of events; it is pragmatic so far as it
deduces them in accordance with the law of motivation, a law that
determines the self-manifesting will wherever it is enlightened by
knowledge. At the lowest grades of its objectivity, where it still acts
without knowledge, natural science, in the form of etiology, treats of the
laws of the changes of its phenomena, and, in the form of morphology, of
what is permanent in them. This almost endless task is lightened by the
aid of concepts, which comprehend what is general in order that we may
deduce what is particular from it. Lastly, mathematics treats of the mere
forms, time and space, in which the Ideas, broken up into multiplicity,
appear for the knowledge of the subject as individual. All these, of which
the common name is science, proceed according to the principle of
sufficient reason in its different forms, and their theme is always the
phenomenon, its laws, connections, and the relations which result from
them. But what kind of knowledge is concerned with that which is outside
and independent of all relations, that which alone is really essential to
the world, the true content of its phenomena, that which is subject to no
change, and therefore is known with equal truth for all time, in a word,
the _Ideas_, which are the direct and adequate objectivity of the thing
in-itself, the will? We answer, _Art_, the work of genius. It repeats or
reproduces the eternal Ideas grasped through pure contemplation, the
essential and abiding in all the phenomena of the world; and according to
what the material is in which it reproduces, it is sculpture or painting,
poetry or music. Its one source is the knowledge of Ideas; its one aim the
communication of this knowledge. While science, following the unresting
and inconstant stream of the fourfold forms of reason and consequent, with
each end attained sees further, and can never reach a final goal nor
attain full satisfaction, any more than by running we can reach the place
where the clouds touch the horizon; art, on the contrary, is everywhere at
its goal. For it plucks the object of its contemplation out of the stream
of the world’s course, and has it isolated before it. And this particular
thing, which in that stream was a small perishing part, becomes to art the
representative of the whole, an equivalent of the endless multitude in
space and time. It therefore pauses at this particular thing; the course
of time stops; the relations vanish for it; only the essential, the Idea,
is its object. We may, therefore, accurately define it as the _way of
viewing things independent of the principle of sufficient reason_, in
opposition to the way of viewing them which proceeds in accordance with
that principle, and which is the method of experience and of science. This
last method of considering things may be compared to a line infinitely
extended in a horizontal direction, and the former to a vertical line
which cuts it at any point. The method of viewing things which proceeds in
accordance with the principle of sufficient reason is the rational method,
and it alone is valid and of use in practical life and in science. The
method which looks away from the content of this principle is the method
of genius, which is only valid and of use in art. The first is the method
of Aristotle; the second is, on the whole, that of Plato. The first is
like the mighty storm, that rushes along without beginning and without
aim, bending, agitating, and carrying away everything before it; the
second is like the silent sunbeam, that pierces through the storm quite
unaffected by it. The first is like the innumerable showering drops of the
waterfall, which, constantly changing, never rest for an instant; the
second is like the rainbow, quietly resting on this raging torrent. Only
through the pure contemplation described above, which ends entirely in the
object, can Ideas be comprehended; and the nature of _genius_ consists in
pre-eminent capacity for such contemplation. Now, as this requires that a
man should entirely forget himself and the relations in which he stands,
_genius_ is simply the completest _objectivity_, _i.e._, the objective
tendency of the mind, as opposed to the subjective, which is directed to
one’s own self—in other words, to the will. Thus genius is the faculty of
continuing in the state of pure perception, of losing oneself in
perception, and of enlisting in this service the knowledge which
originally existed only for the service of the will; that is to say,
genius is the power of leaving one’s own interests, wishes, and aims
entirely out of sight, thus of entirely renouncing one’s own personality
for a time, so as to remain _pure knowing subject_, clear vision of the
world; and this not merely at moments, but for a sufficient length of
time, and with sufficient consciousness, to enable one to reproduce by
deliberate art what has thus been apprehended, and “to fix in lasting
thoughts the wavering images that float before the mind.” It is as if,
when genius appears in an individual, a far larger measure of the power of
knowledge falls to his lot than is necessary for the service of an
individual will; and this superfluity of knowledge, being free, now
becomes subject purified from will, a clear mirror of the inner nature of
the world. This explains the activity, amounting even to disquietude, of
men of genius, for the present can seldom satisfy them, because it does
not fill their consciousness. This gives them that restless aspiration,
that unceasing desire for new things, and for the contemplation of lofty
things, and also that longing that is hardly ever satisfied, for men of
similar nature and of like stature, to whom they might communicate
themselves; whilst the common mortal, entirely filled and satisfied by the
common present, ends in it, and finding everywhere his like, enjoys that
peculiar satisfaction in daily life that is denied to genius.

Imagination has rightly been recognised as an essential element of genius;
it has sometimes even been regarded as identical with it; but this is a
mistake. As the objects of genius are the eternal Ideas, the permanent,
essential forms of the world and all its phenomena, and as the knowledge
of the Idea is necessarily knowledge through perception, is not abstract,
the knowledge of the genius would be limited to the Ideas of the objects
actually present to his person, and dependent upon the chain of
circumstances that brought these objects to him, if his imagination did
not extend his horizon far beyond the limits of his actual personal
existence, and thus enable him to construct the whole out of the little
that comes into his own actual apperception, and so to let almost all
possible scenes of life pass before him in his own consciousness. Further,
the actual objects are almost always very imperfect copies of the Ideas
expressed in them; therefore the man of genius requires imagination in
order to see in things, not that which Nature has actually made, but that
which she endeavoured to make, yet could not because of that conflict of
her forms among themselves which we referred to in the last book. We shall
return to this farther on in treating of sculpture. The imagination then
extends the intellectual horizon of the man of genius beyond the objects
which actually present themselves to him, both as regards quality and
quantity. Therefore extraordinary strength of imagination accompanies, and
is indeed a necessary condition of genius. But the converse does not hold,
for strength of imagination does not indicate genius; on the contrary, men
who have no touch of genius may have much imagination. For as it is
possible to consider a real object in two opposite ways, purely
objectively, the way of genius grasping its Idea, or in the common way,
merely in the relations in which it stands to other objects and to one’s
own will, in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason, it is
also possible to perceive an imaginary object in both of these ways.
Regarded in the first way, it is a means to the knowledge of the Idea, the
communication of which is the work of art; in the second case, the
imaginary object is used to build castles in the air congenial to egotism
and the individual humour, and which for the moment delude and gratify;
thus only the relations of the phantasies so linked together are known.
The man who indulges in such an amusement is a dreamer; he will easily
mingle those fancies that delight his solitude with reality, and so unfit
himself for real life: perhaps he will write them down, and then we shall
have the ordinary novel of every description, which entertains those who
are like him and the public at large, for the readers imagine themselves
in the place of the hero, and then find the story very agreeable.

The common mortal, that manufacture of Nature which she produces by the
thousand every day, is, as we have said, not capable, at least not
continuously so, of observation that in every sense is wholly
disinterested, as sensuous contemplation, strictly so called, is. He can
turn his attention to things only so far as they have some relation to his
will, however indirect it may be. Since in this respect, which never
demands anything but the knowledge of relations, the abstract conception
of the thing is sufficient, and for the most part even better adapted for
use; the ordinary man does not linger long over the mere perception, does
not fix his attention long on one object, but in all that is presented to
him hastily seeks merely the concept under which it is to be brought, as
the lazy man seeks a chair, and then it interests him no further. This is
why he is so soon done with everything, with works of art, objects of
natural beauty, and indeed everywhere with the truly significant
contemplation of all the scenes of life. He does not linger; only seeks to
know his own way in life, together with all that might at any time become
his way. Thus he makes topographical notes in the widest sense; over the
consideration of life itself as such he wastes no time. The man of genius,
on the other hand, whose excessive power of knowledge frees it at times
from the service of will, dwells on the consideration of life itself,
strives to comprehend the Idea of each thing, not its relations to other
things; and in doing this he often forgets to consider his own path in
life, and therefore for the most part pursues it awkwardly enough. While
to the ordinary man his faculty of knowledge is a lamp to lighten his
path, to the man of genius it is the sun which reveals the world. This
great diversity in their way of looking at life soon becomes visible in
the outward appearance both of the man of genius and of the ordinary
mortal. The man in whom genius lives and works is easily distinguished by
his glance, which is both keen and steady, and bears the stamp of
perception, of contemplation. This is easily seen from the likenesses of
the few men of genius whom Nature has produced here and there among
countless millions. On the other hand, in the case of an ordinary man, the
true object of his contemplation, what he is prying into, can be easily
seen from his glance, if indeed it is not quite stupid and vacant, as is
generally the case. Therefore the expression of genius in a face consists
in this, that in it a decided predominance of knowledge over will is
visible, and consequently there also shows itself in it a knowledge that
is entirely devoid of relation to will, _i.e._, _pure knowing_. On the
contrary, in ordinary countenances there is a predominant expression of
will; and we see that knowledge only comes into activity under the impulse
of will, and thus is directed merely by motives.

Since the knowledge that pertains to genius, or the knowledge of Ideas, is
that knowledge which does not follow the principle of sufficient reason,
so, on the other hand, the knowledge which does follow that principle is
that which gives us prudence and rationality in life, and which creates
the sciences. Thus men of genius are affected with the deficiencies
entailed in the neglect of this latter kind of knowledge. Yet what I say
in this regard is subject to the limitation that it only concerns them in
so far as and while they are actually engaged in that kind of knowledge
which is peculiar to genius; and this is by no means at every moment of
their lives, for the great though spontaneous exertion which is demanded
for the comprehension of Ideas free from will must necessarily relax, and
there are long intervals during which men of genius are placed in very
much the same position as ordinary mortals, both as regards advantages and
deficiencies. On this account the action of genius has always been
regarded as an inspiration, as indeed the name indicates, as the action of
a superhuman being distinct from the individual himself, and which takes
possession of him only periodically. The disinclination of men of genius
to direct their attention to the content of the principle of sufficient
reason will first show itself, with regard to the ground of being, as
dislike of mathematics; for its procedure is based upon the most universal
forms of the phenomenon space and time, which are themselves merely modes
of the principle of sufficient reason, and is consequently precisely the
opposite of that method of thought which seeks merely the content of the
phenomenon, the Idea which expresses itself in it apart from all
relations. The logical method of mathematics is also antagonistic to
genius, for it does not satisfy but obstructs true insight, and presents
merely a chain of conclusions in accordance with the principle of the
ground of knowing. The mental faculty upon which it makes the greatest
claim is memory, for it is necessary to recollect all the earlier
propositions which are referred to. Experience has also proved that men of
great artistic genius have no faculty for mathematics; no man was ever
very distinguished for both. Alfieri relates that he was never able to
understand the fourth proposition of Euclid. Goethe was constantly
reproached with his want of mathematical knowledge by the ignorant
opponents of his theory of colours. Here certainly, where it was not a
question of calculation and measurement upon hypothetical data, but of
direct knowledge by the understanding of causes and effects, this reproach
was so utterly absurd and inappropriate, that by making it they have
exposed their entire want of judgment, just as much as by the rest of
their ridiculous arguments. The fact that up to the present day, nearly
half a century after the appearance of Goethe’s theory of colours, even in
Germany the Newtonian fallacies still have undisturbed possession of the
professorial chair, and men continue to speak quite seriously of the seven
homogeneous rays of light and their different refrangibility, will some
day be numbered among the great intellectual peculiarities of men
generally, and especially of Germans. From the same cause as we have
referred to above, may be explained the equally well-known fact that,
conversely, admirable mathematicians have very little susceptibility for
works of fine art. This is very naïvely expressed in the well-known
anecdote of the French mathematician, who, after having read Racine’s
“Iphigenia,” shrugged his shoulders and asked, “_Qu’est ce que cela
prouve?_” Further, as quick comprehension of relations in accordance with
the laws of causality and motivation is what specially constitutes
prudence or sagacity, a prudent man, so far as and while he is so, will
not be a genius, and a man of genius, so far as and while he is so, will
not be a prudent man. Lastly, perceptive knowledge generally, in the
province of which the Idea always lies, is directly opposed to rational or
abstract knowledge, which is guided by the principle of the ground of
knowing. It is also well known that we seldom find great genius united
with pre-eminent reasonableness; on the contrary, persons of genius are
often subject to violent emotions and irrational passions. But the ground
of this is not weakness of reason, but partly unwonted energy of that
whole phenomenon of will—the man of genius—which expresses itself through
the violence of all his acts of will, and partly preponderance of the
knowledge of perception through the senses and understanding over abstract
knowledge, producing a decided tendency to the perceptible, the
exceedingly lively impressions of which so far outshine colourless
concepts, that they take their place in the guidance of action, which
consequently becomes irrational. Accordingly the impression of the present
moment is very strong with such persons, and carries them away into
unconsidered action, violent emotions and passions. Moreover, since, in
general, the knowledge of persons of genius has to some extent freed
itself from the service of will, they will not in conversation think so
much of the person they are addressing as of the thing they are speaking
about, which is vividly present to them; and therefore they are likely to
judge or narrate things too objectively for their own interests; they will
not pass over in silence what would more prudently be concealed, and so
forth. Finally, they are given to soliloquising, and in general may
exhibit certain weaknesses which are actually akin to madness. It has
often been remarked that there is a side at which genius and madness
touch, and even pass over into each other, and indeed poetical inspiration
has been called a kind of madness: _amabilis insania_, Horace calls it
(Od. iii. 4), and Wieland in the introduction to “Oberon” speaks of it as
“amiable madness.” Even Aristotle, as quoted by Seneca (De Tranq. Animi,
15, 16), is reported to have said: _Nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura
dementiæ fuit_. Plato expresses it in the figure of the dark cave,
referred to above (De Rep. 7), when he says: “Those who, outside the cave,
have seen the true sunlight and the things that have true being (Ideas),
cannot afterwards see properly down in the cave, because their eyes are
not accustomed to the darkness; they cannot distinguish the shadows, and
are jeered at for their mistakes by those who have never left the cave and
its shadows.” In the “Phædrus” also (p. 317), he distinctly says that
there can be no true poet without a certain madness; in fact, (p. 327),
that every one appears mad who recognises the eternal Ideas in fleeting
things. Cicero also quotes: _Negat enim sine furore, Democritus, quemquam
poetam magnum esse posse; quod idem dicit Plato_ (De Divin., i. 37). And,
lastly, Pope says—


    “Great wits to madness sure are near allied,
    And thin partitions do their bounds divide.”


Especially instructive in this respect is Goethe’s “Torquato Tasso,” in
which he shows us not only the suffering, the martyrdom of genius as such,
but also how it constantly passes into madness. Finally, the fact of the
direct connection of genius and madness is established by the biographies
of great men of genius, such as Rousseau, Byron, and Alfieri, and by
anecdotes from the lives of others. On the other hand, I must mention
that, by a diligent search in lunatic asylums, I have found individual
cases of patients who were unquestionably endowed with great talents, and
whose genius distinctly appeared through their madness, which, however,
had completely gained the upper hand. Now this cannot be ascribed to
chance, for on the one hand the number of mad persons is relatively very
small, and on the other hand a person of genius is a phenomenon which is
rare beyond all ordinary estimation, and only appears in nature as the
greatest exception. It will be sufficient to convince us of this if we
compare the number of really great men of genius that the whole of
civilised Europe has produced, both in ancient and modern times, with the
two hundred and fifty millions who are always living in Europe, and who
change entirely every thirty years. In estimating the number of men of
outstanding genius, we must of course only count those who have produced
works which have retained through all time an enduring value for mankind.
I shall not refrain from mentioning, that I have known some persons of
decided, though not remarkable, mental superiority, who also showed a
slight trace of insanity. It might seem from this that every advance of
intellect beyond the ordinary measure, as an abnormal development,
disposes to madness. In the meantime, however, I will explain as briefly
as possible my view of the purely intellectual ground of the relation
between genius and madness, for this will certainly assist the explanation
of the real nature of genius, that is to say, of that mental endowment
which alone can produce genuine works of art. But this necessitates a
brief explanation of madness itself.(50)

A clear and complete insight into the nature of madness, a correct and
distinct conception of what constitutes the difference between the sane
and the insane, has, as far as I know, not as yet been found. Neither
reason nor understanding can be denied to madmen, for they talk and
understand, and often draw very accurate conclusions; they also, as a
rule, perceive what is present quite correctly, and apprehend the
connection between cause and effect. Visions, like the phantasies of
delirium, are no ordinary symptom of madness: delirium falsifies
perception, madness the thoughts. For the most part, madmen do not err in
the knowledge of what is immediately _present_; their raving always
relates to what is _absent_ and _past_, and only through these to their
connection with what is present. Therefore it seems to me that their
malady specially concerns the memory; not indeed that memory fails them
entirely, for many of them know a great deal by heart, and sometimes
recognise persons whom they have not seen for a long time; but rather that
the thread of memory is broken, the continuity of its connection
destroyed, and no uniformly connected recollection of the past is
possible. Particular scenes of the past are known correctly, just like the
particular present; but there are gaps in their recollection which they
fill up with fictions, and these are either always the same, in which case
they become fixed ideas, and the madness that results is called monomania
or melancholy; or they are always different, momentary fancies, and then
it is called folly, _fatuitas_. This is why it is so difficult to find out
their former life from lunatics when they enter an asylum. The true and
the false are always mixed up in their memory. Although the immediate
present is correctly known, it becomes falsified through its fictitious
connection with an imaginary past; they therefore regard themselves and
others as identical with persons who exist only in their imaginary past;
they do not recognise some of their acquaintances at all, and thus while
they perceive correctly what is actually present, they have only false
conceptions of its relations to what is absent. If the madness reaches a
high degree, there is complete absence of memory, so that the madman is
quite incapable of any reference to what is absent or past, and is only
determined by the caprice of the moment in connection with the fictions
which, in his mind, fill the past. In such a case, we are never for a
moment safe from violence or murder, unless we constantly make the madman
aware of the presence of superior force. The knowledge of the madman has
this in common with that of the brute, both are confined to the present.
What distinguishes them is that the brute has really no idea of the past
as such, though the past acts upon it through the medium of custom, so
that, for example, the dog recognises its former master even after years,
that is to say, it receives the wonted impression at the sight of him; but
of the time that has passed since it saw him it has no recollection. The
madman, on the other hand, always carries about in his reason an abstract
past, but it is a false past, which exists only for him, and that either
constantly, or only for the moment. The influence of this false past
prevents the use of the true knowledge of the present which the brute is
able to make. The fact that violent mental suffering or unexpected and
terrible calamities should often produce madness, I explain in the
following manner. All such suffering is as an actual event confined to the
present. It is thus merely transitory, and is consequently never
excessively heavy; it only becomes unendurably great when it is lasting
pain; but as such it exists only in thought, and therefore lies in the
_memory_. If now such a sorrow, such painful knowledge or reflection, is
so bitter that it becomes altogether unbearable, and the individual is
prostrated under it, then, terrified Nature seizes upon _madness_ as the
last resource of life; the mind so fearfully tortured at once destroys the
thread of its memory, fills up the gaps with fictions, and thus seeks
refuge in madness from the mental suffering that exceeds its strength,
just as we cut off a mortified limb and replace it with a wooden one. The
distracted Ajax, King Lear, and Ophelia may be taken as examples; for the
creations of true genius, to which alone we can refer here, as universally
known, are equal in truth to real persons; besides, in this case, frequent
actual experience shows the same thing. A faint analogy of this kind of
transition from pain to madness is to be found in the way in which all of
us often seek, as it were mechanically, to drive away a painful thought
that suddenly occurs to us by some loud exclamation or quick movement—to
turn ourselves from it, to distract our minds by force.

We see, from what has been said, that the madman has a true knowledge of
what is actually present, and also of certain particulars of the past, but
that he mistakes the connection, the relations, and therefore falls into
error and talks nonsense. Now this is exactly the point at which he comes
into contact with the man of genius; for he also leaves out of sight the
knowledge of the connection of things, since he neglects that knowledge of
relations which conforms to the principle of sufficient reason, in order
to see in things only their Ideas, and to seek to comprehend their true
nature, which manifests itself to perception, and in regard to which _one
thing_ represents its whole species, in which way, as Goethe says, one
case is valid for a thousand. The particular object of his contemplation,
or the present which is perceived by him with extraordinary vividness,
appear in so strong a light that the other links of the chain to which
they belong are at once thrown into the shade, and this gives rise to
phenomena which have long been recognised as resembling those of madness.
That which in particular given things exists only incompletely and
weakened by modifications, is raised by the man of genius, through his way
of contemplating it, to the Idea of the thing, to completeness: he
therefore sees everywhere extremes, and therefore his own action tends to
extremes; he cannot hit the mean, he lacks soberness, and the result is
what we have said. He knows the Ideas completely but not the individuals.
Therefore it has been said that a poet may know mankind deeply and
thoroughly, and may yet have a very imperfect knowledge of men. He is
easily deceived, and is a tool in the hands of the crafty.

§ 37. Genius, then, consists, according to our explanation, in the
capacity for knowing, independently of the principle of sufficient reason,
not individual things, which have their existence only in their relations,
but the Ideas of such things, and of being oneself the correlative of the
Idea, and thus no longer an individual, but the pure subject of knowledge.
Yet this faculty must exist in all men in a smaller and different degree;
for if not, they would be just as incapable of enjoying works of art as of
producing them; they would have no susceptibility for the beautiful or the
sublime; indeed, these words could have no meaning for them. We must
therefore assume that there exists in all men this power of knowing the
Ideas in things, and consequently of transcending their personality for
the moment, unless indeed there are some men who are capable of no
æsthetic pleasure at all. The man of genius excels ordinary men only by
possessing this kind of knowledge in a far higher degree and more
continuously. Thus, while under its influence he retains the presence of
mind which is necessary to enable him to repeat in a voluntary and
intentional work what he has learned in this manner; and this repetition
is the work of art. Through this he communicates to others the Idea he has
grasped. This Idea remains unchanged and the same, so that æsthetic
pleasure is one and the same whether it is called forth by a work of art
or directly by the contemplation of nature and life. The work of art is
only a means of facilitating the knowledge in which this pleasure
consists. That the Idea comes to us more easily from the work of art than
directly from nature and the real world, arises from the fact that the
artist, who knew only the Idea, no longer the actual, has reproduced in
his work the pure Idea, has abstracted it from the actual, omitting all
disturbing accidents. The artist lets us see the world through his eyes.
That he has these eyes, that he knows the inner nature of things apart
from all their relations, is the gift of genius, is inborn; but that he is
able to lend us this gift, to let us see with his eyes, is acquired, and
is the technical side of art. Therefore, after the account which I have
given in the preceding pages of the inner nature of æsthetical knowledge
in its most general outlines, the following more exact philosophical
treatment of the beautiful and the sublime will explain them both, in
nature and in art, without separating them further. First of all we shall
consider what takes place in a man when he is affected by the beautiful
and the sublime; whether he derives this emotion directly from nature,
from life, or partakes of it only through the medium of art, does not make
any essential, but merely an external, difference.

§ 38. In the æsthetical mode of contemplation we have found _two
inseparable constituent parts_—the knowledge of the object, not as
individual thing but as Platonic Idea, that is, as the enduring form of
this whole species of things; and the self-consciousness of the knowing
person, not as individual, but as _pure will-less subject of knowledge_.
The condition under which both these constituent parts appear always
united was found to be the abandonment of the method of knowing which is
bound to the principle of sufficient reason, and which, on the other hand,
is the only kind of knowledge that is of value for the service of the will
and also for science. Moreover, we shall see that the pleasure which is
produced by the contemplation of the beautiful arises from these two
constituent parts, sometimes more from the one, sometimes more from the
other, according to what the object of the æsthetical contemplation may
be.

All _willing_ arises from want, therefore from deficiency, and therefore
from suffering. The satisfaction of a wish ends it; yet for one wish that
is satisfied there remain at least ten which are denied. Further, the
desire lasts long, the demands are infinite; the satisfaction is short and
scantily measured out. But even the final satisfaction is itself only
apparent; every satisfied wish at once makes room for a new one; both are
illusions; the one is known to be so, the other not yet. No attained
object of desire can give lasting satisfaction, but merely a fleeting
gratification; it is like the alms thrown to the beggar, that keeps him
alive to-day that his misery may be prolonged till the morrow. Therefore,
so long as our consciousness is filled by our will, so long as we are
given up to the throng of desires with their constant hopes and fears, so
long as we are the subject of willing, we can never have lasting happiness
nor peace. It is essentially all the same whether we pursue or flee, fear
injury or seek enjoyment; the care for the constant demands of the will,
in whatever form it may be, continually occupies and sways the
consciousness; but without peace no true well-being is possible. The
subject of willing is thus constantly stretched on the revolving wheel of
Ixion, pours water into the sieve of the Danaids, is the ever-longing
Tantalus.

But when some external cause or inward disposition lifts us suddenly out
of the endless stream of willing, delivers knowledge from the slavery of
the will, the attention is no longer directed to the motives of willing,
but comprehends things free from their relation to the will, and thus
observes them without personal interest, without subjectivity, purely
objectively, gives itself entirely up to them so far as they are ideas,
but not in so far as they are motives. Then all at once the peace which we
were always seeking, but which always fled from us on the former path of
the desires, comes to us of its own accord, and it is well with us. It is
the painless state which Epicurus prized as the highest good and as the
state of the gods; for we are for the moment set free from the miserable
striving of the will; we keep the Sabbath of the penal servitude of
willing; the wheel of Ixion stands still.

But this is just the state which I described above as necessary for the
knowledge of the Idea, as pure contemplation, as sinking oneself in
perception, losing oneself in the object, forgetting all individuality,
surrendering that kind of knowledge which follows the principle of
sufficient reason, and comprehends only relations; the state by means of
which at once and inseparably the perceived particular thing is raised to
the Idea of its whole species, and the knowing individual to the pure
subject of will-less knowledge, and as such they are both taken out of the
stream of time and all other relations. It is then all one whether we see
the sun set from the prison or from the palace.

Inward disposition, the predominance of knowing over willing, can produce
this state under any circumstances. This is shown by those admirable Dutch
artists who directed this purely objective perception to the most
insignificant objects, and established a lasting monument of their
objectivity and spiritual peace in their pictures of _still life_, which
the æsthetic beholder does not look on without emotion; for they present
to him the peaceful, still, frame of mind of the artist, free from will,
which was needed to contemplate such insignificant things so objectively,
to observe them so attentively, and to repeat this perception so
intelligently; and as the picture enables the onlooker to participate in
this state, his emotion is often increased by the contrast between it and
the unquiet frame of mind, disturbed by vehement willing, in which he
finds himself. In the same spirit, landscape-painters, and particularly
Ruisdael, have often painted very insignificant country scenes, which
produce the same effect even more agreeably.

All this is accomplished by the inner power of an artistic nature alone;
but that purely objective disposition is facilitated and assisted from
without by suitable objects, by the abundance of natural beauty which
invites contemplation, and even presses itself upon us. Whenever it
discloses itself suddenly to our view, it almost always succeeds in
delivering us, though it may be only for a moment, from subjectivity, from
the slavery of the will, and in raising us to the state of pure knowing.
This is why the man who is tormented by passion, or want, or care, is so
suddenly revived, cheered, and restored by a single free glance into
nature: the storm of passion, the pressure of desire and fear, and all the
miseries of willing are then at once, and in a marvellous manner, calmed
and appeased. For at the moment at which, freed from the will, we give
ourselves up to pure will-less knowing, we pass into a world from which
everything is absent that influenced our will and moved us so violently
through it. This freeing of knowledge lifts us as wholly and entirely away
from all that, as do sleep and dreams; happiness and unhappiness have
disappeared; we are no longer individual; the individual is forgotten; we
are only pure subject of knowledge; we are only that _one_ eye of the
world which looks out from all knowing creatures, but which can become
perfectly free from the service of will in man alone. Thus all difference
of individuality so entirely disappears, that it is all the same whether
the perceiving eye belongs to a mighty king or to a wretched beggar; for
neither joy nor complaining can pass that boundary with us. So near us
always lies a sphere in which we escape from all our misery; but who has
the strength to continue long in it? As soon as any single relation to our
will, to our person, even of these objects of our pure contemplation,
comes again into consciousness, the magic is at an end; we fall back into
the knowledge which is governed by the principle of sufficient reason; we
know no longer the Idea, but the particular thing, the link of a chain to
which we also belong, and we are again abandoned to all our woe. Most men
remain almost always at this standpoint because they entirely lack
objectivity, _i.e._, genius. Therefore they have no pleasure in being
alone with nature; they need company, or at least a book. For their
knowledge remains subject to their will; they seek, therefore, in objects,
only some relation to their will, and whenever they see anything that has
no such relation, there sounds within them, like a ground bass in music,
the constant inconsolable cry, “It is of no use to me;” thus in solitude
the most beautiful surroundings have for them a desolate, dark, strange,
and hostile appearance.

Lastly, it is this blessedness of will-less perception which casts an
enchanting glamour over the past and distant, and presents them to us in
so fair a light by means of self-deception. For as we think of days long
gone by, days in which we lived in a distant place, it is only the objects
which our fancy recalls, not the subject of will, which bore about with it
then its incurable sorrows just as it bears them now; but they are
forgotten, because since then they have often given place to others. Now,
objective perception acts with regard to what is remembered just as it
would in what is present, if we let it have influence over us, if we
surrendered ourselves to it free from will. Hence it arises that,
especially when we are more than ordinarily disturbed by some want, the
remembrance of past and distant scenes suddenly flits across our minds
like a lost paradise. The fancy recalls only what was objective, not what
was individually subjective, and we imagine that that objective stood
before us then just as pure and undisturbed by any relation to the will as
its image stands in our fancy now; while in reality the relation of the
objects to our will gave us pain then just as it does now. We can deliver
ourselves from all suffering just as well through present objects as
through distant ones whenever we raise ourselves to a purely objective
contemplation of them, and so are able to bring about the illusion that
only the objects are present and not we ourselves. Then, as the pure
subject of knowledge, freed from the miserable self, we become entirely
one with these objects, and, for the moment, our wants are as foreign to
us as they are to them. The world as idea alone remains, and the world as
will has disappeared.

In all these reflections it has been my object to bring out clearly the
nature and the scope of the subjective element in æsthetic pleasure; the
deliverance of knowledge from the service of the will, the forgetting of
self as an individual, and the raising of the consciousness to the pure
will-less, timeless, subject of knowledge, independent of all relations.
With this subjective side of æsthetic contemplation, there must always
appear as its necessary correlative the objective side, the intuitive
comprehension of the Platonic Idea. But before we turn to the closer
consideration of this, and to the achievements of art in relation to it,
it is better that we should pause for a little at the subjective side of
æsthetic pleasure, in order to complete our treatment of this by
explaining the impression of the _sublime_ which depends altogether upon
it, and arises from a modification of it. After that we shall complete our
investigation of æsthetic pleasure by considering its objective side.

But we must first add the following remarks to what has been said. Light
is the pleasantest and most gladdening of things; it has become the symbol
of all that is good and salutary. In all religions it symbolises
salvation, while darkness symbolises damnation. Ormuzd dwells in the
purest light, Ahrimines in eternal night. Dante’s Paradise would look very
much like Vauxhall in London, for all the blessed spirits appear as points
of light and arrange themselves in regular figures. The very absence of
light makes us sad; its return cheers us. Colours excite directly a keen
delight, which reaches its highest degree when they are transparent. All
this depends entirely upon the fact that light is the correlative and
condition of the most perfect kind of knowledge of perception, the only
knowledge which does not in any way affect the will. For sight, unlike the
affections of the other senses, cannot, in itself, directly and through
its sensuous effect, make the _sensation_ of the special organ agreeable
or disagreeable; that is, it has no immediate connection with the will.
Such a quality can only belong to the perception which arises in the
understanding, and then it lies in the relation of the object to the will.
In the case of hearing this is to some extent otherwise; sounds can give
pain directly, and they may also be sensuously agreeable, directly and
without regard to harmony or melody. Touch, as one with the feeling of the
whole body, is still more subordinated to this direct influence upon the
will; and yet there is such a thing as a sensation of touch which is
neither painful nor pleasant. But smells are always either agreeable or
disagreeable, and tastes still more so. Thus the last two senses are most
closely related to the will, and therefore they are always the most
ignoble, and have been called by Kant the subjective senses. The pleasure
which we experience from light is in fact only the pleasure which arises
from the objective possibility of the purest and fullest perceptive
knowledge, and as such it may be traced to the fact that pure knowledge,
freed and delivered from all will, is in the highest degree pleasant, and
of itself constitutes a large part of æsthetic enjoyment. Again, we must
refer to this view of light the incredible beauty which we associate with
the reflection of objects in water. That lightest, quickest, finest
species of the action of bodies upon each other, that to which we owe by
far the completest and purest of our perceptions, the action of reflected
rays of light, is here brought clearly before our eyes, distinct and
perfect, in cause and in effect, and indeed in its entirety, hence the
æsthetic delight it gives us, which, in the most important aspect, is
entirely based on the subjective ground of æsthetic pleasure, and is
delight in pure knowing and its method.

§ 39. All these reflections are intended to bring out the subjective part
of æsthetic pleasure; that is to say, that pleasure so far as it consists
simply of delight in perceptive knowledge as such, in opposition to will.
And as directly connected with this, there naturally follows the
explanation of that disposition or frame of mind which has been called the
sense of the _sublime_.

We have already remarked above that the transition to the state of pure
perception takes place most easily when the objects bend themselves to it,
that is, when by their manifold and yet definite and distinct form they
easily become representatives of their Ideas, in which beauty, in the
objective sense, consists. This quality belongs pre-eminently to natural
beauty, which thus affords even to the most insensible at least a fleeting
æsthetic satisfaction: indeed it is so remarkable how especially the
vegetable world invites æsthetic observation, and, as it were, presses
itself upon it, that one might say, that these advances are connected with
the fact that these organisms, unlike the bodies of animals, are not
themselves immediate objects of knowledge, and therefore require the
assistance of a foreign intelligent individual in order to rise out of the
world of blind will and enter the world of idea, and that thus they long,
as it were, for this entrance, that they may attain at least indirectly
what is denied them directly. But I leave this suggestion which I have
hazarded, and which borders perhaps upon extravagance, entirely undecided,
for only a very intimate and devoted consideration of nature can raise or
justify it.(51) As long as that which raises us from the knowledge of mere
relations subject to the will, to æsthetic contemplation, and thereby
exalts us to the position of the subject of knowledge free from will, is
this fittingness of nature, this significance and distinctness of its
forms, on account of which the Ideas individualised in them readily
present themselves to us; so long is it merely _beauty_ that affects us
and the sense of the _beautiful_ that is excited. But if these very
objects whose significant forms invite us to pure contemplation, have a
hostile relation to the human will in general, as it exhibits itself in
its objectivity, the human body, if they are opposed to it, so that it is
menaced by the irresistible predominance of their power, or sinks into
insignificance before their immeasurable greatness; if, nevertheless, the
beholder does not direct his attention to this eminently hostile relation
to his will, but, although perceiving and recognising it, turns
consciously away from it, forcibly detaches himself from his will and its
relations, and, giving himself up entirely to knowledge, quietly
contemplates those very objects that are so terrible to the will,
comprehends only their Idea, which is foreign to all relation, so that he
lingers gladly over its contemplation, and is thereby raised above
himself, his person, his will, and all will:—in that case he is filled
with the sense of the _sublime_, he is in the state of spiritual
exaltation, and therefore the object producing such a state is called
_sublime_. Thus what distinguishes the sense of the sublime from that of
the beautiful is this: in the case of the beautiful, pure knowledge has
gained the upper hand without a struggle, for the beauty of the object,
_i.e._, that property which facilitates the knowledge of its Idea, has
removed from consciousness without resistance, and therefore
imperceptibly, the will and the knowledge of relations which is subject to
it, so that what is left is the pure subject of knowledge without even a
remembrance of will. On the other hand, in the case of the sublime that
state of pure knowledge is only attained by a conscious and forcible
breaking away from the relations of the same object to the will, which are
recognised as unfavourable, by a free and conscious transcending of the
will and the knowledge related to it.

This exaltation must not only be consciously won, but also consciously
retained, and it is therefore accompanied by a constant remembrance of
will; yet not of a single particular volition, such as fear or desire, but
of human volition in general, so far as it is universally expressed in its
objectivity the human body. If a single real act of will were to come into
consciousness, through actual personal pressure and danger from the
object, then the individual will thus actually influenced would at once
gain the upper hand, the peace of contemplation would become impossible,
the impression of the sublime would be lost, because it yields to the
anxiety, in which the effort of the individual to right itself has sunk
every other thought. A few examples will help very much to elucidate this
theory of the æsthetic sublime and remove all doubt with regard to it; at
the same time they will bring out the different degrees of this sense of
the sublime. It is in the main identical with that of the beautiful, with
pure will-less knowing, and the knowledge, that necessarily accompanies it
of Ideas out of all relation determined by the principle of sufficient
reason, and it is distinguished from the sense of the beautiful only by
the additional quality that it rises above the known hostile relation of
the object contemplated to the will in general. Thus there come to be
various degrees of the sublime, and transitions from the beautiful to the
sublime, according as this additional quality is strong, bold, urgent,
near, or weak, distant, and merely indicated. I think it is more in
keeping with the plan of my treatise, first to give examples of these
transitions, and of the weaker degrees of the impression of the sublime,
although persons whose æsthetical susceptibility in general is not very
great, and whose imagination is not very lively, will only understand the
examples given later of the higher and more distinct grades of that
impression; and they should therefore confine themselves to these, and
pass over the examples of the very weak degrees of the sublime that are to
be given first.

As man is at once impetuous and blind striving of will (whose pole or
focus lies in the genital organs), and eternal, free, serene subject of
pure knowing (whose pole is the brain); so, corresponding to this
antithesis, the sun is both the source of _light_, the condition of the
most perfect kind of knowledge, and therefore of the most delightful of
things—and the source of _warmth_, the first condition of life, _i.e._, of
all phenomena of will in its higher grades. Therefore, what warmth is for
the will, light is for knowledge. Light is the largest gem in the crown of
beauty, and has the most marked influence on the knowledge of every
beautiful object. Its presence is an indispensable condition of beauty;
its favourable disposition increases the beauty of the most beautiful.
Architectural beauty more than any other object is enhanced by favourable
light, though even the most insignificant things become through its
influence most beautiful. If, in the dead of winter, when all nature is
frozen and stiff, we see the rays of the setting sun reflected by masses
of stone, illuminating without warming, and thus favourable only to the
purest kind of knowledge, not to the will; the contemplation of the
beautiful effect of the light upon these masses lifts us, as does all
beauty, into a state of pure knowing. But, in this case, a certain
transcending of the interests of the will is needed to enable us to rise
into the state of pure knowing, because there is a faint recollection of
the lack of warmth from these rays, that is, an absence of the principle
of life; there is a slight challenge to persist in pure knowing, and to
refrain from all willing, and therefore it is an example of a transition
from the sense of the beautiful to that of the sublime. It is the faintest
trace of the sublime in the beautiful; and beauty itself is indeed present
only in a slight degree. The following is almost as weak an example.

Let us imagine ourselves transported to a very lonely place, with unbroken
horizon, under a cloudless sky, trees and plants in the perfectly
motionless air, no animals, no men, no running water, the deepest silence.
Such surroundings are, as it were, a call to seriousness and
contemplation, apart from all will and its cravings; but this is just what
imparts to such a scene of desolate stillness a touch of the sublime. For,
because it affords no object, either favourable or unfavourable, for the
will which is constantly in need of striving and attaining, there only
remains the state of pure contemplation, and whoever is incapable of this,
is ignominiously abandoned to the vacancy of unoccupied will, and the
misery of ennui. So far it is a test of our intellectual worth, of which,
generally speaking, the degree of our power of enduring solitude, or our
love of it, is a good criterion. The scene we have sketched affords us,
then, an example of the sublime in a low degree, for in it, with the state
of pure knowing in its peace and all-sufficiency, there is mingled, by way
of contrast, the recollection of the dependence and poverty of the will
which stands in need of constant action. This is the species of the
sublime for which the sight of the boundless prairies of the interior of
North America is celebrated.

But let us suppose such a scene, stripped also of vegetation, and showing
only naked rocks; then from the entire absence of that organic life which
is necessary for existence, the will at once becomes uneasy, the desert
assumes a terrible aspect, our mood becomes more tragic; the elevation to
the sphere of pure knowing takes place with a more decided tearing of
ourselves away from the interests of the will; and because we persist in
continuing in the state of pure knowing, the sense of the sublime
distinctly appears.

The following situation may occasion this feeling in a still higher
degree: Nature convulsed by a storm; the sky darkened by black threatening
thunder-clouds; stupendous, naked, overhanging cliffs, completely shutting
out the view; rushing, foaming torrents; absolute desert; the wail of the
wind sweeping through the clefts of the rocks. Our dependence, our strife
with hostile nature, our will broken in the conflict, now appears visibly
before our eyes. Yet, so long as the personal pressure does not gain the
upper hand, but we continue in æsthetic contemplation, the pure subject of
knowing gazes unshaken and unconcerned through that strife of nature,
through that picture of the broken will, and quietly comprehends the Ideas
even of those objects which are threatening and terrible to the will. In
this contrast lies the sense of the sublime.

But the impression becomes still stronger, if, when we have before our
eyes, on a large scale, the battle of the raging elements, in such a scene
we are prevented from hearing the sound of our own voice by the noise of a
falling stream; or, if we are abroad in the storm of tempestuous seas,
where the mountainous waves rise and fall, dash themselves furiously
against steep cliffs, and toss their spray high into the air; the storm
howls, the sea boils, the lightning flashes from black clouds, and the
peals of thunder drown the voice of storm and sea. Then, in the undismayed
beholder, the two-fold nature of his consciousness reaches the highest
degree of distinctness. He perceives himself, on the one hand, as an
individual, as the frail phenomenon of will, which the slightest touch of
these forces can utterly destroy, helpless against powerful nature,
dependent, the victim of chance, a vanishing nothing in the presence of
stupendous might; and, on the other hand, as the eternal, peaceful,
knowing subject, the condition of the object, and, therefore, the
supporter of this whole world; the terrific strife of nature only his
idea; the subject itself free and apart from all desires and necessities,
in the quiet comprehension of the Ideas. This is the complete impression
of the sublime. Here he obtains a glimpse of a power beyond all comparison
superior to the individual, threatening it with annihilation.

The impression of the sublime may be produced in quite another way, by
presenting a mere immensity in space and time; its immeasurable greatness
dwindles the individual to nothing. Adhering to Kant’s nomenclature and
his accurate division, we may call the first kind the dynamical, and the
second the mathematical sublime, although we entirely dissent from his
explanation of the inner nature of the impression, and can allow no share
in it either to moral reflections, or to hypostases from scholastic
philosophy.

If we lose ourselves in the contemplation of the infinite greatness of the
universe in space and time, meditate on the thousands of years that are
past or to come, or if the heavens at night actually bring before our eyes
innumerable worlds and so force upon our consciousness the immensity of
the universe, we feel ourselves dwindle to nothing; as individuals, as
living bodies, as transient phenomena of will, we feel ourselves pass away
and vanish into nothing like drops in the ocean. But at once there rises
against this ghost of our own nothingness, against such lying
impossibility, the immediate consciousness that all these worlds exist
only as our idea, only as modifications of the eternal subject of pure
knowing, which we find ourselves to be as soon as we forget our
individuality, and which is the necessary supporter of all worlds and all
times the condition of their possibility. The vastness of the world which
disquieted us before, rests now in us; our dependence upon it is annulled
by its dependence upon us. All this, however, does not come at once into
reflection, but shows itself merely as the felt consciousness that in some
sense or other (which philosophy alone can explain) we are one with the
world, and therefore not oppressed, but exalted by its immensity. It is
the felt consciousness of this that the Upanishads of the Vedas repeatedly
express in such a multitude of different ways; very admirably in the
saying already quoted: _Hæ omnes creaturæ in totum ego sum, et præter me
aliud ens non est_ (Oupnek’hat, vol. i. p. 122.) It is the transcending of
our own individuality, the sense of the sublime.

We receive this impression of the mathematical-sublime, quite directly, by
means of a space which is small indeed as compared with the world, but
which has become directly perceptible to us, and affects us with its whole
extent in all its three dimensions, so as to make our own body seem almost
infinitely small. An empty space can never be thus perceived, and
therefore never an open space, but only space that is directly perceptible
in all its dimensions by means of the limits which enclose it; thus for
example a very high, vast dome, like that of St. Peter’s at Rome, or St.
Paul’s in London. The sense of the sublime here arises through the
consciousness of the vanishing nothingness of our own body in the presence
of a vastness which, from another point of view, itself exists only in our
idea, and of which we are as knowing subject, the supporter. Thus here as
everywhere it arises from the contrast between the insignificance and
dependence of ourselves as individuals, as phenomena of will, and the
consciousness of ourselves as pure subject of knowing. Even the vault of
the starry heaven produces this if it is contemplated without reflection;
but just in the same way as the vault of stone, and only by its apparent,
not its real extent. Some objects of our perception excite in us the
feeling of the sublime because, not only on account of their spatial
vastness, but also of their great age, that is, their temporal duration,
we feel ourselves dwarfed to insignificance in their presence, and yet
revel in the pleasure of contemplating them: of this kind are very high
mountains, the Egyptian pyramids, and colossal ruins of great antiquity.

Our explanation of the sublime applies also to the ethical, to what is
called the sublime character. Such a character arises from this, that the
will is not excited by objects which are well calculated to excite it, but
that knowledge retains the upper hand in their presence. A man of sublime
character will accordingly consider men in a purely objective way, and not
with reference to the relations which they might have to his will; he
will, for example, observe their faults, even their hatred and injustice
to himself, without being himself excited to hatred; he will behold their
happiness without envy; he will recognise their good qualities without
desiring any closer relations with them; he will perceive the beauty of
women, but he will not desire them. His personal happiness or unhappiness
will not greatly affect him, he will rather be as Hamlet describes
Horatio:—


            “... for thou hast been,
    As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing;
    A man that fortune’s buffets and rewards
    Hast ta’en with equal thanks,” &c. (A. 3. Sc. 2.)


For in the course of his own life and its misfortunes, he will consider
less his individual lot than that of humanity in general, and will
therefore conduct himself in its regard, rather as knowing than as
suffering.

§ 40. Opposites throw light upon each other, and therefore the remark may
be in place here, that the proper opposite of the sublime is something
which would not at the first glance be recognised, as such: _the charming_
or _attractive_. By this, however, I understand, that which excites the
will by presenting to it directly its fulfilment, its satisfaction. We saw
that the feeling of the sublime arises from the fact, that something
entirely unfavourable to the will, becomes the object of pure
contemplation, so that such contemplation can only be maintained by
persistently turning away from the will, and transcending its interests;
this constitutes the sublimity of the character. The charming or
attractive, on the contrary, draws the beholder away from the pure
contemplation which is demanded by all apprehension of the beautiful,
because it necessarily excites this will, by objects which directly appeal
to it, and thus he no longer remains pure subject of knowing, but becomes
the needy and dependent subject of will. That every beautiful thing which
is bright or cheering should be called charming, is the result of a too
general concept, which arises from a want of accurate discrimination, and
which I must entirely set aside, and indeed condemn. But in the sense of
the word which has been given and explained, I find only two species of
the charming or attractive in the province of art, and both of them are
unworthy of it. The one species, a very low one, is found in Dutch
paintings of still life, when they err by representing articles of food,
which by their deceptive likeness necessarily excite the appetite for the
things they represent, and this is just an excitement of the will, which
puts an end to all æsthetic contemplation of the object. Painted fruit is
yet admissible, because we may regard it as the further development of the
flower, and as a beautiful product of nature in form and colour, without
being obliged to think of it as eatable; but unfortunately we often find,
represented with deceptive naturalness, prepared and served dishes,
oysters, herrings, crabs, bread and butter, beer, wine, and so forth,
which is altogether to be condemned. In historical painting and in
sculpture the charming consists in naked figures, whose position, drapery,
and general treatment are calculated to excite the passions of the
beholder, and thus pure æsthetical contemplation is at once annihilated,
and the aim of art is defeated. This mistake corresponds exactly to that
which we have just censured in the Dutch paintings. The ancients are
almost always free from this fault in their representations of beauty and
complete nakedness of form, because the artist himself created them in a
purely objective spirit, filled with ideal beauty, not in the spirit of
subjective, and base sensuality. The charming is thus everywhere to be
avoided in art.

There is also a negative species of the charming or exciting which is even
more reprehensible than the positive form which has been discussed; this
is the disgusting or the loathsome. It arouses the will of the beholder,
just as what is properly speaking charming, and therefore disturbs pure
æsthetic contemplation. But it is an active aversion and opposition which
is excited by it; it arouses the will by presenting to it objects which it
abhors. Therefore it has always been recognised that it is altogether
inadmissible in art, where even what is ugly, when it is not disgusting,
is allowable in its proper place, as we shall see later.

§ 41. The course of the discussion has made it necessary to insert at this
point the treatment of the sublime, though we have only half done with the
beautiful, as we have considered its subjective side only. For it was
merely a special modification of this subjective side that distinguished
the beautiful from the sublime. This difference was found to depend upon
whether the state of pure will-less knowing, which is presupposed and
demanded by all æsthetic contemplation, was reached without opposition, by
the mere disappearance of the will from consciousness, because the object
invited and drew us towards it; or whether it was only attained through
the free, conscious transcending of the will, to which the object
contemplated had an unfavourable and even hostile relation, which would
destroy contemplation altogether, if we were to give ourselves up to it.
This is the distinction between the beautiful and the sublime. In the
object they are not essentially different, for in every case the object of
æsthetical contemplation is not the individual thing, but the Idea in it
which is striving to reveal itself; that is to say, adequate objectivity
of will at a particular grade. Its necessary correlative, independent,
like itself of the principle of sufficient reason, is the pure subject of
knowing; just as the correlative of the particular thing is the knowing
individual, both of which lie within the province of the principle of
sufficient reason.

When we say that a thing is _beautiful_, we thereby assert that it is an
object of our æsthetic contemplation, and this has a double meaning; on
the one hand it means that the sight of the thing makes us _objective_,
that is to say, that in contemplating it we are no longer conscious of
ourselves as individuals, but as pure will-less subjects of knowledge; and
on the other hand it means that we recognise in the object, not the
particular thing, but an Idea; and this can only happen, so far as our
contemplation of it is not subordinated to the principle of sufficient
reason, does not follow the relation of the object to anything outside it
(which is always ultimately connected with relations to our own will), but
rests in the object itself. For the Idea and the pure subject of knowledge
always appear at once in consciousness as necessary correlatives, and on
their appearance all distinction of time vanishes, for they are both
entirely foreign to the principle of sufficient reason in all its forms,
and lie outside the relations which are imposed by it; they may be
compared to the rainbow and the sun, which have no part in the constant
movement and succession of the falling drops. Therefore, if, for example,
I contemplate a tree æsthetically, _i.e._, with artistic eyes, and thus
recognise, not it, but its Idea, it becomes at once of no consequence
whether it is this tree or its predecessor which flourished a thousand
years ago, and whether the observer is this individual or any other that
lived anywhere and at any time; the particular thing and the knowing
individual are abolished with the principle of sufficient reason, and
there remains nothing but the Idea and the pure subject of knowing, which
together constitute the adequate objectivity of will at this grade. And
the Idea dispenses not only with time, but also with space, for the Idea
proper is not this special form which appears before me but its
expression, its pure significance, its inner being, which discloses itself
to me and appeals to me, and which may be quite the same though the
spatial relations of its form be very different.

Since, on the one hand, every given thing may be observed in a. purely
objective manner and apart from all relations; and since, on the other
hand, the will manifests itself in everything at some grade of its
objectivity, so that everything is the expression of an Idea; it follows
that everything is also _beautiful_. That even the most insignificant
things admit of pure objective and will-less contemplation, and thus prove
that they are beautiful, is shown by what was said above in this reference
about the Dutch pictures of still-life (§ 38). But one thing is more
beautiful than another, because it makes this pure objective contemplation
easier, it lends itself to it, and, so to speak, even compels it, and then
we call it very beautiful. This is the case sometimes because, as an
individual thing, it expresses in its purity the Idea of its species by
the very distinct, clearly defined, and significant relation of its parts,
and also fully reveals that Idea through the completeness of all the
possible expressions of its species united in it, so that it makes the
transition from the individual thing to the Idea, and therefore also the
condition of pure contemplation, very easy for the beholder. Sometimes
this possession of special beauty in an object lies in the fact that the
Idea itself which appeals to us in it is a high grade of the objectivity
of will, and therefore very significant and expressive. Therefore it is
that man is more beautiful than all other objects, and the revelation of
his nature is the highest aim of art. Human form and expression are the
most important objects of plastic art, and human action the most important
object of poetry. Yet each thing has its own peculiar beauty, not only
every organism which expresses itself in the unity of an individual being,
but also everything unorganised and formless, and even every manufactured
article. For all these reveal the Ideas through which the will objectifies
itself at its lowest grades, they give, as it were, the deepest resounding
bass-notes of nature. Gravity, rigidity, fluidity, light, and so forth,
are the Ideas which express themselves in rocks, in buildings, in waters.
Landscape-gardening or architecture can do no more than assist them to
unfold their qualities distinctly, fully, and variously; they can only
give them the opportunity of expressing themselves purely, so that they
lend themselves to æsthetic contemplation and make it easier. Inferior
buildings or ill-favoured localities, on the contrary, which nature has
neglected or art has spoiled, perform this task in a very slight degree or
not at all; yet even from them these universal, fundamental Ideas of
nature cannot altogether disappear. To the careful observer they present
themselves here also, and even bad buildings and the like are capable of
being æsthetically considered; the Ideas of the most universal properties
of their materials are still recognisable in them, only the artificial
form which has been given them does not assist but hinders æsthetic
contemplation. Manufactured articles also serve to express Ideas, only it
is not the Idea of the manufactured article which speaks in them, but the
Idea of the material to which this artificial form has been given. This
may be very conveniently expressed in two words, in the language of the
schoolmen, thus,—the manufactured article expresses the Idea of its _forma
substantialis_, but not that of its _forma accidentalis_; the latter leads
to no Idea, but only to a human conception of which it is the result. It
is needless to say that by manufactured article no work of plastic art is
meant. The schoolmen understand, in fact, by _forma substantialis_ that
which I call the grade of the objectification of will in a thing. We shall
return immediately, when we treat of architecture, to the Idea of the
material. Our view, then, cannot be reconciled with that of Plato if he is
of opinion that a table or a chair express the Idea of a table or a chair
(De Rep., x., pp. 284, 285, et Parmen., p. 79, ed. Bip.), but we say that
they express the Ideas which are already expressed in their mere material
as such. According to Aristotle (Metap. xi., chap. 3), however, Plato
himself only maintained Ideas of natural objects: ὁ Πλατων εφη, ὁτι ειδη
εστιν ὁποσα φυσει (_Plato dixit, quod ideæ eorum sunt, quæ natura sunt_),
and in chap. 5 he says that, according to the Platonists, there are no
Ideas of house and ring. In any case, Plato’s earliest disciples, as
Alcinous informs us (_Introductio __ in Platonicam Philosophiam_, chap.
9), denied that there were any ideas of manufactured articles. He says:
Ὁριζονται δε την ιδεαν, παραδειγμα των κατα φυσιν αιωνιον. Ουτε γαρ τοις
πλειστοις των απο Πλατωνος αρεσκει, των τεχνικων ειναι ιδεας, οἱον ασπιδος
η λυρας, ουτε μην των παρα φυσιν, οἱον πυρετου και χολερας, ουτε των κατα
μερος, οἱον Σωκρατους και Πλατωνος, αλλ᾽ ουτε των ευτελων τινος, οἱον
ρυπου και καρφους, ουτε των προς τι, οἱον μειζονος και ὑπερεχοντος; ειναι
γαρ τας ιδεας νοησεις θεου αιωνιους τε και αυτοτελεις (_Definiunt autem_
IDEAM _exemplar æternum eorum, quæ secundum naturam existunt. Nam plurimis
ex iis, qui Platonem secuti sunt, minime placuit, arte factorum ideas
esse, ut clypei atque lyræ; neque rursus eorum, quæ prætor naturam, ut
febris et choleræ, neque particularium, ceu Socratis et Platonis; neque
etiam rerum vilium, veluti sordium et festucæ; neque relationum, ut
majoris et excedentis: esse namque ideas intellectiones dei æternas, ac
seipsis perfectas_). We may take this opportunity of mentioning another
point in which our doctrine of Ideas differs very much from that of Plato.
He teaches (De Rep., x., p. 288) that the object which art tries to
express, the ideal of painting and poetry, is not the Idea but the
particular thing. Our whole exposition hitherto has maintained exactly the
opposite, and Plato’s opinion is the less likely to lead us astray,
inasmuch as it is the source of one of the greatest and best known errors
of this great man, his depreciation and rejection of art, and especially
poetry; he directly connects his false judgment in reference to this with
the passage quoted.

§ 42. I return to the exposition of the æsthetic impression. The knowledge
of the beautiful always supposes at once and inseparably the pure knowing
subject and the known Idea as object. Yet the source of æsthetic
satisfaction will sometimes lie more in the comprehension of the known
Idea, sometimes more in the blessedness and spiritual peace of the pure
knowing subject freed from all willing, and therefore from all
individuality, and the pain that proceeds from it. And, indeed, this
predominance of one or the other constituent part of æsthetic feeling will
depend upon whether the intuitively grasped Idea is a higher or a lower
grade of the objectivity of will. Thus in æsthetic contemplation (in the
real, or through the medium of art) of the beauty of nature in the
inorganic and vegetable worlds, or in works of architecture, the pleasure
of pure will-less knowing will predominate, because the Ideas which are
here apprehended are only low grades of the objectivity of will, and are
therefore not manifestations of deep significance and rich content. On the
other hand, if animals and man are the objects of æsthetic contemplation
or representation, the pleasure will consist rather in the comprehension
of these Ideas, which are the most distinct revelation of will; for they
exhibit the greatest multiplicity of forms, the greatest richness and deep
significance of phenomena, and reveal to us most completely the nature of
will, whether in its violence, its terribleness, its satisfaction or its
aberration (the latter in tragic situations), or finally in its change and
self-surrender, which is the peculiar theme of christian painting; as the
Idea of the will enlightened by full knowledge is the object of historical
painting in general, and of the drama. We shall now go through the fine
arts one by one, and this will give completeness and distinctness to the
theory of the beautiful which we have advanced.

§ 43. Matter as such cannot be the expression of an Idea. For, as we found
in the first book, it is throughout nothing but causality: its being
consists in its casual action. But causality is a form of the principle of
sufficient reason; knowledge of the Idea, on the other hand, absolutely
excludes the content of that principle. We also found, in the second book,
that matter is the common substratum of all particular phenomena of the
Ideas, and consequently is the connecting link between the Idea and the
phenomenon, or the particular thing. Accordingly for both of these reasons
it is impossible that matter can for itself express any Idea. This is
confirmed _a posteriori_ by the fact that it is impossible to have a
perceptible idea of matter as such, but only an abstract conception; in
the former, _i.e._, in perceptible ideas are exhibited only the forms and
qualities of which matter is the supporter, and in all of which Ideas
reveal themselves. This corresponds also with the fact, that causality
(the whole essence of matter) cannot for itself be presented perceptibly,
but is merely a definite casual connection. On the other hand, _every
phenomenon_ of an Idea, because as such it has entered the form of the
principle of sufficient reason, or the _principium individuationis_, must
exhibit itself in matter, as one of its qualities. So far then matter is,
as we have said, the connecting link between the Idea and the _principium
individuationis_, which is the form of knowledge of the individual, or the
principle of sufficient reason. Plato is therefore perfectly right in his
enumeration, for after the Idea and the phenomenon, which include all
other things in the world, he gives matter only, as a third thing which is
different from both (Timaus, p. 345). The individual, as a phenomenon of
the Idea, is always matter. Every quality of matter is also the phenomenon
of an Idea, and as such it may always be an object of æsthetic
contemplation, _i.e._, the Idea expressed in it may always be recognised.
This holds good of even the most universal qualities of matter, without
which it never appears, and which are the weakest objectivity of will.
Such are gravity, cohesion, rigidity, fluidity, sensitiveness to light,
and so forth.

If now we consider _architecture_ simply as a fine art and apart from its
application to useful ends, in which it serves the will and not pure
knowledge, and therefore ceases to be art in our sense; we can assign to
it no other aim than that of bringing to greater distinctness some of
those ideas, which are the lowest grades of the objectivity of will; such
as gravity, cohesion, rigidity, hardness, those universal qualities of
stone, those first, simplest, most inarticulate manifestations of will;
the bass notes of nature; and after these light, which in many respects is
their opposite. Even at these low grades of the objectivity of will we see
its nature revealing itself in discord; for properly speaking the conflict
between gravity and rigidity is the sole æsthetic material of
architecture; its problem is to make this conflict appear with perfect
distinctness in a multitude of different ways. It solves it by depriving
these indestructible forces of the shortest way to their satisfaction, and
conducting them to it by a circuitous route, so that the conflict is
lengthened and the inexhaustible efforts of both forces become visible in
many different ways. The whole mass of the building, if left to its
original tendency, would exhibit a mere heap or clump, bound as closely as
possible to the earth, to which gravity, the form in which the will
appears here, continually presses, while rigidity, also objectivity of
will, resists. But this very tendency, this effort, is hindered by
architecture from obtaining direct satisfaction, and only allowed to reach
it indirectly and by roundabout ways. The roof, for example, can only
press the earth through columns, the arch must support itself, and can
only satisfy its tendency towards the earth through the medium of the
pillars, and so forth. But just by these enforced digressions, just by
these restrictions, the forces which reside in the crude mass of stone
unfold themselves in the most distinct and multifarious ways; and the
purely æsthetic aim of architecture can go no further than this. Therefore
the beauty, at any rate, of a building lies in the obvious adaptation of
every part, not to the outward arbitrary end of man (so far the work
belongs to practical architecture), but directly to the stability of the
whole, to which the position, dimensions, and form of every part must have
so necessary a relation that, where it is possible, if any one part were
taken away, the whole would fall to pieces. For just because each part
bears just as much as it conveniently can, and each is supported just
where it requires to be and just to the necessary extent, this opposition
unfolds itself, this conflict between rigidity and gravity, which
constitutes the life, the manifestation of will, in the stone, becomes
completely visible, and these lowest grades of the objectivity of will
reveal themselves distinctly. In the same way the form of each part must
not be determined arbitrarily, but by its end, and its relation to the
whole. The column is the simplest form of support, determined simply by
its end: the twisted column is tasteless; the four-cornered pillar is in
fact not so simple as the round column, though it happens that it is
easier to make it. The forms also of frieze, rafter, roof, and dome are
entirely determined by their immediate end, and explain themselves from
it. The decoration of capitals, &c., belongs to sculpture, not to
architecture, which admits it merely as extraneous ornament, and could
dispense with it. According to what has been said, it is absolutely
necessary, in order to understand the æsthetic satisfaction afforded by a
work of architecture, to have immediate knowledge through perception of
its matter as regards its weight, rigidity, and cohesion, and our pleasure
in such a work would suddenly be very much diminished by the discovery
that the material used was pumice-stone; for then it would appear to us as
a kind of sham building. We would be affected in almost the same way if we
were told that it was made of wood, when we had supposed it to be of
stone, just because this alters and destroys the relation between rigidity
and gravity, and consequently the significance and necessity of all the
parts, for these natural forces reveal themselves in a far weaker degree
in a wooden building. Therefore no real work of architecture as a fine art
can be made of wood, although it assumes all forms so easily; this can
only be explained by our theory. If we were distinctly told that a
building, the sight of which gave us pleasure, was made of different kinds
of material of very unequal weight and consistency, but not
distinguishable to the eye, the whole building would become as utterly
incapable of affording us pleasure as a poem in an unknown language. All
this proves that architecture does not affect us mathematically, but also
dynamically, and that what speaks to us through it, is not mere form and
symmetry, but rather those fundamental forces of nature, those first
Ideas, those lowest grades of the objectivity of will. The regularity of
the building and its parts is partly produced by the direct adaptation of
each member to the stability of the whole, partly it serves to facilitate
the survey and comprehension of the whole, and finally, regular figures to
some extent enhance the beauty because they reveal the constitution of
space as such. But all this is of subordinate value and necessity, and by
no means the chief concern; indeed, symmetry is not invariably demanded,
as ruins are still beautiful.

Works of architecture have further quite a special relation to light; they
gain a double beauty in the full sunshine, with the blue sky as a
background, and again they have quite a different effect by moonlight.
Therefore, when a beautiful work of architecture is to be erected, special
attention is always paid to the effects of the light and to the climate.
The reason of all this is, indeed, principally that all the parts and
their relations are only made clearly visible by a bright, strong light;
but besides this I am of opinion that it is the function of architecture
to reveal the nature of light just as it reveals that of things so
opposite to it as gravity and rigidity. For the light is intercepted,
confined, and reflected by the great opaque, sharply outlined, and
variously formed masses of stone, and thus it unfolds its nature and
qualities in the purest and clearest way, to the great pleasure of the
beholders, for light is the most joy-giving of things, as the condition
and the objective correlative of the most perfect kind of knowledge of
perception.

Now, because the Ideas which architecture brings to clear perception, are
the lowest grades of the objectivity of will, and consequently their
objective significance, which architecture reveals to us, is comparatively
small; the æsthetic pleasure of looking at a beautiful building in a good
light will lie, not so much in the comprehension of the Idea, as in the
subjective correlative which accompanies this comprehension; it will
consist pre-eminently in the fact that the beholder, set free from the
kind of knowledge that belongs to the individual, and which serves the
will and follows the principle of sufficient reason, is raised to that of
the pure subject of knowing free from will. It will consist then
principally in pure contemplation itself, free from all the suffering of
will and of individuality. In this respect the opposite of architecture,
and the other extreme of the series of the fine arts, is the drama, which
brings to knowledge the most significant Ideas. Therefore in the æsthetic
pleasure afforded by the drama the objective side is throughout
predominant.

Architecture has this distinction from plastic art and poetry: it does not
give us a copy but the thing itself. It does not repeat, as they do, the
known Idea, so that the artist lends his eyes to the beholder, but in it
the artist merely presents the object to the beholder, and facilitates for
him the comprehension of the Idea by bringing the actual, individual
object to a distinct and complete expression of its nature.

Unlike the works of the other arts, those of architecture are very seldom
executed for purely æsthetic ends. These are generally subordinated to
other useful ends which are foreign to art itself. Thus the great merit of
the architect consists in achieving and attaining the pure æsthetic ends,
in spite of their subordination to other ends which are foreign to them.
This he does by cleverly adapting them in a variety of ways to the
arbitrary ends in view, and by rightly judging which form of æsthetical
architectonic beauty is compatible and may be associated with a temple,
which with a palace, which with a prison, and so forth. The more a harsh
climate increases these demands of necessity and utility, determines them
definitely, and prescribes them more inevitably, the less free play has
beauty in architecture. In the mild climate of India, Egypt, Greece, and
Rome, where the demands of necessity were fewer and less definite,
architecture could follow its æsthetic ends with the greatest freedom. But
under a northern sky this was sorely hindered. Here, when caissons,
pointed roofs and towers were what was demanded, architecture could only
unfold its own beauty within very narrow limits, and therefore it was
obliged to make amends by resorting all the more to the borrowed ornaments
of sculpture, as is seen in Gothic architecture.

We thus see that architecture is greatly restricted by the demands of
necessity and utility; but on the other hand it has in them a very
powerful support, for, on account of the magnitude and costliness of its
works, and the narrow sphere of its æsthetic effect, it could not continue
to exist merely as a fine art, if it had not also, as a useful and
necessary profession, a firm and honourable place among the occupations of
men. It is the want of this that prevents another art from taking its
place beside architecture as a sister art, although in an æsthetical point
of view it is quite properly to be classed along with it as its
counterpart; I mean artistic arrangements of water. For what architecture
accomplishes for the Idea of gravity when it appears in connection with
that of rigidity, hydraulics accomplishes for the same Idea, when it is
connected with fluidity, _i.e._, formlessness, the greatest mobility and
transparency. Leaping waterfalls foaming and tumbling over rocks,
cataracts dispersed into floating spray, springs gushing up as high
columns of water, and clear reflecting lakes, reveal the Ideas of fluid
and heavy matter, in precisely the same way as the works of architecture
unfold the Ideas of rigid matter. Artistic hydraulics, however, obtains no
support from practical hydraulics, for, as a rule, their ends cannot be
combined; yet, in exceptional cases, this happens; for example, in the
Cascata di Trevi at Rome.(52)

§ 44. What the two arts we have spoken of accomplish for these lowest
grades of the objectivity of will, is performed for the higher grades of
vegetable nature by artistic horticulture. The landscape beauty of a scene
consists, for the most part, in the multiplicity of natural objects which
are present in it, and then in the fact that they are clearly separated,
appear distinctly, and yet exhibit a fitting connection and alternation.
These two conditions are assisted and promoted by landscape-gardening, but
it has by no means such a mastery over its material as architecture, and
therefore its effect is limited. The beauty with which it is concerned
belongs almost exclusively to nature; it has done little for it; and, on
the other hand, it can do little against unfavourable nature, and when
nature works, not for it, but against it, its achievements are small.

The vegetable world offers itself everywhere for æsthetic enjoyment
without the medium of art; but so far as it is an object of art, it
belongs principally to landscape-painting; to the province of which all
the rest of unconscious nature also belongs. In paintings of still life,
and of mere architecture, ruins, interiors of churches, &c., the
subjective side of æsthetic pleasure is predominant, _i.e._, our
satisfaction does not lie principally in the direct comprehension of the
represented Ideas, but rather in the subjective correlative of this
comprehension, pure, will-less knowing. For, because the painter lets us
see these things through his eyes, we at once receive a sympathetic and
reflected sense of the deep spiritual peace and absolute silence of the
will, which were necessary in order to enter with knowledge so entirely
into these lifeless objects, and comprehend them with such love, _i.e._,
in this case with such a degree of objectivity. The effect of
landscape-painting proper is indeed, as a whole, of this kind; but because
the Ideas expressed are more distinct and significant, as higher grades of
the objectivity of will, the objective side of æsthetic pleasure already
comes more to the front and assumes as much importance as the subjective
side. Pure knowing as such is no longer the paramount consideration, for
we are equally affected by the known Platonic Idea, the world as idea at
an important grade of the objectification of will.

But a far higher grade is revealed by animal painting and sculpture. Of
the latter we have some important antique remains; for example, horses at
Venice, on Monte Cavallo, and on the Elgin Marbles, also at Florence in
bronze and marble; the ancient boar, howling wolves, the lions in the
arsenal at Venice, also in the Vatican a whole room almost filled with
ancient animals, &c. In these representations the objective side of
æsthetic pleasure obtains a marked predominance over the subjective. The
peace of the subject which knows these Ideas, which has silenced its own
will, is indeed present, as it is in all æsthetic contemplation; but its
effect is not felt, for we are occupied with the restlessness and
impetuosity of the will represented. It is that very will, which
constitutes our own nature, that here appears to us in forms, in which its
manifestation is not, as in us, controlled and tempered by intellect, but
exhibits itself in stronger traits, and with a distinctness that borders
on the grotesque and monstrous. For this very reason there is no
concealment; it is free, naïve, open as the day, and this is the cause of
our interest in animals. The characteristics of species appeared already
in the representation of plants, but showed itself only in the forms; here
it becomes much more distinct, and expresses itself not only in the form,
but in the action, position, and mien, yet always merely as the character
of the species, not of the individual. This knowledge of the Ideas of
higher grades, which in painting we receive through extraneous means, we
may gain directly by the pure contemplative perception of plants, and
observation of beasts, and indeed of the latter in their free, natural,
and unrestrained state. The objective contemplation of their manifold and
marvellous forms, and of their actions and behaviour, is an instructive
lesson from the great book of nature, it is a deciphering of the true
_signatura rerum_.(53) We see in them the manifold grades and modes of the
manifestation of will, which in all beings of one and the same grade,
wills always in the same way, which objectifies itself as life, as
existence in such endless variety, and such different forms, which are all
adaptations to the different external circumstances, and may be compared
to many variations on the same theme. But if we had to communicate to the
observer, for reflection, and in a word, the explanation of their inner
nature, it would be best to make use of that Sanscrit formula which occurs
so often in the sacred books of the Hindoos, and is called Mahavakya,
i.e., the great word: “_Tat twam asi_,” which means, “this living thing
art thou.”

§ 45. The great problem of historical painting and sculpture is to express
directly and for perception the Idea in which the will reaches the highest
grade of its objectification. The objective side of the pleasure afforded
by the beautiful is here always predominant, and the subjective side has
retired into the background. It is further to be observed that at the next
grade below this, animal painting, the characteristic is entirely one with
the beautiful; the most characteristic lion, wolf, horse, sheep, or ox,
was always the most beautiful also. The reason of this is that animals
have only the character of their species, no individual character. In the
representation of men the character of the species is separated from that
of the individual; the former is now called beauty (entirely in the
objective sense), but the latter retains the name, character, or
expression, and the new difficulty arises of representing both, at once
and completely, in the same individual.

_Human beauty_ is an objective expression, which means the fullest
objectification of will at the highest grade at which it is knowable, the
Idea of man in general, completely expressed in the sensible form. But
however much the objective side of the beautiful appears here, the
subjective side still always accompanies it. And just because no object
transports us so quickly into pure æsthetic contemplation, as the most
beautiful human countenance and form, at the sight of which we are
instantly filled with unspeakable satisfaction, and raised above ourselves
and all that troubles us; this is only possible because this most distinct
and purest knowledge of will raises us most easily and quickly to the
state of pure knowing, in which our personality, our will with its
constant pain, disappears, so long as the pure æsthetic pleasure lasts.
Therefore it is that Goethe says: “No evil can touch him who looks on
human beauty; he feels himself at one with himself and with the world.”
That a beautiful human form is produced by nature must be explained in
this way. At this its highest grade the will objectifies itself in an
individual; and therefore through circumstances and its own power it
completely overcomes all the hindrances and opposition which the phenomena
of the lower grades present to it. Such are the forces of nature, from
which the will must always first extort and win back the matter that
belongs to all its manifestations. Further, the phenomenon of will at its
higher grades always has multiplicity in its form. Even the tree is only a
systematic aggregate of innumerably repeated sprouting fibres. This
combination assumes greater complexity in higher forms, and the human body
is an exceedingly complex system of different parts, each of which has a
peculiar life of its own, _vita propria_, subordinate to the whole. Now
that all these parts are in the proper fashion subordinate to the whole,
and co-ordinate to each other, that they all work together harmoniously
for the expression of the whole, nothing superfluous, nothing restricted;
all these are the rare conditions, whose result is beauty, the completely
expressed character of the species. So is it in nature. But how in art?
One would suppose that art achieved the beautiful by imitating nature. But
how is the artist to recognise the perfect work which is to be imitated,
and distinguish it from the failures, if he does not anticipate the
beautiful _before experience_? And besides this, has nature ever produced
a human being perfectly beautiful in all his parts? It has accordingly
been thought that the artist must seek out the beautiful parts,
distributed among a number of different human beings, and out of them
construct a beautiful whole; a perverse and foolish opinion. For it will
be asked, how is he to know that just these forms and not others are
beautiful? We also see what kind of success attended the efforts of the
old German painters to achieve the beautiful by imitating nature. Observe
their naked figures. No knowledge of the beautiful is possible purely _a
posteriori_, and from mere experience; it is always, at least in part, _a
priori_, although quite different in kind, from the forms of the principle
of sufficient reason, of which we are conscious _a priori_. These concern
the universal form of phenomena as such, as it constitutes the possibility
of knowledge in general, the universal _how_ of all phenomena, and from
this knowledge proceed mathematics and pure natural science. But this
other kind of knowledge _a priori_, which makes it possible to express the
beautiful, concerns, not the form but the content of phenomena, not the
_how_ but the _what_ of the phenomenon. That we all recognise human beauty
when we see it, but that in the true artist this takes place with such
clearness that he shows it as he has never seen it, and surpasses nature
in his representation; this is only possible because _we ourselves are_
the will whose adequate objectification at its highest grade is here to be
judged and discovered. Thus alone have we in fact an anticipation of that
which nature (which is just the will that constitutes our own being)
strives to express. And in the true genius this anticipation is
accompanied by so great a degree of intelligence that he recognises the
Idea in the particular thing, and thus, as it were, _understands the
half-uttered speech of nature_, and articulates clearly what she only
stammered forth. He expresses in the hard marble that beauty of form which
in a thousand attempts she failed to produce, he presents it to nature,
saying, as it were, to her, “That is what you wanted to say!” And whoever
is able to judge replies, “Yes, that is it.” Only in this way was it
possible for the genius of the Greeks to find the type of human beauty and
establish it as a canon for the school of sculpture; and only by virtue of
such an anticipation is it possible for all of us to recognise beauty,
when it has actually been achieved by nature in the particular case. This
anticipation is the _Ideal_. It is the _Idea_ so far as it is known _a
priori_, at least half, and it becomes practical for art, because it
corresponds to and completes what is given _a posteriori_ through nature.
The possibility of such an anticipation of the beautiful _a priori_ in the
artist, and of its recognition _a posteriori_ by the critic, lies in the
fact that the artist and the critic are themselves the “in-itself” of
nature, the will which objectifies itself. For, as Empedocles said, like
can only be known by like: only nature can understand itself: only nature
can fathom itself: but only spirit also can understand spirit.(54)

The opinion, which is absurd, although expressed by the Socrates of
Xenophon (Stobæi Floril, vol. ii. p. 384) that the Greeks discovered the
established ideal of human beauty empirically, by collecting particular
beautiful parts, uncovering and noting here a knee, there an arm, has an
exact parallel in the art of poetry. The view is entertained, that
Shakespeare, for example, observed, and then gave forth from his own
experience of life, the innumerable variety of the characters in his
dramas, so true, so sustained, so profoundly worked out. The impossibility
and absurdity of such an assumption need not be dwelt upon. It is obvious
that the man of genius produces the works of poetic art by means of an
anticipation of what is characteristic, just as he produces the works of
plastic and pictorial art by means of a prophetic anticipation of the
beautiful; yet both require experience as a pattern or model, for thus
alone can that which is dimly known _a priori_ be called into clear
consciousness, and an intelligent representation of it becomes possible.

Human beauty was explained above as the fullest objectification of will at
the highest grade at which it is knowable. It expresses itself through the
form; and this lies in space alone, and has no necessary connection with
time, as, for example, motion has. Thus far then we may say: the adequate
objectification of will through a merely spatial phenomenon is beauty, in
the objective sense. A plant is nothing but such a merely spatial
phenomenon of will; for no motion, and consequently no relation to time
(regarded apart from its development), belongs to the expression of its
nature; its mere form expresses its whole being and displays it openly.
But brutes and men require, further, for the full revelation of the will
which is manifested in them, a series of actions, and thus the
manifestation in them takes on a direct relation to time. All this has
already been explained in the preceding book; it is related to what we are
considering at present in the following way. As the merely spatial
manifestation of will can objectify it fully or defectively at each
definite grade,—and it is this which constitutes beauty or ugliness,—so
the temporal objectification of will, _i.e._, the action, and indeed the
direct action, the movement, may correspond to the will, which objectifies
itself in it, purely and fully without foreign admixture, without
superfluity, without defect, only expressing exactly the act of will
determined in each case;—or the converse of all this may occur. In the
first case the movement is made with _grace_, in the second case without
it. Thus as beauty is the adequate representation of will generally,
through its merely spatial manifestation; _grace_ is the adequate
representation of will through its temporal manifestation, that is to say,
the perfectly accurate and fitting expression of each act of will, through
the movement and position which objectify it. Since movement and position
presuppose the body, Winckelmann’s expression is very true and suitable,
when he says, “Grace is the proper relation of the acting person to the
action” (Works, vol. i. p. 258). It is thus evident that beauty may be
attributed to a plant, but no grace, unless in a figurative sense; but to
brutes and men, both beauty and grace. Grace consists, according to what
has been said, in every movement being performed, and every position
assumed, in the easiest, most appropriate and convenient way, and
therefore being the pure, adequate expression of its intention, or of the
act of will, without any superfluity, which exhibits itself as aimless,
meaningless bustle, or as wooden stiffness. Grace presupposes as its
condition a true proportion of all the limbs, and a symmetrical,
harmonious figure; for complete ease and evident appropriateness of all
positions and movements are only possible by means of these. Grace is
therefore never without a certain degree of beauty of person. The two,
complete and united, are the most distinct manifestation of will at the
highest grade of its objectification.

It was mentioned above that in order rightly to portray man, it is
necessary to separate the character of the species from that of the
individual, so that to a certain extent every man expresses an Idea
peculiar to himself, as was said in the last book. Therefore the arts
whose aim is the representation of the Idea of man, have as their problem,
not only beauty, the character of the species, but also the character of
the individual, which is called, _par excellence_, _character_. But this
is only the case in so far as this character is to be regarded, not as
something accidental and quite peculiar to the man as a single individual,
but as a side of the Idea of humanity which is specially apparent in this
individual, and the representation of which is therefore of assistance in
revealing this Idea. Thus the character, although as such it is
individual, must yet be Ideal, that is, its significance in relation to
the Idea of humanity generally (the objectifying of which it assists in
its own way) must be comprehended and expressed with special prominence.
Apart from this the representation is a portrait, a copy of the individual
as such, with all his accidental qualities. And even the portrait ought to
be, as Winckelmann says, the ideal of the individual.

That _character_ which is to be ideally comprehended, as the prominence of
a special side of the Idea of humanity, expresses itself visibly, partly
through permanent physiognomy and bodily form, partly through passing
emotion and passion, the reciprocal modification of knowing and willing by
each other, which is all exhibited in the mien and movements. Since the
individual always belongs to humanity, and, on the other hand, humanity
always reveals itself in the individual with what is indeed peculiar ideal
significance, beauty must not be destroyed by character nor character by
beauty. For if the character of the species is annulled by that of the
individual, the result is caricature; and if the character of the
individual is annulled by that of the species, the result is an absence of
meaning. Therefore the representation which aims at beauty, as sculpture
principally does, will yet always modify this (the character of the
species), in some respect, by the individual character, and will always
express the Idea of man in a definite individual manner, giving prominence
to a special side of it. For the human individual as such has to a certain
extent the dignity of a special Idea, and it is essential to the Idea of
man that it should express itself in individuals of special significance.
Therefore we find in the works of the ancients, that the beauty distinctly
comprehended by them, is not expressed in one form, but in many forms of
different character. It is always apprehended, as it were, from a
different side, and expressed in one way in Apollo, in another way in
Bacchus, in another in Hercules, in another in Antinous; indeed the
characteristic may limit the beautiful, and finally extend even to
hideousness, in the drunken Silenus, in the Faun, &c. If the
characteristic goes so far as actually to annul the character of the
species, if it extends to the unnatural, it becomes caricature. But we can
far less afford to allow grace to be interfered with by what is
characteristic than even beauty, for graceful position and movement are
demanded for the expression of the character also; but yet it must be
achieved in the way which is most fitting, appropriate, and easy for the
person. This will be observed, not only by the sculptor and the painter,
but also by every good actor; otherwise caricature will appear here also
as grimace or distortion.

In sculpture, beauty and grace are the principal concern. The special
character of the mind, appearing in emotion, passion, alternations of
knowing and willing, which can only be represented by the expression of
the countenance and the gestures, is the peculiar sphere of _painting_.
For although eyes and colour, which lie outside the province of sculpture,
contribute much to beauty, they are yet far more essential to character.
Further, beauty unfolds itself more completely when it is contemplated
from various points of view; but the expression, the character, can only
be completely comprehended from _one_ point of view.

Because beauty is obviously the chief aim of sculpture, Lessing tried to
explain the fact that the _Laocoon does not cry out_, by saying that
crying out is incompatible with beauty. The Laocoon formed for Lessing the
theme, or at least the text of a work of his own, and both before and
after him a great deal has been written on the subject. I may therefore be
allowed to express my views about it in passing, although so special a
discussion does not properly belong to the scheme of this work, which is
throughout concerned with what is general.

§ 46. That Laocoon, in the celebrated group, does not cry out is obvious,
and the universal and ever-renewed surprise at this must be occasioned by
the fact that any of us would cry out if we were in his place. And nature
demands that it should be so; for in the case of the acutest physical
pain, and the sudden seizure by the greatest bodily fear, all reflection,
that might have inculcated silent endurance, is entirely expelled from
consciousness, and nature relieves itself by crying out, thus expressing
both the pain and the fear, summoning the deliverer and terrifying the
assailer. Thus Winckelmann missed the expression of crying out; but as he
wished to justify the artist he turned Laocoon into a Stoic, who
considered it beneath his dignity to cry out _secundum naturam_, but added
to his pain the useless constraint of suppressing all utterance of it.
Winckelmann therefore sees in him “the tried spirit of a great man, who
writhes in agony, and yet seeks to suppress the utterance of his feeling,
and to lock it up in himself. He does not break forth into loud cries, as
in Virgil, but only anxious sighs escape him,” &c. (Works, vol. vii. p.
98, and at greater length in vol. vi. p. 104). Now Lessing criticised this
opinion of Winckelmann’s in his Laocoon, and improved it in the way
mentioned above. In place of the psychological he gave the purely æsthetic
reason that beauty, the principle of ancient art, does not admit of the
expression of crying out. Another argument which he added to this, that a
merely passing state incapable of duration ought not to be represented in
motionless works of art, has a hundred examples of most excellent figures
against it, which are fixed in merely transitory movements, dancing,
wrestling, catching, &c. Indeed Goethe, in the essay on the Laocoon, which
opens the Propylaen (p. 8), holds that the choice of such a merely
fleeting movement is absolutely necessary. In our own day Hirt (Horen,
1797, tenth St.) finally decided the point, deducing everything from the
highest truth of expression, that Laocoon does not cry out, because he can
no longer do so, as he is at the point of death from choking. Lastly,
Fernow (“Römische Studien,” vol. i. p. 246) expounded and weighed all
these opinions; he added, however, no new one of his own, but combined
these three eclectically.

I cannot but wonder that such thoughtful and acute men should laboriously
bring far-fetched and insufficient reasons, should resort to psychological
and physiological arguments, to explain a matter the reason of which lies
so near at hand, and is obvious at once to the unprejudiced; and
especially I wonder that Lessing, who came so near the true explanation,
should yet have entirely missed the real point.

Before all psychological and physiological inquiries as to whether Laocoon
would cry out in his position or not (and I certainly affirm that he
would), it must be decided as regards the group in question, that crying
out ought not to be expressed in it, for the simple reason that its
expression lies quite outside the province of sculpture. A shrieking
Laocoon could not be produced in marble, but only a figure with the mouth
open vainly endeavouring to shriek; a Laocoon whose voice has stuck in his
throat, _vox faucibus haesit_. The essence of shrieking, and consequently
its effect upon the onlooker, lies entirely in sound; not in the
distortion of the mouth. This phenomenon, which necessarily accompanies
shrieking, derives motive and justification only from the sound produced
by means of it; then it is permissible and indeed necessary, as
characteristic of the action, even though it interferes with beauty. But
in plastic art, to which the representation of shrieking is quite foreign
and impossible, it would be actual folly to represent the medium of
violent shrieking, the distorted mouth, which would disturb all the
features and the remainder of the expression; for thus at the sacrifice of
many other things the means would be represented, while its end, the
shrieking itself, and its effect upon our feelings, would be left out. Nay
more, there would be produced the spectacle of a continuous effort without
effect, which is always ridiculous, and may really be compared to what
happened when some one for a joke stopped the horn of a night watchman
with wax while he was asleep, and then awoke him with the cry of fire, and
amused himself by watching his vain endeavours to blow the horn. When, on
the other hand, the expression of shrieking lies in the province of poetic
or histrionic art, it is quite admissible, because it helps to express the
truth, _i.e._, the complete expression of the Idea. Thus it is with
poetry, which claims the assistance of the imagination of the reader, in
order to enable it to represent things perceptibly. Therefore Virgil makes
Laocoon cry out like the bellowing of an ox that has broken loose after
being struck by the axe; and Homer (Il. xx. 48-53) makes Mars and Minerva
shriek horribly, without derogating from their divine dignity or beauty.
The same with acting; Laocoon on the stage would certainly have to shriek.
Sophocles makes Philoctetus cry out, and, on the ancient stage at any
rate, he must actually have done so. As a case in point, I remember having
seen in London the great actor Kemble play in a piece called Pizarro,
translated from the German. He took the part of the American, a
half-savage, but of very noble character. When he was wounded he cried out
loudly and wildly, which had a great and admirable effect, for it was
exceedingly characteristic and therefore assisted the truth of the
representation very much. On the other hand, a painted or sculptured model
of a man shrieking, would be much more absurd than the painted music which
is censured in Goethe’s Propylaen. For shrieking does far more injury to
the expression and beauty of the whole than music, which at the most only
occupies the hands and arms, and is to be looked upon as an occupation
characteristic of the person; indeed thus far it may quite rightly be
painted, as long as it demands no violent movement of the body, or
distortion of the mouth: for example, St. Cecilia at the organ, Raphael’s
violin-player in the Sciarra Gallery at Rome, and others. Since then, on
account of the limits of the art, the pain of Laocoon must not be
expressed by shrieking, the artist was obliged to employ every other
expression of pain; this he has done in the most perfect manner, as is
ably described by Winckelmann (Works, vol. vi. p. 104), whose admirable
account thus retains its full value and truth, as soon as we abstract from
the stoical view which underlies it.(55)

§ 47. Because beauty accompanied with grace is the principal object of
sculpture, it loves nakedness, and allows clothing only so far as it does
not conceal the form. It makes use of drapery, not as a covering, but as a
means of exhibiting the form, a method of exposition that gives much
exercise to the understanding, for it can only arrive at a perception of
the cause, the form of the body, through the only directly given effect,
the drapery. Thus to a certain extent drapery is in sculpture what
fore-shortening is in painting. Both are suggestions, yet not symbolical,
but such that, if they are successful, they force the understanding
directly to perceive what is suggested, just as if it were actually given.

I may be allowed, in passing, to insert here a comparison that is very
pertinent to the arts we are discussing. It is this: as the beautiful
bodily form is seen to the greatest advantage when clothed in the lightest
way, or indeed without any clothing at all, and therefore a very handsome
man, if he had also taste and the courage to follow it, would go about
almost naked, clothed only after the manner of the ancients; so every one
who possesses a beautiful and rich mind will always express himself in the
most natural, direct, and simple way, concerned, if it be possible, to
communicate his thoughts to others, and thus relieve the loneliness that
he must feel in such a world as this. And conversely, poverty of mind,
confusion, and perversity of thought, will clothe itself in the most
far-fetched expressions and the obscurest forms of speech, in order to
wrap up in difficult and pompous phraseology small, trifling, insipid, or
commonplace thoughts; like a man who has lost the majesty of beauty, and
trying to make up for the deficiency by means of clothing, seeks to hide
the insignificance or ugliness of his person under barbaric finery,
tinsel, feathers, ruffles, cuffs, and mantles. Many an author, if
compelled to translate his pompous and obscure book into its little clear
content, would be as utterly spoilt as this man if he had to go naked.

§ 48. _Historical painting_ has for its principal object, besides beauty
and grace, character. By character we mean generally, the representation
of will at the highest grade of its objectification, when the individual,
as giving prominence to a particular side of the Idea of humanity, has
special significance, and shows this not merely by his form, but makes it
visible in his bearing and occupation, by action of every kind, and the
modifications of knowing and willing that occasion and accompany it. The
Idea of man must be exhibited in these circumstances, and therefore the
unfolding of its many-sidedness must be brought before our eyes by means
of representative individuals, and these individuals can only be made
visible in their significance through various scenes, events, and actions.
This is the endless problem of the historical painter, and he solves it by
placing before us scenes of life of every kind, of greater or less
significance. No individual and no action can be without significance; in
all and through all the Idea of man unfolds itself more and more.
Therefore no event of human life is excluded from the sphere of painting.
It is thus a great injustice to the excellent painters of the Dutch
school, to prize merely their technical skill, and to look down upon them
in other respects, because, for the most part, they represent objects of
common life, whereas it is assumed that only the events of the history of
the world, or the incidents of biblical story, have significance. We ought
first to bethink ourselves that the inward significance of an action is
quite different from its outward significance, and that these are often
separated from each other. The outward significance is the importance of
an action in relation to its result for and in the actual world; thus
according to the principle of sufficient reason. The inward significance
is the depth of the insight into the Idea of man which it reveals, in that
it brings to light sides of that Idea which rarely appear, by making
individuals who assert themselves distinctly and decidedly, disclose their
peculiar characteristics by means of appropriately arranged circumstances.
Only the inward significance concerns art; the outward belongs to history.
They are both completely independent of each other; they may appear
together, but may each appear alone. An action which is of the highest
significance for history may in inward significance be a very ordinary and
common one; and conversely, a scene of ordinary daily life may be of great
inward significance, if human individuals, and the inmost recesses of
human action and will, appear in it in a clear and distinct light.
Further, the outward and the inward significance of a scene may be equal
and yet very different. Thus, for example, it is all the same, as far as
inward significance is concerned, whether ministers discuss the fate of
countries and nations over a map, or boors wrangle in a beer-house over
cards and dice, just as it is all the same whether we play chess with
golden or wooden pieces. But apart from this, the scenes and events that
make up the life of so many millions of men, their actions, their sorrows,
their joys, are on that account important enough to be the object of art,
and by their rich variety they must afford material enough for unfolding
the many-sided Idea of man. Indeed the very transitoriness of the moment
which art has fixed in such a picture (now called _genre_-painting)
excites a slight and peculiar sensation; for to fix the fleeting,
ever-changing world in the enduring picture of a single event, which yet
represents the whole, is an achievement of the art of painting by which it
seems to bring time itself to a standstill, for it raises the individual
to the Idea of its species. Finally, the historical and outwardly
significant subjects of painting have often the disadvantage that just
what is significant in them cannot be presented to perception, but must be
arrived at by thought. In this respect the nominal significance of the
picture must be distinguished from its real significance. The former is
the outward significance, which, however, can only be reached as a
conception; the latter is that side of the Idea of man which is made
visible to the onlooker in the picture. For example, Moses found by the
Egyptian princess is the nominal significance of a painting; it represents
a moment of the greatest importance in history; the real significance, on
the other hand, that which is really given to the onlooker, is a foundling
child rescued from its floating cradle by a great lady, an incident which
may have happened more than once. The costume alone can here indicate the
particular historical case to the learned; but the costume is only of
importance to the nominal significance, and is a matter of indifference to
the real significance; for the latter knows only the human being as such,
not the arbitrary forms. Subjects taken from history have no advantage
over those which are taken from mere possibility, and which are therefore
to be called, not individual, but merely general. For what is peculiarly
significant in the former is not the individual, not the particular event
as such, but the universal in it, the side of the Idea of humanity which
expresses itself through it. But, on the other hand, definite historical
subjects are not on this account to be rejected, only the really artistic
view of such subjects, both in the painter and in the beholder, is never
directed to the individual particulars in them, which properly constitute
the historical, but to the universal which expresses itself in them, to
the Idea. And only those historical subjects are to be chosen the chief
point of which can actually be represented, and not merely arrived at by
thought, otherwise the nominal significance is too remote from the real;
what is merely thought in connection with the picture becomes of most
importance, and interferes with what is perceived. If even on the stage it
is not right that the chief incident of the plot should take place behind
the scenes (as in French tragedies), it is clearly a far greater fault in
a picture. Historical subjects are distinctly disadvantageous only when
they confine the painter to a field which has not been chosen for artistic
but for other reasons, and especially when this field is poor in
picturesque and significant objects—if, for example, it is the history of
a small, isolated, capricious, hierarchical (_i.e._, ruled by error),
obscure people, like the Jews, despised by the great contemporary nations
of the East and the West. Since the wandering of the tribes lies between
us and all ancient nations, as the change of the bed of the ocean lies
between the earth’s surface as it is to-day and as it was when those
organisations existed which we only know from fossil remains, it is to be
regarded generally as a great misfortune that the people whose culture was
to be the principal basis of our own were not the Indians or the Greeks,
or even the Romans, but these very Jews. But it was especially a great
misfortune for the Italian painters of genius in the fifteenth and
sixteenth centuries that, in the narrow sphere to which they were
arbitrarily driven for the choice of subjects, they were obliged to have
recourse to miserable beings of every kind. For the New Testament, as
regards its historical part, is almost more unsuitable for painting than
the Old, and the subsequent history of martyrs and doctors of the church
is a very unfortunate subject. Yet of the pictures, whose subject is the
history or mythology of Judaism and Christianity, we must carefully
distinguish those in which the peculiar, _i.e._, the ethical spirit of
Christianity is revealed for perception, by the representation of men who
are full of this spirit. These representations are in fact the highest and
most admirable achievements of the art of painting; and only the greatest
masters of this art succeeded in this, particularly Raphael and Correggio,
and especially in their earlier pictures. Pictures of this kind are not
properly to be classed as historical: for, as a rule, they represent no
event, no action; but are merely groups of saints, with the Saviour
himself, often still a child, with His mother, angels, &c. In their
countenances, and especially in the eyes, we see the expression, the
reflection, of the completest knowledge, that which is not directed to
particular things, but has fully grasped the Ideas, and thus the whole
nature of the world and life. And this knowledge in them, reacting upon
the will, does not, like other knowledge, convey _motives_ to it, but on
the contrary has become a _quieter_ of all will, from which proceeded the
complete resignation, which is the innermost spirit of Christianity, as of
the Indian philosophy; the surrender of all volition, conversion, the
suppression of will, and with it of the whole inner being of this world,
that is to say, salvation. Thus these masters of art, worthy of eternal
praise, expressed perceptibly in their works the highest wisdom. And this
is the summit of all art. It has followed the will in its adequate
objectivity, the Ideas, through all its grades, in which it is affected
and its nature unfolded in so many ways, first by causes, then by stimuli,
and finally by motives. And now art ends with the representation of the
free self-suppression of will, by means of the great peace which it gains
from the perfect knowledge of its own nature.(56)

§ 49. The truth which lies at the foundation of all that we have hitherto
said about art, is that the object of art, the representation of which is
the aim of the artist, and the knowledge of which must therefore precede
his work as its germ and source, is an Idea in Plato’s sense, and never
anything else; not the particular thing, the object of common
apprehension, and not the concept, the object of rational thought and of
science. Although the Idea and the concept have something in common,
because both represent as unity a multiplicity of real things; yet the
great difference between them has no doubt been made clear and evident
enough by what we have said about concepts in the first book, and about
Ideas in this book. I by no means wish to assert, however, that Plato
really distinctly comprehended this difference; indeed many of his
examples of Ideas, and his discussions of them, are applicable only to
concepts. Meanwhile we leave this question alone and go on our own way,
glad when we come upon traces of any great and noble mind, yet not
following his footsteps but our own aim. The _concept_ is abstract,
discursive, undetermined within its own sphere, only determined by its
limits, attainable and comprehensible by him who has only reason,
communicable by words without any other assistance, entirely exhausted by
its definition. The _Idea_ on the contrary, although defined as the
adequate representative of the concept, is always object of perception,
and although representing an infinite number of particular things, is yet
thoroughly determined. It is never known by the individual as such, but
only by him who has raised himself above all willing and all individuality
to the pure subject of knowing. Thus it is only attainable by the man of
genius, and by him who, for the most part through the assistance of the
works of genius, has reached an exalted frame of mind, by increasing his
power of pure knowing. It is therefore not absolutely but only
conditionally communicable, because the Idea, comprehended and repeated in
the work of art, appeals to every one only according to the measure of his
own intellectual worth. So that just the most excellent works of every
art, the noblest productions of genius, must always remain sealed books to
the dull majority of men, inaccessible to them, separated from them by a
wide gulf, just as the society of princes is inaccessible to the common
people. It is true that even the dullest of them accept on authority
recognisedly great works, lest otherwise they should argue their own
incompetence; but they wait in silence, always ready to express their
condemnation, as soon as they are allowed to hope that they may do so
without being left to stand alone; and then their long-restrained hatred
against all that is great and beautiful, and against the authors of it,
gladly relieves itself; for such things never appealed to them, and for
that very reason were humiliating to them. For as a rule a man must have
worth in himself in order to recognise it and believe in it willingly and
freely in others. On this rests the necessity of modesty in all merit, and
the disproportionately loud praise of this virtue, which alone of all its
sisters is always included in the eulogy of every one who ventures to
praise any distinguished man, in order to appease and quiet the wrath of
the unworthy. What then is modesty but hypocritical humility, by means of
which, in a world swelling with base envy, a man seeks to obtain pardon
for excellences and merits from those who have none? For whoever
attributes to himself no merits, because he actually has none, is not
modest but merely honest.

The _Idea_ is the unity that falls into multiplicity on account of the
temporal and spatial form of our intuitive apprehension; the _concept_, on
the contrary, is the unity reconstructed out of multiplicity by the
abstraction of our reason; the latter may be defined as _unitas post rem_,
the former as _unitas ante rem_. Finally, we may express the distinction
between the Idea and the concept, by a comparison, thus: the _concept_ is
like a dead receptacle, in which, whatever has been put, actually lies
side by side, but out of which no more can be taken (by analytical
judgment) than was put in (by synthetical reflection); the (Platonic)
_Idea_, on the other hand, develops, in him who has comprehended it, ideas
which are new as regards the concept of the same name; it resembles a
living organism, developing itself and possessed of the power of
reproduction, which brings forth what was not put into it.

It follows from all that has been said, that the concept, useful as it is
in life, and serviceable, necessary and productive as it is in science, is
yet always barren and unfruitful in art. The comprehended Idea, on the
contrary, is the true and only source of every work of art. In its
powerful originality it is only derived from life itself, from nature,
from the world, and that only by the true genius, or by him whose
momentary inspiration reaches the point of genius. Genuine and immortal
works of art spring only from such direct apprehension. Just because the
Idea is and remains object of perception, the artist is not conscious in
the abstract of the intention and aim of his work; not a concept, but an
Idea floats before his mind; therefore he can give no justification of
what he does. He works, as people say, from pure feeling, and
unconsciously, indeed instinctively. On the contrary, imitators,
mannerists, _imitatores, servum pecus_, start, in art, from the concept;
they observe what pleases and affects us in true works of art; understand
it clearly, fix it in a concept, and thus abstractly, and then imitate it,
openly or disguisedly, with dexterity and intentionally. They suck their
nourishment, like parasite plants, from the works of others, and like
polypi, they become the colour of their food. We might carry comparison
further, and say that they are like machines which mince fine and mingle
together whatever is put into them, but can never digest it, so that the
different constituent parts may always be found again if they are sought
out and separated from the mixture; the man of genius alone resembles the
organised, assimilating, transforming and reproducing body. For he is
indeed educated and cultured by his predecessors and their works; but he
is really fructified only by life and the world directly, through the
impression of what he perceives; therefore the highest culture never
interferes with his originality. All imitators, all mannerists, apprehend
in concepts the nature of representative works of art; but concepts can
never impart inner life to a work. The age, _i.e._, the dull multitude of
every time, knows only concepts, and sticks to them, and therefore
receives mannered works of art with ready and loud applause: but after a
few years these works become insipid, because the spirit of the age,
_i.e._, the prevailing concepts, in which alone they could take root, have
changed. Only true works of art, which are drawn directly from nature and
life, have eternal youth and enduring power, like nature and life
themselves. For they belong to no age, but to humanity, and as on that
account they are coldly received by their own age, to which they disdain
to link themselves closely, and because indirectly and negatively they
expose the existing errors, they are slowly and unwillingly recognised; on
the other hand, they cannot grow old, but appear to us ever fresh and new
down to the latest ages. Then they are no longer exposed to neglect and
ignorance, for they are crowned and sanctioned by the praise of the few
men capable of judging, who appear singly and rarely in the course of
ages,(57) and give in their votes, whose slowly growing number constitutes
the authority, which alone is the judgment-seat we mean when we appeal to
posterity. It is these successively appearing individuals, for the mass of
posterity will always be and remain just as perverse and dull as the mass
of contemporaries always was and always is. We read the complaints of
great men in every century about the customs of their age. They always
sound as if they referred to our own age, for the race is always the same.
At every time and in every art, mannerisms have taken the place of the
spirit, which was always the possession of a few individuals, but
mannerisms are just the old cast-off garments of the last manifestation of
the spirit that existed and was recognised. From all this it appears that,
as a rule, the praise of posterity can only be gained at the cost of the
praise of one’s contemporaries, and _vice versa_.(58)

§ 50. If the aim of all art is the communication of the comprehended Idea,
which through the mind of the artist appears in such a form that it is
purged and isolated from all that is foreign to it, and may now be grasped
by the man of weaker comprehension and no productive faculty; if further,
it is forbidden in art to start from the concept, we shall not be able to
consent to the intentional and avowed employment of a work of art for the
expression of a concept; this is the case in the _Allegory_. An allegory
is a work of art which means something different from what it represents.
But the object of perception, and consequently also the Idea, expresses
itself directly and completely, and does not require the medium of
something else which implies or indicates it. Thus, that which in this way
is indicated and represented by something entirely different, because it
cannot itself be made object of perception, is always a concept. Therefore
through the allegory a conception has always to be signified, and
consequently the mind of the beholder has to be drawn away from the
expressed perceptible idea to one which is entirely different, abstract
and not perceptible, and which lies quite outside the work of art. The
picture or statue is intended to accomplish here what is accomplished far
more fully by a book. Now, what we hold is the end of art, representation
of a perceivable, comprehensible Idea, is not here the end. No great
completeness in the work of art is demanded for what is aimed at here. It
is only necessary that we should see what the thing is meant to be, for,
as soon as this has been discovered, the end is reached, and the mind is
now led away to quite a different kind of idea to an abstract conception,
which is the end that was in view. Allegories in plastic and pictorial art
are, therefore, nothing but hieroglyphics; the artistic value which they
may have as perceptible representations, belongs to them not as
allegories, but otherwise. That the “Night” of Correggio, the “Genius of
Fame” of Hannibal Caracci, and the “Hours” of Poussin, are very beautiful
pictures, is to be separated altogether from the fact that they are
allegories. As allegories they do not accomplish more than a legend,
indeed rather less. We are here again reminded of the distinction drawn
above between the real and the nominal significance of a picture. The
nominal is here the allegorical as such, for example, the “Genius of
Fame.” The real is what is actually represented, in this case a beautiful
winged youth, surrounded by beautiful boys; this expresses an Idea. But
this real significance affects us only so long as we forget the nominal,
allegorical significance; if we think of the latter, we forsake the
perception, and the mind is occupied with an abstract conception; but the
transition from the Idea to the conception is always a fall. Indeed, that
nominal significance, that allegorical intention, often injures the real
significance, the perceptible truth. For example, the unnatural light in
the “Night” of Correggio, which, though beautifully executed, has yet a
merely allegorical motive, and is really impossible. If then an
allegorical picture has artistic value, it is quite separate from and
independent of what it accomplishes as allegory. Such a work of art serves
two ends at once, the expression of a conception and the expression of an
Idea. Only the latter can be an end of art; the other is a foreign end,
the trifling amusement of making a picture also do service as a legend, as
a hieroglyphic, invented for the pleasure of those to whom the true nature
of art can never appeal. It is the same thing as when a work of art is
also a useful implement of some kind, in which case it also serves two
ends; for example, a statue which is at the same time a candelabrum or a
caryatide; or a bas-relief, which is also the shield of Achilles. True
lovers of art will allow neither the one nor the other. It is true that an
allegorical picture may, because of this quality, produce a vivid
impression upon the feelings; but when this is the case, a legend would
under the same circumstances produce the same effect. For example, if the
desire of fame were firmly and lastingly rooted in the heart of a man,
because he regarded it as his rightful possession, which is only withheld
from him so long as he has not produced the charter of his ownership; and
if the Genius of Fame, with his laurel crown, were to appear to such a
man, his whole mind would be excited, and his powers called into activity;
but the same effect would be produced if he were suddenly to see the word
“fame,” in large distinct letters on the wall. Or if a man has made known
a truth, which is of importance either as a maxim for practical life, or
as insight for science, but it has not been believed; an allegorical
picture representing time as it lifts the veil, and discloses the naked
figure of Truth, will affect him powerfully; but the same effect would be
produced by the legend: “_Le temps découvre la vérité._” For what really
produces the effect here is the abstract thought, not the object of
perception.

If then, in accordance with what has been said, allegory in plastic and
pictorial art is a mistaken effort, serving an end which is entirely
foreign to art, it becomes quite unbearable when it leads so far astray
that the representation of forced and violently introduced subtilties
degenerates into absurdity. Such, for example, is a tortoise, to represent
feminine seclusion; the downward glance of Nemesis into the drapery of her
bosom, signifying that she can see into what is hidden; the explanation of
Bellori that Hannibal Carracci represents voluptuousness clothed in a
yellow robe, because he wishes to indicate that her lovers soon fade and
become yellow as straw. If there is absolutely no connection between the
representation and the conception signified by it, founded on subsumption
under the concept, or association of Ideas; but the signs and the things
signified are combined in a purely conventional manner, by positive,
accidentally introduced laws; then I call this degenerate kind of allegory
_Symbolism_. Thus the rose is the symbol of secrecy, the laurel is the
symbol of fame, the palm is the symbol of peace, the scallop-shell is the
symbol of pilgrimage, the cross is the symbol of the Christian religion.
To this class also belongs all significance of mere colour, as yellow is
the colour of falseness, and blue is the colour of fidelity. Such symbols
may often be of use in life, but their value is foreign to art. They are
simply to be regarded as hieroglyphics, or like Chinese word-writing, and
really belong to the same class as armorial bearings, the bush that
indicates a public-house, the key of the chamberlain, or the leather of
the mountaineer. If, finally, certain historical or mythical persons, or
personified conceptions, are represented by certain fixed symbols, these
are properly called _emblems_. Such are the beasts of the Evangelist, the
owl of Minerva, the apple of Paris, the Anchor of Hope, &c. For the most
part, however, we understand by emblems those simple allegorical
representations explained by a motto, which are meant to express a moral
truth, and of which large collections have been made by J. Camerarius,
Alciatus, and others. They form the transition to poetical allegory, of
which we shall have more to say later. Greek sculpture devotes itself to
the perception, and therefore it is _æsthetical_; Indian sculpture devotes
itself to the conception, and therefore it is merely _symbolical_.

This conclusion in regard to allegory, which is founded on our
consideration of the nature of art and quite consistent with it, is
directly opposed to the opinion of Winckelmann, who, far from explaining
allegory, as we do, as something quite foreign to the end of art, and
often interfering with it, always speaks in favour of it, and indeed
(Works, vol. i. p. 55) places the highest aim of art in the
“representation of universal conceptions, and non-sensuous things.” We
leave it to every one to adhere to whichever view he pleases. Only the
truth became very clear to me from these and similar views of Winckelmann
connected with his peculiar metaphysic of the beautiful, that one may have
the greatest susceptibility for artistic beauty, and the soundest judgment
in regard to it, without being able to give an abstract and strictly
philosophical justification of the nature of the beautiful; just as one
may be very noble and virtuous, and may have a tender conscience, which
decides with perfect accuracy in particular cases, without on that account
being in a position to investigate and explain in the abstract the ethical
significance of action.

Allegory has an entirely different relation to poetry from that which it
has to plastic and pictorial art, and although it is to be rejected in the
latter, it is not only permissible, but very serviceable to the former.
For in plastic and pictorial art it leads away from what is perceptibly
given, the proper object of all art, to abstract thoughts; but in poetry
the relation is reversed; for here what is directly given in words is the
concept, and the first aim is to lead from this to the object of
perception, the representation of which must be undertaken by the
imagination of the hearer. If in plastic and pictorial art we are led from
what is immediately given to something else, this must always be a
conception, because here only the abstract cannot be given directly; but a
conception must never be the source, and its communication must never be
the end of a work of art. In poetry, on the contrary, the conception is
the material, the immediately given, and therefore we may very well leave
it, in order to call up perceptions which are quite different, and in
which the end is reached. Many a conception or abstract thought may be
quite indispensable to the connection of a poem, which is yet, in itself
and directly, quite incapable of being perceived; and then it is often
made perceptible by means of some example which is subsumed under it. This
takes place in every trope, every metaphor, simile, parable, and allegory,
all of which differ only in the length and completeness of their
expression. Therefore, in the arts which employ language as their medium,
similes and allegories are of striking effect. How beautifully Cervantes
says of sleep in order to express the fact that it frees us from all
spiritual and bodily suffering, “It is a mantle that covers all mankind.”
How beautifully Kleist expresses allegorically the thought that
philosophers and men of science enlighten mankind, in the line, “Those
whose midnight lamp lights the world.” How strongly and sensuously Homer
describes the harmful Ate when he says: “She has tender feet, for she
walks not on the hard earth, but treads on the heads of men” (Il. xix.
91.) How forcibly we are struck by Menenius Agrippa’s fable of the belly
and the limbs, addressed to the people of Rome when they seceded. How
beautifully Plato’s figure of the Cave, at the beginning of the seventh
book of the “Republic” to which we have already referred, expresses a very
abstract philosophical dogma. The fable of Persephone is also to be
regarded as a deeply significant allegory of philosophical tendency, for
she became subject to the nether world by tasting a pomegranate. This
becomes peculiarly enlightening from Goethe’s treatment of the fable, as
an episode in the _Triumph der Empfindsamkeit_, which is beyond all
praise. Three detailed allegorical works are known to me, one, open and
avowed, is the incomparable “Criticon” of Balthasar Gracian. It consists
of a great rich web of connected and highly ingenious allegories, that
serve here as the fair clothing of moral truths, to which he thus imparts
the most perceptible form, and astonishes us by the richness of his
invention. The two others are concealed allegories, “Don Quixote” and
“Gulliver’s Travels.” The first is an allegory of the life of every man,
who will not, like others, be careful, merely for his own welfare, but
follows some objective, ideal end, which has taken possession of his
thoughts and will; and certainly, in this world, he has then a strange
appearance. In the case of Gulliver we have only to take everything
physical as spiritual or intellectual, in order to see what the “satirical
rogue,” as Hamlet would call him, meant by it. Such, then, in the poetical
allegory, the conception is always the given, which it tries to make
perceptible by means of a picture; it may sometimes be expressed or
assisted by a painted picture. Such a picture will not be regarded as a
work of art, but only as a significant symbol, and it makes no claim to
pictorial, but only to poetical worth. Such is that beautiful allegorical
vignette of Lavater’s, which must be so heartening to every defender of
truth: a hand holding a light is stung by a wasp, while gnats are burning
themselves in the flame above; underneath is the motto:


    “And although it singes the wings of the gnats,
    Destroys their heads and all their little brains,
                  Light is still light;
    And although I am stung by the angriest wasp,
                  I will not let it go.”


To this class also belongs the gravestone with the burnt-out, smoking
candle, and the inscription—


    “When it is out, it becomes clear
    Whether the candle was tallow or wax.”


Finally, of this kind is an old German genealogical tree, in which the
last representative of a very ancient family thus expresses his
determination to live his life to the end in abstinence and perfect
chastity, and therefore to let his race die out; he represents himself at
the root of the high-branching tree cutting it over himself with shears.
In general all those symbols referred to above, commonly called emblems,
which might also be defined as short painted fables with obvious morals,
belong to this class. Allegories of this kind are always to be regarded as
belonging to poetry, not to painting, and as justified thereby; moreover,
the pictorial execution is here always a matter of secondary importance,
and no more is demanded of it than that it shall represent the thing so
that we can recognise it. But in poetry, as in plastic art, the allegory
passes into the symbol if there is merely an arbitrary connection between
what it presented to perception and the abstract significance of it. For
as all symbolism rests, at bottom, on an agreement, the symbol has this
among other disadvantages, that in time its meaning is forgotten, and then
it is dumb. Who would guess why the fish is a symbol of Christianity if he
did not know? Only a Champollion; for it is entirely a phonetic
hieroglyphic. Therefore, as a poetical allegory, the Revelation of John
stands much in the same position as the reliefs with _Magnus Deus sol
Mithra_, which are still constantly being explained.

§ 51. If now, with the exposition which has been given of art in general,
we turn from plastic and pictorial art to poetry, we shall have no doubt
that its aim also is the revelation of the Ideas, the grades of the
objectification of will, and the communication of them to the hearer with
the distinctness and vividness with which the poetical sense comprehends
them. Ideas are essentially perceptible; if, therefore, in poetry only
abstract conceptions are directly communicated through words, it is yet
clearly the intention to make the hearer perceive the Ideas of life in the
representatives of these conceptions, and this can only take place through
the assistance of his own imagination. But in order to set the imagination
to work for the accomplishment of this end, the abstract conceptions,
which are the immediate material of poetry as of dry prose, must be so
arranged that their spheres intersect each other in such a way that none
of them can remain in its abstract universality; but, instead of it, a
perceptible representative appears to the imagination; and this is always
further modified by the words of the poet according to what his intention
may be. As the chemist obtains solid precipitates by combining perfectly
clear and transparent fluids; the poet understands how to precipitate, as
it were, the concrete, the individual, the perceptible idea, out of the
abstract and transparent universality of the concepts by the manner in
which he combines them. For the Idea can only be known by perception; and
knowledge of the Idea is the end of art. The skill of a master, in poetry
as in chemistry, enables us always to obtain the precise precipitate we
intended. This end is assisted by the numerous epithets in poetry, by
means of which the universality of every concept is narrowed more and more
till we reach the perceptible. Homer attaches to almost every substantive
an adjective, whose concept intersects and considerably diminishes the
sphere of the concept of the substantive, which is thus brought so much
the nearer to perception: for example—


    “Εν δ᾽ επεσ᾽ Ωκεανῳ λαμπρον φαος ἡελιοιο,
    Ἑλκον νυκτα μελαιναν επι ζειδωρον αρουραν.”

    (“Occidit vero in Oceanum splendidum lumen solis,
    Trahens noctem nigram super almam terram.”)


And—


    “Where gentle winds from the blue heavens sigh,
    There stand the myrtles still, the laurel high,”—


calls up before the imagination by means of a few concepts the whole
delight of a southern clime.

Rhythm and rhyme are quite peculiar aids to poetry. I can give no other
explanation of their incredibly powerful effect than that our faculties of
perception have received from time, to which they are essentially bound,
some quality on account of which we inwardly follow, and, as it were,
consent to each regularly recurring sound. In this way rhythm and rhyme
are partly a means of holding our attention, because we willingly follow
the poem read, and partly they produce in us a blind consent to what is
read prior to any judgment, and this gives the poem a certain emphatic
power of convincing independent of all reasons.

From the general nature of the material, that is, the concepts, which
poetry uses to communicate the Ideas, the extent of its province is very
great. The whole of nature, the Ideas of all grades, can be represented by
means of it, for it proceeds according to the Idea it has to impart, so
that its representations are sometimes descriptive, sometimes narrative,
and sometimes directly dramatic. If, in the representation of the lower
grades of the objectivity of will, plastic and pictorial art generally
surpass it, because lifeless nature, and even brute nature, reveals almost
its whole being in a single well-chosen moment; man, on the contrary, so
far as he does not express himself by the mere form and expression of his
person, but through a series of actions and the accompanying thoughts and
emotions, is the principal object of poetry, in which no other art can
compete with it, for here the progress or movement which cannot be
represented in plastic or pictorial art just suits its purpose.

The revelation of the Idea, which is the highest grade of the objectivity
of will, the representation of man in the connected series of his efforts
and actions, is thus the great problem of poetry. It is true that both
experience and history teach us to know man; yet oftener men than man,
_i.e._, they give us empirical notes of the behaviour of men to each
other, from which we may frame rules for our own conduct, oftener than
they afford us deep glimpses of the inner nature of man. The latter
function, however, is by no means entirely denied them; but as often as it
is the nature of mankind itself that discloses itself to us in history or
in our own experience, we have comprehended our experience, and the
historian has comprehended history, with artistic eyes, poetically,
_i.e._, according to the Idea, not the phenomenon, in its inner nature,
not in its relations. Our own experience is the indispensable condition of
understanding poetry as of understanding history; for it is, so to speak,
the dictionary of the language that both speak. But history is related to
poetry as portrait-painting is related to historical painting; the one
gives us the true in the individual, the other the true in the universal;
the one has the truth of the phenomenon, and can therefore verify it from
the phenomenal, the other has the truth of the Idea, which can be found in
no particular phenomenon, but yet speaks to us from them all. The poet
from deliberate choice represents significant characters in significant
situations; the historian takes both as they come. Indeed, he must regard
and select the circumstances and the persons, not with reference to their
inward and true significance, which expresses the Idea, but according to
the outward, apparent, and relatively important significance with regard
to the connection and the consequences. He must consider nothing in and
for itself in its essential character and expression, but must look at
everything in its relations, in its connection, in its influence upon what
follows, and especially upon its own age. Therefore he will not overlook
an action of a king, though of little significance, and in itself quite
common, because it has results and influence. And, on the other hand,
actions of the highest significance of particular and very eminent
individuals are not to be recorded by him if they have no consequences.
For his treatment follows the principle of sufficient reason, and
apprehends the phenomenon, of which this principle is the form. But the
poet comprehends the Idea, the inner nature of man apart from all
relations, outside all time, the adequate objectivity of the
thing-in-itself, at its highest grade. Even in that method of treatment
which is necessary for the historian, the inner nature and significance of
the phenomena, the kernel of all these shells, can never be entirely lost.
He who seeks for it, at any rate, may find it and recognise it. Yet that
which is significant in itself, not in its relations, the real unfolding
of the Idea, will be found far more accurately and distinctly in poetry
than in history, and, therefore, however paradoxical it may sound, far
more really genuine inner truth is to be attributed to poetry than to
history. For the historian must accurately follow the particular event
according to life, as it develops itself in time in the manifold tangled
chains of causes and effects. It is, however, impossible that he can have
all the data for this; he cannot have seen all and discovered all. He is
forsaken at every moment by the original of his picture, or a false one
substitutes itself for it, and this so constantly that I think I may
assume that in all history the false outweighs the true. The poet, on the
contrary, has comprehended the Idea of man from some definite side which
is to be represented; thus it is the nature of his own self that
objectifies itself in it for him. His knowledge, as we explained above
when speaking of sculpture, is half _a priori_; his ideal stands before
his mind firm, distinct, brightly illuminated, and cannot forsake him;
therefore he shows us, in the mirror of his mind, the Idea pure and
distinct, and his delineation of it down to the minutest particular is
true as life itself.(59) The great ancient historians are, therefore, in
those particulars in which their data fail them, for example, in the
speeches of their heroes—poets; indeed their whole manner of handling
their material approaches to the epic. But this gives their
representations unity, and enables them to retain inner truth, even when
outward truth was not accessible, or indeed was falsified. And as we
compared history to portrait-painting, in contradistinction to poetry,
which corresponds to historical painting, we find that Winckelmann’s
maxim, that the portrait ought to be the ideal of the individual, was
followed by the ancient historians, for they represent the individual in
such a way as to bring out that side of the Idea of man which is expressed
in it. Modern historians, on the contrary, with few exceptions, give us in
general only “a dust-bin and a lumber-room, and at the most a chronicle of
the principal political events.” Therefore, whoever desires to know man in
his inner nature, identical in all its phenomena and developments, to know
him according to the Idea, will find that the works of the great, immortal
poet present a far truer, more distinct picture, than the historians can
ever give. For even the best of the historians are, as poets, far from the
first; and moreover their hands are tied. In this aspect the relation
between the historian and the poet may be illustrated by the following
comparison. The mere, pure historian, who works only according to data, is
like a man, who without any knowledge of mathematics, has investigated the
relations of certain figures, which he has accidentally found, by
measuring them; and the problem thus empirically solved is affected of
course by all the errors of the drawn figure. The poet, on the other hand,
is like the mathematician, who constructs these relations _a priori_ in
pure perception, and expresses them not as they actually are in the drawn
figure, but as they are in the Idea, which the drawing is intended to
render for the senses. Therefore Schiller says:—


    “What has never anywhere come to pass,
    That alone never grows old.”


Indeed I must attribute greater value to biographies, and especially to
autobiographies, in relation to the knowledge of the nature of man, than
to history proper, at least as it is commonly handled. Partly because in
the former the data can be collected more accurately and completely than
in the latter; partly, because in history proper, it is not so much men as
nations and heroes that act, and the individuals who do appear, seem so
far off, surrounded with such pomp and circumstance, clothed in the stiff
robes of state, or heavy, inflexible armour, that it is really hard
through all this to recognise the human movements. On the other hand, the
life of the individual when described with truth, in a narrow sphere,
shows the conduct of men in all its forms and subtilties, the excellence,
the virtue, and even holiness of a few, the perversity, meanness, and
knavery of most, the dissolute profligacy of some. Besides, in the only
aspect we are considering here, that of the inner significance of the
phenomenal, it is quite the same whether the objects with which the action
is concerned, are, relatively considered, trifling or important,
farm-houses or kingdoms: for all these things in themselves are without
significance, and obtain it only in so far as the will is moved by them.
The motive has significance only through its relation to the will, while
the relation which it has as a thing to other things like itself, does not
concern us here. As a circle of one inch in diameter, and a circle of
forty million miles in diameter, have precisely the same geometrical
properties, so are the events and the history of a village and a kingdom
essentially the same; and we may study and learn to know mankind as well
in the one as in the other. It is also a mistake to suppose that
autobiographies are full of deceit and dissimulation. On the contrary,
lying (though always possible) is perhaps more difficult there than
elsewhere. Dissimulation is easiest in mere conversation; indeed, though
it may sound paradoxical, it is really more difficult even in a letter.
For in the case of a letter the writer is alone, and looks into himself,
and not out on the world, so that what is strange and distant does not
easily approach him; and he has not the test of the impression made upon
another before his eyes. But the receiver of the letter peruses it quietly
in a mood unknown to the writer, reads it repeatedly and at different
times, and thus easily finds out the concealed intention. We also get to
know an author as a man most easily from his books, because all these
circumstances act here still more strongly and permanently. And in an
autobiography it is so difficult to dissimulate, that perhaps there does
not exist a single one that is not, as a whole, more true, than any
history that ever was written. The man who writes his own life surveys it
as a whole, the particular becomes small, the near becomes distant, the
distant becomes near again, the motives that influenced him shrink; he
seats himself at the confessional, and has done so of his own free will;
the spirit of lying does not so easily take hold of him here, for there is
also in every man an inclination to truth which has first to be overcome
whenever he lies, and which here has taken up a specially strong position.
The relation between biography and the history of nations may be made
clear for perception by means of the following comparison: History shows
us mankind as a view from a high mountain shows us nature; we see much at
a time, wide stretches, great masses, but nothing is distinct nor
recognisable in all the details of its own peculiar nature. On the other
hand, the representation of the life of the individual shows us the man,
as we see nature if we go about among her trees, plants, rocks, and
waters. But in landscape-painting, in which the artist lets us look at
nature with his eyes, the knowledge of the Ideas, and the condition of
pure will-less knowing, which is demanded by these, is made much easier
for us; and, in the same way, poetry is far superior both to history and
biography, in the representation of the Ideas which may be looked for in
all three. For here also genius holds up to us the magic glass, in which
all that is essential and significant appears before us collected and
placed in the clearest light, and what is accidental and foreign is left
out.(60)

The representation of the Idea of man, which is the work of the poet, may
be performed, so that what is represented is also the representer. This is
the case in lyrical poetry, in songs, properly so called, in which the
poet only perceives vividly his own state and describes it. Thus a certain
subjectivity is essential to this kind of poetry from the nature of its
object. Again, what is to be represented may be entirely different from
him who represents it, as is the case in all other kinds of poetry, in
which the poet more or less conceals himself behind his representation,
and at last disappears altogether. In the ballad the poet still expresses
to some extent his own state through the tone and proportion of the whole;
therefore, though much more objective than the lyric, it has yet something
subjective. This becomes less in the idyll, still less in the romantic
poem, almost entirely disappears in the true epic, and even to the last
vestige in the drama, which is the most objective and, in more than one
respect, the completest and most difficult form of poetry. The lyrical
form of poetry is consequently the easiest, and although art, as a whole,
belongs only to the true man of genius, who so rarely appears, even a man
who is not in general very remarkable may produce a beautiful song if, by
actual strong excitement from without, some inspiration raises his mental
powers; for all that is required for this is a lively perception of his
own state at a moment of emotional excitement. This is proved by the
existence of many single songs by individuals who have otherwise remained
unknown; especially the German national songs, of which we have an
exquisite collection in the “Wunderhorn;” and also by innumerable
love-songs and other songs of the people in all languages;—for to seize
the mood of a moment and embody it in a song is the whole achievement of
this kind of poetry. Yet in the lyrics of true poets the inner nature of
all mankind is reflected, and all that millions of past, present, and
future men have found, or will find, in the same situations, which are
constantly recurring, finds its exact expression in them. And because
these situations, by constant recurrence, are permanent as man himself and
always call up the same sensations, the lyrical productions of genuine
poets remain through thousands of years true, powerful, and fresh. But if
the poet is always the universal man, then all that has ever moved a human
heart, all that human nature in any situation has ever produced from
itself, all that dwells and broods in any human breast—is his theme and
his material, and also all the rest of nature. Therefore the poet may just
as well sing of voluptuousness as of mysticism, be Anacreon or Angelus
Silesius, write tragedies or comedies, represent the sublime or the common
mind—according to humour or vocation. And no one has the right to
prescribe to the poet what he ought to be—noble and sublime, moral, pious,
Christian, one thing or another, still less to reproach him because he is
one thing and not another. He is the mirror of mankind, and brings to its
consciousness what it feels and does.

If we now consider more closely the nature of the lyric proper, and select
as examples exquisite and pure models, not those that approach in any way
to some other form of poetry, such as the ballad, the elegy, the hymn, the
epigram, &c., we shall find that the peculiar nature of the lyric, in the
narrowest sense, is this: It is the subject of will, _i.e._, his own
volition, which the consciousness of the singer feels; often as a released
and satisfied desire (joy), but still oftener as a restricted desire
(grief), always as an emotion, a passion, a moved frame of mind. Besides
this, however, and along with it, by the sight of surrounding nature, the
singer becomes conscious of himself as the subject of pure, will-less
knowing, whose unbroken blissful peace now appears, in contrast to the
stress of desire which is always restricted and always needy. The feeling
of this contrast, this alternation, is really what the lyric as a whole
expresses, and what principally constitutes the lyrical state of mind. In
it pure knowing comes to us, as it were, to deliver us from desire and its
stain; we follow, but only for an instant; desire, the remembrance of our
own personal ends, tears us anew from peaceful contemplation; yet ever
again the next beautiful surrounding in which the pure will-less knowledge
presents itself to us, allures us away from desire. Therefore, in the
lyric and the lyrical mood, desire (the personal interest of the ends),
and pure perception of the surrounding presented, are wonderfully mingled
with each other; connections between them are sought for and imagined; the
subjective disposition, the affection of the will, imparts its own hue to
the perceived surrounding, and conversely, the surroundings communicate
the reflex of their colour to the will. The true lyric is the expression
of the whole of this mingled and divided state of mind. In order to make
clear by examples this abstract analysis of a frame of mind that is very
far from all abstraction, any of the immortal songs of Goethe may be
taken. As specially adapted for this end I shall recommend only a few:
“The Shepherd’s Lament,” “Welcome and Farewell,” “To the Moon,” “On the
Lake,” “Autumn;” also the songs in the “Wunderhorn” are excellent
examples; particularly the one which begins, “O Bremen, I must now leave
thee.” As a comical and happy parody of the lyrical character a song of
Voss strikes me as remarkable. It describes the feeling of a drunk plumber
falling from a tower, who observes in passing that the clock on the tower
is at half-past eleven, a remark which is quite foreign to his condition,
and thus belongs to knowledge free from will. Whoever accepts the view
that has been expressed of the lyrical frame of mind, will also allow,
that it is the sensuous and poetical knowledge of the principle which I
established in my essay on the Principle of Sufficient Reason, and have
also referred to in this work, that the identity of the subject of knowing
with that of willing may be called the miracle κατ᾽ εξοχην; so that the
poetical effect of the lyric rests finally on the truth of that principle.
In the course of life these two subjects, or, in popular language, head
and heart, are ever becoming further apart; men are always separating more
between their subjective feeling and their objective knowledge. In the
child the two are still entirely blended together; it scarcely knows how
to distinguish itself from its surroundings, it is at one with them. In
the young man all perception chiefly affects feeling and mood, and even
mingles with it, as Byron very beautifully expresses—


    “I live not in myself, but I become
    Portion of that around me; and to me
    High mountains are a feeling.”


This is why the youth clings so closely to the perceptible and outward
side of things; this is why he is only fit for lyrical poetry, and only
the full-grown man is capable of the drama. The old man we can think of as
at the most an epic poet, like Ossian, and Homer, for narration is
characteristic of old age.

In the more objective kinds of poetry, especially in the romance, the
epic, and the drama, the end, the revelation of the Idea of man, is
principally attained by two means, by true and profound representation of
significant characters, and by the invention of pregnant situations in
which they disclose themselves. For as it is incumbent upon the chemist
not only to exhibit the simple elements, pure and genuine, and their
principal compounds, but also to expose them to the influence of such
reagents as will clearly and strikingly bring out their peculiar
qualities, so is it incumbent on the poet not only to present to us
significant characters truly and faithfully as nature itself; but, in
order that we may get to know them, he must place them in those situations
in which their peculiar qualities will fully unfold themselves, and appear
distinctly in sharp outline; situations which are therefore called
significant. In real life, and in history, situations of this kind are
rarely brought about by chance, and they stand alone, lost and concealed
in the multitude of those which are insignificant. The complete
significance of the situations ought to distinguish the romance, the epic,
and the drama from real life as completely as the arrangement and
selection of significant characters. In both, however, absolute truth is a
necessary condition of their effect, and want of unity in the characters,
contradiction either of themselves or of the nature of humanity in
general, as well as impossibility, or very great improbability in the
events, even in mere accessories, offend just as much in poetry as badly
drawn figures, false perspective, or wrong lighting in painting. For both
in poetry and painting we demand the faithful mirror of life, of man, of
the world, only made more clear by the representation, and more
significant by the arrangement. For there is only one end of all the arts,
the representation of the Ideas; and their essential difference lies
simply in the different grades of the objectification of will to which the
Ideas that are to be represented belong. This also determines the material
of the representation. Thus the arts which are most widely separated may
yet throw light on each other. For example, in order to comprehend fully
the Ideas of water it is not sufficient to see it in the quiet pond or in
the evenly-flowing stream; but these Ideas disclose themselves fully only
when the water appears under all circumstances and exposed to all kinds of
obstacles. The effects of the varied circumstances and obstacles give it
the opportunity of fully exhibiting all its qualities. This is why we find
it beautiful when it tumbles, rushes, and foams, or leaps into the air, or
falls in a cataract of spray; or, lastly, if artificially confined it
springs up in a fountain. Thus showing itself different under different
circumstances, it yet always faithfully asserts its character; it is just
as natural to it to spout up as to lie in glassy stillness; it is as ready
for the one as for the other as soon as the circumstances appear. Now,
what the engineer achieves with the fluid matter of water, the architect
achieves with the rigid matter of stone, and just this the epic or
dramatic poet achieves with the Idea of man. Unfolding and rendering
distinct the Idea expressing itself in the object of every art, the Idea
of the will which objectifies itself at each grade, is the common end of
all the arts. The life of man, as it shows itself for the most part in the
real world, is like the water, as it is generally seen in the pond and the
river; but in the epic, the romance, the tragedy, selected characters are
placed in those circumstances in which all their special qualities unfold
themselves, the depths of the human heart are revealed, and become visible
in extraordinary and very significant actions. Thus poetry objectifies the
Idea of man, an Idea which has the peculiarity of expressing itself in
highly individual characters.

Tragedy is to be regarded, and is recognised as the summit of poetical
art, both on account of the greatness of its effect and the difficulty of
its achievement. It is very significant for our whole system, and well
worthy of observation, that the end of this highest poetical achievement
is the representation of the terrible side of life. The unspeakable pain,
the wail of humanity, the triumph of evil, the scornful mastery of chance,
and the irretrievable fall of the just and innocent, is here presented to
us; and in this lies a significant hint of the nature of the world and of
existence. It is the strife of will with itself, which here, completely
unfolded at the highest grade of its objectivity, comes into fearful
prominence. It becomes visible in the suffering of men, which is now
introduced, partly through chance and error, which appear as the rulers of
the world, personified as fate, on account of their insidiousness, which
even reaches the appearance of design; partly it proceeds from man
himself, through the self-mortifying efforts of a few, through the
wickedness and perversity of most. It is one and the same will that lives
and appears in them all, but whose phenomena fight against each other and
destroy each other. In one individual it appears powerfully, in another
more weakly; in one more subject to reason, and softened by the light of
knowledge, in another less so, till at last, in some single case, this
knowledge, purified and heightened by suffering itself, reaches the point
at which the phenomenon, the veil of Mâya, no longer deceives it. It sees
through the form of the phenomenon, the _principium individuationis_. The
egoism which rests on this perishes with it, so that now the _motives_
that were so powerful before have lost their might, and instead of them
the complete knowledge of the nature of the world, which has a _quieting_
effect on the will, produces resignation, the surrender not merely of
life, but of the very will to live. Thus we see in tragedies the noblest
men, after long conflict and suffering, at last renounce the ends they
have so keenly followed, and all the pleasures of life for ever, or else
freely and joyfully surrender life itself. So is it with the steadfast
prince of Calderon; with Gretchen in “Faust;” with Hamlet, whom his friend
Horatio would willingly follow, but is bade remain a while, and in this
harsh world draw his breath in pain, to tell the story of Hamlet, and
clear his memory; so also is it with the Maid of Orleans, the Bride of
Messina; they all die purified by suffering, _i.e._, after the will to
live which was formerly in them is dead. In the “Mohammed” of Voltaire
this is actually expressed in the concluding words which the dying Palmira
addresses to Mohammad: “The world is for tyrants: live!” On the other
hand, the demand for so-called poetical justice rests on entire
misconception of the nature of tragedy, and, indeed, of the nature of the
world itself. It boldly appears in all its dulness in the criticisms which
Dr. Samuel Johnson made on particular plays of Shakespeare, for he very
naïvely laments its entire absence. And its absence is certainly obvious,
for in what has Ophelia, Desdemona, or Cordelia offended? But only the
dull, optimistic, Protestant-rationalistic, or peculiarly Jewish view of
life will make the demand for poetical justice, and find satisfaction in
it. The true sense of tragedy is the deeper insight, that it is not his
own individual sins that the hero atones for, but original sin, _i.e._,
the crime of existence itself:


    “Pues el delito mayor
    Del hombre es haber nacido;”

    (“For the greatest crime of man
    Is that he was born;”)


as Calderon exactly expresses it.

I shall allow myself only one remark, more closely concerning the
treatment of tragedy. The representation of a great misfortune is alone
essential to tragedy. But the many different ways in which this is
introduced by the poet may be brought under three specific conceptions. It
may happen by means of a character of extraordinary wickedness, touching
the utmost limits of possibility, who becomes the author of the
misfortune; examples of this kind are Richard III., Iago in “Othello,”
Shylock in “The Merchant of Venice,” Franz Moor, Phædra of Euripides,
Creon in the “Antigone,” &c., &c. Secondly, it may happen through blind
fate, _i.e._, chance and error; a true pattern of this kind is the Œdipus
Rex of Sophocles, the “Trachiniæ” also; and in general most of the
tragedies of the ancients belong to this class. Among modern tragedies,
“Romeo and Juliet,” “Tancred” by Voltaire, and “The Bride of Messina,” are
examples. Lastly, the misfortune may be brought about by the mere position
of the _dramatis personæ_ with regard to each other, through their
relations; so that there is no need either for a tremendous error or an
unheard-of accident, nor yet for a character whose wickedness reaches the
limits of human possibility; but characters of ordinary morality, under
circumstances such as often occur, are so situated with regard to each
other that their position compels them, knowingly and with their eyes
open, to do each other the greatest injury, without any one of them being
entirely in the wrong. This last kind of tragedy seems to me far to
surpass the other two, for it shows us the greatest misfortune, not as an
exception, not as something occasioned by rare circumstances or monstrous
characters, but as arising easily and of itself out of the actions and
characters of men, indeed almost as essential to them, and thus brings it
terribly near to us. In the other two kinds we may look on the prodigious
fate and the horrible wickedness as terrible powers which certainly
threaten us, but only from afar, which we may very well escape without
taking refuge in renunciation. But in the last kind of tragedy we see that
those powers which destroy happiness and life are such that their path to
us also is open at every moment; we see the greatest sufferings brought
about by entanglements that our fate might also partake of, and through
actions that perhaps we also are capable of performing, and so could not
complain of injustice; then shuddering we feel ourselves already in the
midst of hell. This last kind of tragedy is also the most difficult of
achievement; for the greatest effect has to be produced in it with the
least use of means and causes of movement, merely through the position and
distribution of the characters; therefore even in many of the best
tragedies this difficulty is evaded. Yet one tragedy may be referred to as
a perfect model of this kind, a tragedy which in other respects is far
surpassed by more than one work of the same great master; it is “Clavigo.”
“Hamlet” belongs to a certain extent to this class, as far as the relation
of Hamlet to Laertes and Ophelia is concerned. “Wallenstein” has also this
excellence. “Faust” belongs entirely to this class, if we regard the
events connected with Gretchen and her brother as the principal action;
also the “Cid” of Corneille, only that it lacks the tragic conclusion,
while on the contrary the analogous relation of Max to Thecla has it.(61)

§ 52. Now that we have considered all the fine arts in the general way
that is suitable to our point of view, beginning with architecture, the
peculiar end of which is to elucidate the objectification of will at the
lowest grades of its visibility, in which it shows itself as the dumb
unconscious tendency of the mass in accordance with laws, and yet already
reveals a breach of the unity of will with itself in a conflict between
gravity and rigidity—and ending with the consideration of tragedy, which
presents to us at the highest grades of the objectification of will this
very conflict with itself in terrible magnitude and distinctness; we find
that there is still another fine art which has been excluded from our
consideration, and had to be excluded, for in the systematic connection of
our exposition there was no fitting place for it—I mean _music_. It stands
alone, quite cut off from all the other arts. In it we do not recognise
the copy or repetition of any Idea of existence in the world. Yet it is
such a great and exceedingly noble art, its effect on the inmost nature of
man is so powerful, and it is so entirely and deeply understood by him in
his inmost consciousness as a perfectly universal language, the
distinctness of which surpasses even that of the perceptible world itself,
that we certainly have more to look for in it than an _exercitum
arithmeticæ occultum nescientis se numerare animi_,(62) which Leibnitz
called it. Yet he was perfectly right, as he considered only its immediate
external significance, its form. But if it were nothing more, the
satisfaction which it affords would be like that which we feel when a sum
in arithmetic comes out right, and could not be that intense pleasure with
which we see the deepest recesses of our nature find utterance. From our
standpoint, therefore, at which the æsthetic effect is the criterion, we
must attribute to music a far more serious and deep significance,
connected with the inmost nature of the world and our own self, and in
reference to which the arithmetical proportions, to which it may be
reduced, are related, not as the thing signified, but merely as the sign.
That in some sense music must be related to the world as the
representation to the thing represented, as the copy to the original, we
may conclude from the analogy of the other arts, all of which possess this
character, and affect us on the whole in the same way as it does, only
that the effect of music is stronger, quicker, more necessary and
infallible. Further, its representative relation to the world must be very
deep, absolutely true, and strikingly accurate, because it is instantly
understood by every one, and has the appearance of a certain
infallibility, because its form may be reduced to perfectly definite rules
expressed in numbers, from which it cannot free itself without entirely
ceasing to be music. Yet the point of comparison between music and the
world, the respect in which it stands to the world in the relation of a
copy or repetition, is very obscure. Men have practised music in all ages
without being able to account for this; content to understand it directly,
they renounce all claim to an abstract conception of this direct
understanding itself.

I gave my mind entirely up to the impression of music in all its forms,
and then returned to reflection and the system of thought expressed in the
present work, and thus I arrived at an explanation of the inner nature of
music and of the nature of its imitative relation to the world—which from
analogy had necessarily to be presupposed—an explanation which is quite
sufficient for myself, and satisfactory to my investigation, and which
will doubtless be equally evident to any one who has followed me thus far
and has agreed with my view of the world. Yet I recognise the fact that it
is essentially impossible to prove this explanation, for it assumes and
establishes a relation of music, as idea, to that which from its nature
can never be idea, and music will have to be regarded as the copy of an
original which can never itself be directly presented as idea. I can
therefore do no more than state here, at the conclusion of this third
book, which has been principally devoted to the consideration of the arts,
the explanation of the marvellous art of music which satisfies myself, and
I must leave the acceptance or denial of my view to the effect produced
upon each of my readers both by music itself and by the whole system of
thought communicated in this work. Moreover, I regard it as necessary, in
order to be able to assent with full conviction to the exposition of the
significance of music I am about to give, that one should often listen to
music with constant reflection upon my theory concerning it, and for this
again it is necessary to be very familiar with the whole of my system of
thought.

The (Platonic) Ideas are the adequate objectification of will. To excite
or suggest the knowledge of these by means of the representation of
particular things (for works of art themselves are always representations
of particular things) is the end of all the other arts, which can only be
attained by a corresponding change in the knowing subject. Thus all these
arts objectify the will indirectly only by means of the Ideas; and since
our world is nothing but the manifestation of the Ideas in multiplicity,
though their entrance into the _principium individuationis_ (the form of
the knowledge possible for the individual as such), music also, since it
passes over the Ideas, is entirely independent of the phenomenal world,
ignores it altogether, could to a certain extent exist if there was no
world at all, which cannot be said of the other arts. Music is as _direct_
an objectification and copy of the whole _will_ as the world itself, nay,
even as the Ideas, whose multiplied manifestation constitutes the world of
individual things. Music is thus by no means like the other arts, the copy
of the Ideas, but the _copy of the will itself_, whose objectivity the
Ideas are. This is why the effect of music is so much more powerful and
penetrating than that of the other arts, for they speak only of shadows,
but it speaks of the thing itself. Since, however, it is the same will
which objectifies itself both in the Ideas and in music, though in quite
different ways, there must be, not indeed a direct likeness, but yet a
parallel, an analogy, between music and the Ideas whose manifestation in
multiplicity and incompleteness is the visible world. The establishing of
this analogy will facilitate, as an illustration, the understanding of
this exposition, which is so difficult on account of the obscurity of the
subject.

I recognise in the deepest tones of harmony, in the bass, the lowest
grades of the objectification of will, unorganised nature, the mass of the
planet. It is well known that all the high notes which are easily sounded,
and die away more quickly, are produced by the vibration in their vicinity
of the deep bass-notes. When, also, the low notes sound, the high notes
always sound faintly, and it is a law of harmony that only those high
notes may accompany a bass-note which actually already sound along with it
of themselves (its _sons harmoniques_) on account of its vibration. This
is analogous to the fact that the whole of the bodies and organisations of
nature must be regarded as having come into existence through gradual
development out of the mass of the planet; this is both their supporter
and their source, and the same relation subsists between the high notes
and the bass. There is a limit of depth, below which no sound is audible.
This corresponds to the fact that no matter can be perceived without form
and quality, _i.e._, without the manifestation of a force which cannot be
further explained, in which an Idea expresses itself, and, more generally,
that no matter can be entirely without will. Thus, as a certain pitch is
inseparable from the note as such, so a certain grade of the manifestation
of will is inseparable from matter. Bass is thus, for us, in harmony what
unorganised nature, the crudest mass, upon which all rests, and from which
everything originates and develops, is in the world. Now, further, in the
whole of the complemental parts which make up the harmony between the bass
and the leading voice singing the melody, I recognise the whole gradation
of the Ideas in which the will objectifies itself. Those nearer to the
bass are the lower of these grades, the still unorganised, but yet
manifold phenomenal things; the higher represent to me the world of plants
and beasts. The definite intervals of the scale are parallel to the
definite grades of the objectification of will, the definite species in
nature. The departure from the arithmetical correctness of the intervals,
through some temperament, or produced by the key selected, is analogous to
the departure of the individual from the type of the species. Indeed, even
the impure discords, which give no definite interval, may be compared to
the monstrous abortions produced by beasts of two species, or by man and
beast. But to all these bass and complemental parts which make up the
_harmony_ there is wanting that connected progress which belongs only to
the high voice singing the melody, and it alone moves quickly and lightly
in modulations and runs, while all these others have only a slower
movement without a connection in each part for itself. The deep bass moves
most slowly, the representative of the crudest mass. Its rising and
falling occurs only by large intervals, in thirds, fourths, fifths, never
by _one_ tone, unless it is a base inverted by double counterpoint. This
slow movement is also physically essential to it; a quick run or shake in
the low notes cannot even be imagined. The higher complemental parts,
which are parallel to animal life, move more quickly, but yet without
melodious connection and significant progress. The disconnected course of
all the complemental parts, and their regulation by definite laws, is
analogous to the fact that in the whole irrational world, from the crystal
to the most perfect animal, no being has a connected consciousness of its
own which would make its life into a significant whole, and none
experiences a succession of mental developments, none perfects itself by
culture, but everything exists always in the same way according to its
kind, determined by fixed law. Lastly, in the _melody_, in the high,
singing, principal voice leading the whole and progressing with
unrestrained freedom, in the unbroken significant connection of _one_
thought from beginning to end representing a whole, I recognise the
highest grade of the objectification of will, the intellectual life and
effort of man. As he alone, because endowed with reason, constantly looks
before and after on the path of his actual life and its innumerable
possibilities, and so achieves a course of life which is intellectual, and
therefore connected as a whole; corresponding to this, I say, the _melody_
has significant intentional connection from beginning to end. It records,
therefore, the history of the intellectually enlightened will. This will
expresses itself in the actual world as the series of its deeds; but
melody says more, it records the most secret history of this
intellectually-enlightened will, pictures every excitement, every effort,
every movement of it, all that which the reason collects under the wide
and negative concept of feeling, and which it cannot apprehend further
through its abstract concepts. Therefore it has always been said that
music is the language of feeling and of passion, as words are the language
of reason. Plato explains it as ἡ των μελων κινησις μεμιμημενη, εν τοις
παθημασιν ὁταν ψυχη γινηται (_melodiarum motus, animi affectus imitans_),
De Leg. vii.; and also Aristotle says: δια τι οἱ ρυθμοι και τα μελη, φωνη
ουσα, ηθεσιν εοικε (_cur numeri musici et modi, qui voces sunt, moribus
similes sese exhibent?_): Probl. c. 19.

Now the nature of man consists in this, that his will strives, is
satisfied and strives anew, and so on for ever. Indeed, his happiness and
well-being consist simply in the quick transition from wish to
satisfaction, and from satisfaction to a new wish. For the absence of
satisfaction is suffering, the empty longing for a new wish, languor,
_ennui_. And corresponding to this the nature of melody is a constant
digression and deviation from the key-note in a thousand ways, not only to
the harmonious intervals to the third and dominant, but to every tone, to
the dissonant sevenths and to the superfluous degrees; yet there always
follows a constant return to the key-note. In all these deviations melody
expresses the multifarious efforts of will, but always its satisfaction
also by the final return to an harmonious interval, and still more, to the
key-note. The composition of melody, the disclosure in it of all the
deepest secrets of human willing and feeling, is the work of genius, whose
action, which is more apparent here than anywhere else, lies far from all
reflection and conscious intention, and may be called an inspiration. The
conception is here, as everywhere in art, unfruitful. The composer reveals
the inner nature of the world, and expresses the deepest wisdom in a
language which his reason does not understand; as a person under the
influence of mesmerism tells things of which he has no conception when he
awakes. Therefore in the composer, more than in any other artist, the man
is entirely separated and distinct from the artist. Even in the
explanation of this wonderful art, the concept shows its poverty and
limitation. I shall try, however, to complete our analogy. As quick
transition from wish to satisfaction, and from satisfaction to a new wish,
is happiness and well-being, so quick melodies without great deviations
are cheerful; slow melodies, striking painful discords, and only winding
back through many bars to the keynote are, as analogous to the delayed and
hardly won satisfaction, sad. The delay of the new excitement of will,
languor, could have no other expression than the sustained keynote, the
effect of which would soon be unbearable; very monotonous and unmeaning
melodies approach this effect. The short intelligible subjects of quick
dance-music seem to speak only of easily attained common pleasure. On the
other hand, the _Allegro maestoso_, in elaborate movements, long passages,
and wide deviations, signifies a greater, nobler effort towards a more
distant end, and its final attainment. The _Adagio_ speaks of the pain of
a great and noble effort which despises all trifling happiness. But how
wonderful is the effect of the _minor_ and _major_! How astounding that
the change of half a tone, the entrance of a minor third instead of a
major, at once and inevitably forces upon us an anxious painful feeling,
from which again we are just as instantaneously delivered by the major.
The _Adagio_ lengthens in the minor the expression of the keenest pain,
and becomes even a convulsive wail. Dance-music in the minor seems to
indicate the failure of that trifling happiness which we ought rather to
despise, seems to speak of the attainment of a lower end with toil and
trouble. The inexhaustibleness of possible melodies corresponds to the
inexhaustibleness of Nature in difference of individuals, physiognomies,
and courses of life. The transition from one key to an entirely different
one, since it altogether breaks the connection with what went before, is
like death, for the individual ends in it; but the will which appeared in
this individual lives after him as before him, appearing in other
individuals, whose consciousness, however, has no connection with his.

But it must never be forgotten, in the investigation of all these
analogies I have pointed out, that music has no direct, but merely an
indirect relation to them, for it never expresses the phenomenon, but only
the inner nature, the in-itself of all phenomena, the will itself. It does
not therefore express this or that particular and definite joy, this or
that sorrow, or pain, or horror, or delight, or merriment, or peace of
mind; but joy, sorrow, pain, horror, delight, merriment, peace of mind
_themselves_, to a certain extent in the abstract, their essential nature,
without accessories, and therefore without their motives. Yet we
completely understand them in this extracted quintessence. Hence it arises
that our imagination is so easily excited by music, and now seeks to give
form to that invisible yet actively moved spirit-world which speaks to us
directly, and clothe it with flesh and blood, _i.e._, to embody it in an
analogous example. This is the origin of the song with words, and finally
of the opera, the text of which should therefore never forsake that
subordinate position in order to make itself the chief thing and the music
a mere means of expressing it, which is a great misconception and a piece
of utter perversity; for music always expresses only the quintessence of
life and its events, never these themselves, and therefore their
differences do not always affect it. It is precisely this universality,
which belongs exclusively to it, together with the greatest
determinateness, that gives music the high worth which it has as the
panacea for all our woes. Thus, if music is too closely united to the
words, and tries to form itself according to the events, it is striving to
speak a language which is not its own. No one has kept so free from this
mistake as Rossini; therefore his music speaks _its own language_ so
distinctly and purely that it requires no words, and produces its full
effect when rendered by instruments alone.

According to all this, we may regard the phenomenal world, or nature, and
music as two different expressions of the same thing, which is therefore
itself the only medium of their analogy, so that a knowledge of it is
demanded in order to understand that analogy. Music, therefore, if
regarded as an expression of the world, is in the highest degree a
universal language, which is related indeed to the universality of
concepts, much as they are related to the particular things. Its
universality, however, is by no means that empty universality of
abstraction, but quite of a different kind, and is united with thorough
and distinct definiteness. In this respect it resembles geometrical
figures and numbers, which are the universal forms of all possible objects
of experience and applicable to them all _a priori_, and yet are not
abstract but perceptible and thoroughly determined. All possible efforts,
excitements, and manifestations of will, all that goes on in the heart of
man and that reason includes in the wide, negative concept of feeling, may
be expressed by the infinite number of possible melodies, but always in
the universal, in the mere form, without the material, always according to
the thing-in-itself, not the phenomenon, the inmost soul, as it were, of
the phenomenon, without the body. This deep relation which music has to
the true nature of all things also explains the fact that suitable music
played to any scene, action, event, or surrounding seems to disclose to us
its most secret meaning, and appears as the most accurate and distinct
commentary upon it. This is so truly the case, that whoever gives himself
up entirely to the impression of a symphony, seems to see all the possible
events of life and the world take place in himself, yet if he reflects, he
can find no likeness between the music and the things that passed before
his mind. For, as we have said, music is distinguished from all the other
arts by the fact that it is not a copy of the phenomenon, or, more
accurately, the adequate objectivity of will, but is the direct copy of
the will itself, and therefore exhibits itself as the metaphysical to
everything physical in the world, and as the thing-in-itself to every
phenomenon. We might, therefore, just as well call the world embodied
music as embodied will; and this is the reason why music makes every
picture, and indeed every scene of real life and of the world, at once
appear with higher significance, certainly all the more in proportion as
its melody is analogous to the inner spirit of the given phenomenon. It
rests upon this that we are able to set a poem to music as a song, or a
perceptible representation as a pantomime, or both as an opera. Such
particular pictures of human life, set to the universal language of music,
are never bound to it or correspond to it with stringent necessity; but
they stand to it only in the relation of an example chosen at will to a
general concept. In the determinateness of the real, they represent that
which music expresses in the universality of mere form. For melodies are
to a certain extent, like general concepts, an abstraction from the
actual. This actual world, then, the world of particular things, affords
the object of perception, the special and individual, the particular case,
both to the universality of the concepts and to the universality of the
melodies. But these two universalities are in a certain respect opposed to
each other; for the concepts contain particulars only as the first forms
abstracted from perception, as it were, the separated shell of things;
thus they are, strictly speaking, _abstracta_; music, on the other hand,
gives the inmost kernel which precedes all forms, or the heart of things.
This relation may be very well expressed in the language of the schoolmen
by saying the concepts are the _universalia post rem_, but music gives the
_universalia ante rem_, and the real world the _universalia in re_. To the
universal significance of a melody to which a poem has been set, it is
quite possible to set other equally arbitrarily selected examples of the
universal expressed in this poem corresponding to the significance of the
melody in the same degree. This is why the same composition is suitable to
many verses; and this is also what makes the _vaudeville_ possible. But
that in general a relation is possible between a composition and a
perceptible representation rests, as we have said, upon the fact that both
are simply different expressions of the same inner being of the world.
When now, in the particular case, such a relation is actually given, that
is to say, when the composer has been able to express in the universal
language of music the emotions of will which constitute the heart of an
event, then the melody of the song, the music of the opera, is expressive.
But the analogy discovered by the composer between the two must have
proceeded from the direct knowledge of the nature of the world unknown to
his reason, and must not be an imitation produced with conscious intention
by means of conceptions, otherwise the music does not express the inner
nature of the will itself, but merely gives an inadequate imitation of its
phenomenon. All specially imitative music does this; for example, “The
Seasons,” by Haydn; also many passages of his “Creation,” in which
phenomena of the external world are directly imitated; also all
battle-pieces. Such music is entirely to be rejected.

The unutterable depth of all music by virtue of which it floats through
our consciousness as the vision of a paradise firmly believed in yet ever
distant from us, and by which also it is so fully understood and yet so
inexplicable, rests on the fact that it restores to us all the emotions of
our inmost nature, but entirely without reality and far removed from their
pain. So also the seriousness which is essential to it, which excludes the
absurd from its direct and peculiar province, is to be explained by the
fact that its object is not the idea, with reference to which alone
deception and absurdity are possible; but its object is directly the will,
and this is essentially the most serious of all things, for it is that on
which all depends. How rich in content and full of significance the
language of music is, we see from the repetitions, as well as the _Da
capo_, the like of which would be unbearable in works composed in a
language of words, but in music are very appropriate and beneficial, for,
in order to comprehend it fully, we must hear it twice.

In the whole of this exposition of music I have been trying to bring out
clearly that it expresses in a perfectly universal language, in a
homogeneous material, mere tones, and with the greatest determinateness
and truth, the inner nature, the in-itself of the world, which we think
under the concept of will, because will is its most distinct
manifestation. Further, according to my view and contention, philosophy is
nothing but a complete and accurate repetition or expression of the nature
of the world in very general concepts, for only in such is it possible to
get a view of that whole nature which will everywhere be adequate and
applicable. Thus, whoever has followed me and entered into my mode of
thought, will not think it so very paradoxical if I say, that supposing it
were possible to give a perfectly accurate, complete explanation of music,
extending even to particulars, that is to say, a detailed repetition in
concepts of what it expresses, this would also be a sufficient repetition
and explanation of the world in concepts, or at least entirely parallel to
such an explanation, and thus it would be the true philosophy.
Consequently the saying of Leibnitz quoted above, which is quite accurate
from a lower standpoint, may be parodied in the following way to suit our
higher view of music: _Musica est exercitium metaphysices occultum
nescientis se philosophari animi_; for _scire_, to know, always means to
have fixed in abstract concepts. But further, on account of the truth of
the saying of Leibnitz, which is confirmed in various ways, music,
regarded apart from its æsthetic or inner significance, and looked at
merely externally and purely empirically, is simply the means of
comprehending directly and in the concrete large numbers and complex
relations of numbers, which otherwise we could only know indirectly by
fixing them in concepts. Therefore by the union of these two very
different but correct views of music we may arrive at a conception of the
possibility of a philosophy of number, such as that of Pythagoras and of
the Chinese in Y-King, and then interpret in this sense the saying of the
Pythagoreans which Sextus Empiricus quotes (adv. Math., L. vii.): τῳ
αριθμῳ δε τα παντ᾽ επεοικεν (_numero cuncta assimilantur_). And if,
finally, we apply this view to the interpretation of harmony and melody
given above, we shall find that a mere moral philosophy without an
explanation of Nature, such as Socrates wanted to introduce, is precisely
analogous to a mere melody without harmony, which Rousseau exclusively
desired; and, in opposition to this mere physics and metaphysics without
ethics, will correspond to mere harmony without melody. Allow me to add to
these cursory observations a few more remarks concerning the analogy of
music with the phenomenal world. We found in the second book that the
highest grade of the objectification of will, man, could not appear alone
and isolated, but presupposed the grades below him, as these again
presupposed the grades lower still. In the same way music, which directly
objectifies the will, just as the world does, is complete only in full
harmony. In order to achieve its full effect, the high leading voice of
the melody requires the accompaniment of all the other voices, even to the
lowest bass, which is to be regarded as the origin of all. The melody
itself enters as an integral part into the harmony, as the harmony enters
into it, and only thus, in the full harmonious whole, music expresses what
it aims at expressing. Thus also the one will outside of time finds its
full objectification only in the complete union of all the steps which
reveal its nature in the innumerable ascending grades of distinctness. The
following analogy is also very remarkable. We have seen in the preceding
book that notwithstanding the self-adaptation of all the phenomena of will
to each other as regards their species, which constitutes their
teleological aspect, there yet remains an unceasing conflict between those
phenomena as individuals, which is visible at every grade, and makes the
world a constant battle-field of all those manifestations of one and the
same will, whose inner contradiction with itself becomes visible through
it. In music also there is something corresponding to this. A complete,
pure, harmonious system of tones is not only physically but arithmetically
impossible. The numbers themselves by which the tones are expressed have
inextricable irrationality. There is no scale in which, when it is
counted, every fifth will be related to the keynote as 2 to 3, every major
third as 4 to 5, every minor third as 5 to 6, and so on. For if they are
correctly related to the keynote, they can no longer be so to each other;
because, for example, the fifth must be the minor third to the third, &c.
For the notes of the scale may be compared to actors who must play now one
part, now another. Therefore a perfectly accurate system of music cannot
even be thought, far less worked out; and on this account all possible
music deviates from perfect purity; it can only conceal the discords
essential to it by dividing them among all the notes, _i.e._, by
temperament. On this see Chladni’s “Akustik,” § 30, and his “Kurze
Uebersicht der Schall- und Klanglehre.”(63)

I might still have something to say about the way in which music is
perceived, namely, in and through time alone, with absolute exclusion of
space, and also apart from the influence of the knowledge of causality,
thus without understanding; for the tones make the æsthetic impression as
effect, and without obliging us to go back to their causes, as in the case
of perception. I do not wish, however, to lengthen this discussion, as I
have perhaps already gone too much into detail with regard to some things
in this Third Book, or have dwelt too much on particulars. But my aim made
it necessary, and it will be the less disapproved if the importance and
high worth of art, which is seldom sufficiently recognised, be kept in
mind. For if, according to our view, the whole visible world is just the
objectification, the mirror, of the will, conducting it to knowledge of
itself, and, indeed, as we shall soon see, to the possibility of its
deliverance; and if, at the same time, the world as idea, if we regard it
in isolation, and, freeing ourselves from all volition, allow it alone to
take possession of our consciousness, is the most joy-giving and the only
innocent side of life; we must regard art as the higher ascent, the more
complete development of all this, for it achieves essentially just what is
achieved by the visible world itself, only with greater concentration,
more perfectly, with intention and intelligence, and therefore may be
called, in the full significance of the word, the flower of life. If the
whole world as idea is only the visibility of will, the work of art is to
render this visibility more distinct. It is the _camera obscura_ which
shows the objects more purely, and enables us to survey them and
comprehend them better. It is the play within the play, the stage upon the
stage in “Hamlet.”

The pleasure we receive from all beauty, the consolation which art
affords, the enthusiasm of the artist, which enables him to forget the
cares of life,—the latter an advantage of the man of genius over other
men, which alone repays him for the suffering that increases in proportion
to the clearness of consciousness, and for the desert loneliness among men
of a different race,—all this rests on the fact that the in-itself of
life, the will, existence itself, is, as we shall see farther on, a
constant sorrow, partly miserable, partly terrible; while, on the
contrary, as idea alone, purely contemplated, or copied by art, free from
pain, it presents to us a drama full of significance. This purely knowable
side of the world, and the copy of it in any art, is the element of the
artist. He is chained to the contemplation of the play, the
objectification of will; he remains beside it, does not get tired of
contemplating it and representing it in copies; and meanwhile he bears
himself the cost of the production of that play, _i.e._, he himself is the
will which objectifies itself, and remains in constant suffering. That
pure, true, and deep knowledge of the inner nature of the world becomes
now for him an end in itself: he stops there. Therefore it does not become
to him a quieter of the will, as, we shall see in the next book, it does
in the case of the saint who has attained to resignation; it does not
deliver him for ever from life, but only at moments, and is therefore not
for him a path out of life, but only an occasional consolation in it, till
his power, increased by this contemplation and at last tired of the play,
lays hold on the real. The St. Cecilia of Raphael may be regarded as a
representation of this transition. To the real, then, we now turn in the
following book.





FOURTH BOOK. THE WORLD AS WILL.




Second Aspect. The Assertion And Denial Of The Will To Live, When
Self-Consciousness Has Been Attained.


    Tempore quo cognitio simul advenit, amor e medio
                supersurrexit.—_Oupnek’hat,_
    _Studio Anquetil Duperron_, vol. ii. p. 216.


§ 53. The last part of our work presents itself as the most serious, for
it relates to the action of men, the matter which concerns every one
directly and can be foreign or indifferent to none. It is indeed so
characteristic of the nature of man to relate everything else to action,
that in every systematic investigation he will always treat the part that
has to do with action as the result or outcome of the whole work, so far,
at least, as it interests him, and will therefore give his most serious
attention to this part, even if to no other. In this respect the following
part of our work would, in ordinary language, be called practical
philosophy, in opposition to the theoretical, which has occupied us
hitherto. But, in my opinion, all philosophy is theoretical, because it is
essential to it that it should retain a purely contemplative attitude, and
should investigate, not prescribe. To become, on the contrary, practical,
to guide conduct, to transform character, are old claims, which with
fuller insight it ought finally to give up. For here, where the worth or
worthlessness of an existence, where salvation or damnation are in
question, the dead conceptions of philosophy do not decide the matter, but
the inmost nature of man himself, the Dæmon that guides him and that has
not chosen him, but been chosen by him, as Plato would say; his
intelligible character, as Kant expresses himself. Virtue cannot be taught
any more than genius; indeed, for it the concept is just as unfruitful as
it is in art, and in both cases can only be used as an instrument. It
would, therefore, be just as absurd to expect that our moral systems and
ethics will produce virtuous, noble, and holy men, as that our æsthetics
will produce poets, painters, and musicians.

Philosophy can never do more than interpret and explain what is given. It
can only bring to distinct abstract knowledge of the reason the nature of
the world which in the concrete, that is, as feeling, expresses itself
comprehensibly to every one. This, however, it does in every possible
reference and from every point of view. Now, as this attempt has been made
from other points of view in the three preceding books with the generality
that is proper to philosophy, in this book the action of men will be
considered in the same way; and this side of the world might, indeed, be
considered the most important of all, not only subjectively, as I remarked
above, but also objectively. In considering it I shall faithfully adhere
to the method I have hitherto followed, and shall support myself by
presupposing all that has already been advanced. There is, indeed, just
one thought which forms the content of this whole work. I have endeavoured
to work it out in all other spheres, and I shall now do so with regard to
human action. I shall then have done all that is in my power to
communicate it as fully as possible.

The given point of view, and the method of treatment announced, are
themselves sufficient to indicate that in this ethical book no precepts,
no doctrine of duty must be looked for; still less will a general moral
principle be given, an universal receipt, as it were, for the production
of all the virtues. Neither shall we talk of an “_absolute ought_,” for
this contains a contradiction, as is explained in the Appendix; nor yet of
a “_law of freedom_,” which is in the same position. In general, we shall
not speak at all of “ought,” for this is how one speaks to children and to
nations still in their childhood, but not to those who have appropriated
all the culture of a full-grown age. It is a palpable contradiction to
call the will free, and yet to prescribe laws for it according to which it
ought to will. “Ought to will!”—wooden iron! But it follows from the point
of view of our system that the will is not only free, but almighty. From
it proceeds not only its action, but also its world; and as the will is,
so does its action and its world become. Both are the self-knowledge of
the will and nothing more. The will determines itself, and at the same
time both its action and its world; for besides it there is nothing, and
these are the will itself. Only thus is the will truly autonomous, and
from every other point of view it is heteronomous. Our philosophical
endeavours can only extend to exhibiting and explaining the action of men
in its inner nature and content, the various and even opposite maxims,
whose living expression it is. This we shall do in connection with the
preceding portion of our work, and in precisely the same way as we have
hitherto explained the other phenomena of the world, and have sought to
bring their inmost nature to distinct abstract knowledge. Our philosophy
will maintain the same _immanency_ in the case of action, as in all that
we have hitherto considered. Notwithstanding Kant’s great doctrine, it
will not attempt to use the forms of the phenomenon, the universal
expression of which is the principle of sufficient reason, as a
leaping-pole to jump over the phenomenon itself, which alone gives meaning
to these forms, and land in the boundless sphere of empty fictions. But
this actual world of experience, in which we are, and which is in us,
remains both the material and the limits of our consideration: a world
which is so rich in content that even the most searching investigation of
which the human mind is capable could not exhaust it. Since then the real
world of experience will never fail to afford material and reality to our
ethical investigations, any more than to those we have already conducted,
nothing will be less needful than to take refuge in negative conceptions
void of content, and then somehow or other make even ourselves believe
that we are saying something when we speak with lifted eyebrows of
“absolutes,” “infinites,” “supersensibles,” and whatever other mere
negations of this sort there may be (ουδεν εστι, η το της στερησεως ονομα,
μετα αμυδρας επινοιας—_nihil est, nisi negationis nomen, cum obscura
notione_.—Jul. or. 5), instead of which it would be shorter to say at once
cloud-cuckoo-town (νεφελοκοκκυγια): we shall not require to serve up
covered empty dishes of this kind. Finally, we shall not in this book, any
more than in those which have preceded it, narrate histories and give them
out as philosophy. For we are of opinion that whoever supposes that the
inner nature of the world can in any way, however plausibly disguised, be
_historically_ comprehended, is infinitely far from a philosophical
knowledge of the world. Yet this is what is supposed whenever a
“becoming,” or a “having become,” or an “about to become” enters into a
theory of the nature of the world, whenever an earlier or a later has the
least place in it; and in this way a beginning and an end of the world,
and the path it pursues between them, is, either openly or disguisedly,
both sought for and found, and the individual who philosophises even
recognises his own position on that path. Such _historical philosophising_
in most cases produces a cosmogony which admits of many varieties, or else
a system of emanations, a doctrine of successive disengagements from one
being; or, finally, driven in despair from fruitless efforts upon these
paths to the last path of all, it takes refuge in the converse doctrine of
a constant becoming, springing up, arising, coming to light out of
darkness, out of the hidden ground source or groundlessness, or whatever
other nonsense of this sort there may be, which is most shortly disposed
of with the remark that at the present moment a whole eternity, _i.e._, an
endless time, has already passed, so that everything that can or ought to
become must have already done so. For all such historical philosophy,
whatever airs it may give itself, regards _time_ just as if Kant had never
lived, as a quality of the thing-in-itself, and thus stops at that which
Kant calls the phenomenon in opposition to the thing-in-itself; which
Plato calls the becoming and never being, in opposition to the being and
never becoming; and which, finally, is called in the Indian philosophy the
web of Mâya. It is just the knowledge which belongs to the principle of
sufficient reason, with which no one can penetrate to the inner nature of
things, but endlessly pursues phenomena, moving without end or aim, like a
squirrel in its wheel, till, tired out at last, he stops at some point or
other arbitrarily chosen, and now desires to extort respect for it from
others also. The genuine philosophical consideration of the world, _i.e._,
the consideration that affords us a knowledge of its inner nature, and so
leads us beyond the phenomenon, is precisely that method which does not
concern itself with the whence, the whither, and the why of the world, but
always and everywhere demands only the what; the method which considers
things not according to any relation, not as becoming and passing away, in
short, not according to one of the four forms of the principle of
sufficient reason; but, on the contrary, just that which remains when all
that belongs to the form of knowledge proper to that principle has been
abstracted, the inner nature of the world, which always appears unchanged
in all the relations, but is itself never subject to them, and has the
Ideas of the world as its object or material. From such knowledge as this
proceeds philosophy, like art, and also, as we shall see in this book,
that disposition of mind which alone leads to true holiness and to
deliverance from the world.

§ 54. The first three books will, it is hoped, have conveyed the distinct
and certain knowledge that the world as idea is the complete mirror of the
will, in which it knows itself in ascending grades of distinctness and
completeness, the highest of which is man, whose nature, however, receives
its complete expression only through the whole connected series of his
actions. The self-conscious connection of these actions is made possible
by reason, which enables a man constantly to survey the whole in the
abstract.

The will, which, considered purely in itself, is without knowledge, and is
merely a blind incessant impulse, as we see it appear in unorganised and
vegetable nature and their laws, and also in the vegetative part of our
own life, receives through the addition of the world as idea, which is
developed in subjection to it, the knowledge of its own willing and of
what it is that it wills. And this is nothing else than the world as idea,
life, precisely as it exists. Therefore we called the phenomenal world the
mirror of the will, its objectivity. And since what the will wills is
always life, just because life is nothing but the representation of that
willing for the idea, it is all one and a mere pleonism if, instead of
simply saying “the will,” we say “the will to live.”

Will is the thing-in-itself, the inner content, the essence of the world.
Life, the visible world, the phenomenon, is only the mirror of the will.
Therefore life accompanies the will as inseparably as the shadow
accompanies the body; and if will exists, so will life, the world, exist.
Life is, therefore, assured to the will to live; and so long as we are
filled with the will to live we need have no fear for our existence, even
in the presence of death. It is true we see the individual come into being
and pass away; but the individual is only phenomenal, exists only for the
knowledge which is bound to the principle of sufficient reason, to the
_principio individuationis_. Certainly, for this kind of knowledge, the
individual receives his life as a gift, rises out of nothing, then suffers
the loss of this gift through death, and returns again to nothing. But we
desire to consider life philosophically, _i.e._, according to its Ideas,
and in this sphere we shall find that neither the will, the
thing-in-itself in all phenomena, nor the subject of knowing, that which
perceives all phenomena, is affected at all by birth or by death. Birth
and death belong merely to the phenomenon of will, thus to life; and it is
essential to this to exhibit itself in individuals which come into being
and pass away, as fleeting phenomena appearing in the form of
time—phenomena of that which in itself knows no time, but must exhibit
itself precisely in the way we have said, in order to objectify its
peculiar nature. Birth and death belong in like manner to life, and hold
the balance as reciprocal conditions of each other, or, if one likes the
expression, as poles of the whole phenomenon of life. The wisest of all
mythologies, the Indian, expresses this by giving to the very god that
symbolises destruction, death (as Brahma, the most sinful and the lowest
god of the Trimurti, symbolises generation, coming into being, and Vishnu
maintaining or preserving), by giving, I say, to Siva as an attribute not
only the necklace of skulls, but also the lingam, the symbol of
generation, which appears here as the counterpart of death, thus
signifying that generation and death are essentially correlatives, which
reciprocally neutralise and annul each other. It was precisely the same
sentiment that led the Greeks and Romans to adorn their costly sarcophagi,
just as we see them now, with feasts, dances, marriages, the chase, fights
of wild beasts, bacchanalians, &c.; thus with representations of the full
ardour of life, which they place before us not only in such revels and
sports, but also in sensual groups, and even go so far as to represent the
sexual intercourse of satyrs and goats. Clearly the aim was to point in
the most impressive manner away from the death of the mourned individual
to the immortal life of nature, and thus to indicate, though without
abstract knowledge, that the whole of nature is the phenomenon and also
the fulfilment of the will to live. The form of this phenomenon is time,
space, and causality, and by means of these individuation, which carries
with it that the individual must come into being and pass away. But this
no more affects the will to live, of whose manifestation the individual
is, as it were, only a particular example or specimen, than the death of
an individual injures the whole of nature. For it is not the individual,
but only the species that Nature cares for, and for the preservation of
which she so earnestly strives, providing for it with the utmost
prodigality through the vast surplus of the seed and the great strength of
the fructifying impulse. The individual, on the contrary, neither has nor
can have any value for Nature, for her kingdom is infinite time and
infinite space, and in these infinite multiplicity of possible
individuals. Therefore she is always ready to let the individual fall, and
hence it is not only exposed to destruction in a thousand ways by the most
insignificant accident, but originally destined for it, and conducted
towards it by Nature herself from the moment it has served its end of
maintaining the species. Thus Nature naïvely expresses the great truth
that only the Ideas, not the individuals, have, properly speaking,
reality, _i.e._, are complete objectivity of the will. Now, since man is
Nature itself, and indeed Nature at the highest grade of its
self-consciousness, but Nature is only the objectified will to live, the
man who has comprehended and retained this point of view may well console
himself, when contemplating his own death and that of his friends, by
turning his eyes to the immortal life of Nature, which he himself is. This
is the significance of Siva with the lingam, and of those ancient
sarcophagi with their pictures of glowing life, which say to the mourning
beholder, _Natura non contristatur_.

That generation and death are to be regarded as something belonging to
life, and essential to this phenomenon of the will, arises also from the
fact that they both exhibit themselves merely as higher powers of the
expression of that in which all the rest of life consists. This is through
and through nothing else than the constant change of matter in the fixed
permanence of form; and this is what constitutes the transitoriness of the
individual and the permanence of the species. Constant nourishment and
renewal differ from generation only in degree, and constant excretion
differs only in degree from death. The first shows itself most simply and
distinctly in the plant. The plant is throughout a constant recurrence of
the same impulse of its simplest fibre, which groups itself into leaf and
branch. It is a systematic aggregate of similar plants supporting each
other, whose constant reproduction is its single impulse. It ascends to
the full satisfaction of this tendency through the grades of its
metamorphosis, finally to the blossom and fruit, that compendium of its
existence and effort in which it now attains, by a short way, to that
which is its single aim, and at a stroke produces a thousand-fold what, up
till then, it effected only in the particular case—the repetition of
itself. Its earlier growth and development stands in the same relation to
its fruit as writing stands to printing. With the animal it is clearly
quite the same. The process of nourishing is a constant reproduction; the
process of reproduction is a higher power of nourishing. The pleasure
which accompanies the act of procreation is a higher power of the
agreeableness of the sense of life. On the other hand, excretion, the
constant exhalation and throwing off of matter, is the same as that which,
at a higher power, death, is the contrary of generation. And if here we
are always content to retain the form without lamenting the discarded
matter, we ought to bear ourselves in the same way if in death the same
thing happens, in a higher degree and to the whole, as takes place daily
and hourly in a partial manner in excretion: if we are indifferent to the
one, we ought not to shrink from the other. Therefore, from this point of
view, it appears just as perverse to desire the continuance of an
individuality which will be replaced by other individuals as to desire the
permanence of matter which will be replaced by other matter. It appears
just as foolish to embalm the body as it would be carefully to preserve
its excrement. As to the individual consciousness which is bound to the
individual body, it is absolutely interrupted every day by sleep. Deep
sleep is, while it lasts, in no way different from death, into which, in
fact, it often passes continuously, as in the case of freezing to death.
It differs only with regard to the future, the awaking. Death is a sleep
in which individuality is forgotten; everything else wakes again, or
rather never slept.(64)

Above all things, we must distinctly recognise that the form of the
phenomenon of will, the form of life or reality, is really only the
_present_, not the future nor the past. The latter are only in the
conception, exist only in the connection of knowledge, so far as it
follows the principle of sufficient reason. No man has ever lived in the
past, and none will live in the future; the _present_ alone is the form of
all life, and is its sure possession which can never be taken from it. The
present always exists, together with its content. Both remain fixed
without wavering, like the rainbow on the waterfall. For life is firm and
certain in the will, and the present is firm and certain in life.
Certainly, if we reflect on the thousands of years that are past, of the
millions of men who lived in them, we ask, What were they? what has become
of them? But, on the other hand, we need only recall our own past life and
renew its scenes vividly in our imagination, and then ask again, What was
all this? what has become of it? As it is with it, so is it with the life
of those millions. Or should we suppose that the past could receive a new
existence because it has been sealed by death? Our own past, the most
recent part of it, and even yesterday, is now no more than an empty dream
of the fancy, and such is the past of all those millions. What was? What
is? The will, of which life is the mirror, and knowledge free from will,
which beholds it clearly in that mirror. Whoever has not yet recognised
this, or will not recognise it, must add to the question asked above as to
the fate of past generations of men this question also: Why he, the
questioner, is so fortunate as to be conscious of this costly, fleeting,
and only real present, while those hundreds of generations of men, even
the heroes and philosophers of those ages, have sunk into the night of the
past, and have thus become nothing; but he, his insignificant ego,
actually exists? or more shortly, though somewhat strangely: Why this now,
his now, _is_ just now and _was_ not long ago? Since he asks such strange
questions, he regards his existence and his time as independent of each
other, and the former as projected into the latter. He assumes indeed two
nows—one which belongs to the object, the other which belongs to the
subject, and marvels at the happy accident of their coincidence. But in
truth, only the point of contact of the object, the form of which is time,
with the subject, which has no mode of the principle of sufficient reason
as its form, constitutes the present, as is shown in the essay on the
principle of sufficient reason. Now all object is the will so far as it
has become idea, and the subject is the necessary correlative of the
object. But real objects are only in the present; the past and the future
contain only conceptions and fancies, therefore the present is the
essential form of the phenomenon of the will, and inseparable from it. The
present alone is that which always exists and remains immovable. That
which, empirically apprehended, is the most transitory of all, presents
itself to the metaphysical vision, which sees beyond the forms of
empirical perception, as that which alone endures, the _nunc stans_ of the
schoolmen. The source and the supporter of its content is the will to live
or the thing-in-itself,—which we are. That which constantly becomes and
passes away, in that it has either already been or is still to be, belongs
to the phenomenon as such on account of its forms, which make coming into
being and passing away possible. Accordingly, we must think:—_Quid
fuit?_—_Quod est._ _Quid erit?_—_Quod fuit;_ and take it in the strict
meaning of the words; thus understand not _simile_ but _idem_. For life is
certain to the will, and the present is certain to life. Thus it is that
every one can say, “I am once for all lord of the present, and through all
eternity it will accompany me as my shadow: therefore I do not wonder
where it has come from, and how it happens that it is exactly now.” We
might compare time to a constantly revolving sphere; the half that was
always sinking would be the past, that which was always rising would be
the future; but the indivisible point at the top, where the tangent
touches, would be the extensionless present. As the tangent does not
revolve with the sphere, neither does the present, the point of contact of
the object, the form of which is time, with the subject, which has no
form, because it does not belong to the knowable, but is the condition of
all that is knowable. Or, time is like an unceasing stream, and the
present a rock on which the stream breaks itself, but does not carry away
with it. The will, as thing-in-itself, is just as little subordinate to
the principle of sufficient reason as the subject of knowledge, which,
finally, in a certain regard is the will itself or its expression. And as
life, its own phenomenon, is assured to the will, so is the present, the
single form of real life. Therefore we have not to investigate the past
before life, nor the future after death: we have rather to know the
_present_, the one form in which the will manifests itself.(65) It will
not escape from the will, but neither will the will escape from it. If,
therefore, life as it is satisfies, whoever affirms it in every way may
regard it with confidence as endless, and banish the fear of death as an
illusion that inspires him with the foolish dread that he can ever be
robbed of the present, and foreshadows a time in which there is no
present; an illusion with regard to time analogous to the illusion with
regard to space through which every one imagines the position on the globe
he happens to occupy as above, and all other places as below. In the same
way every one links the present to his own individuality, and imagines
that all present is extinguished with it; that then past and future might
be without a present. But as on the surface of the globe every place is
above, so the form of all life is the _present_, and to fear death because
it robs us of the present, is just as foolish as to fear that we may slip
down from the round globe upon which we have now the good fortune to
occupy the upper surface. The present is the form essential to the
objectification of the will. It cuts time, which extends infinitely in
both directions, as a mathematical point, and stands immovably fixed, like
an everlasting mid-day with no cool evening, as the actual sun burns
without intermission, while it only seems to sink into the bosom of night.
Therefore, if a man fears death as his annihilation, it is just as if he
were to think that the sun cries out at evening, “Woe is me! for I go down
into eternal night.”(66) And conversely, whoever is oppressed with the
burden of life, whoever desires life and affirms it, but abhors its
torments, and especially can no longer endure the hard lot that has fallen
to himself, such a man has no deliverance to hope for from death, and
cannot right himself by suicide. The cool shades of Orcus allure him only
with the false appearance of a haven of rest. The earth rolls from day
into night, the individual dies, but the sun itself shines without
intermission, an eternal noon. Life is assured to the will to live; the
form of life is an endless present, no matter how the individuals, the
phenomena of the Idea, arise and pass away in time, like fleeting dreams.
Thus even already suicide appears to us as a vain and therefore a foolish
action; when we have carried our investigation further it will appear to
us in a still less favourable light.

Dogmas change and our knowledge is deceptive; but Nature never errs, her
procedure is sure, and she never conceals it. Everything is entirely in
Nature, and Nature is entire in everything. She has her centre in every
brute. It has surely found its way into existence, and it will surely find
its way out of it. In the meantime it lives, fearless and without care, in
the presence of annihilation, supported by the consciousness that it is
Nature herself, and imperishable as she is. Man alone carries about with
him, in abstract conceptions, the certainty of his death; yet this can
only trouble him very rarely, when for a single moment some occasion calls
it up to his imagination. Against the mighty voice of Nature reflection
can do little. In man, as in the brute which does not think, the certainty
that springs from his inmost consciousness that he himself is Nature, the
world, predominates as a lasting frame of mind; and on account of this no
man is observably disturbed by the thought of certain and never-distant
death, but lives as if he would live for ever. Indeed this is carried so
far that we may say that no one has really a lively conviction of the
certainty of his death, otherwise there would be no great difference
between his frame of mind and that of a condemned criminal. Every one
recognises that certainty in the abstract and theoretically, but lays it
aside like other theoretical truths which are not applicable to practice,
without really receiving it into his living consciousness. Whoever
carefully considers this peculiarity of human character will see that the
psychological explanations of it, from habit and acquiescence in the
inevitable, are by no means sufficient, and that its true explanation lies
in the deeper ground we have given. The same fact explains the
circumstance that at all times and among all peoples dogmas of some kind
or other relating to the continued existence of the individual after death
arise, and are believed in, although the evidence in support of them must
always be very insufficient, and the evidence against them forcible and
varied. But, in truth, this really requires no proof, but is recognised by
the healthy understanding as a fact, and confirmed by the confidence that
Nature never lies any more than she errs, but openly exhibits and naïvely
expresses her action and her nature, while only we ourselves obscure it by
our folly, in order to establish what is agreeable to our limited point of
view.

But this that we have brought to clearest consciousness, that although the
particular phenomenon of the will has a temporal beginning and end, the
will itself as thing-in-itself is not affected by it, nor yet the
correlative of all object, the knowing but never known subject, and that
life is always assured to the will to live—this is not to be numbered with
the doctrines of immortality. For permanence has no more to do with the
will or with the pure subject of knowing, the eternal eye of the world,
than transitoriness, for both are predicates that are only valid in time,
and the will and the pure subject of knowing lie outside time. Therefore
the egoism of the individual (this particular phenomenon of will
enlightened by the subject of knowing) can extract as little nourishment
and consolation for his wish to endure through endless time from the view
we have expressed, as he could from the knowledge that after his death the
rest of the eternal world would continue to exist, which is just the
expression of the same view considered objectively, and therefore
temporally. For every individual is transitory only as phenomenon, but as
thing-in-itself is timeless, and therefore endless. But it is also only as
phenomenon that an individual is distinguished from the other things of
the world; as thing-in-itself he is the will which appears in all, and
death destroys the illusion which separates his consciousness from that of
the rest: this is immortality. His exemption from death, which belongs to
him only as thing-in-itself, is for the phenomenon one with the
immortality of the rest of the external world.(67) Hence also, it arises
that although the inward and merely felt consciousness of that which we
have raised to distinct knowledge is indeed, as we have said, sufficient
to prevent the thought of death from poisoning the life of the rational
being, because this consciousness is the basis of that love of life which
maintains everything living, and enables it to live on at ease as if there
were no such thing as death, so long as it is face to face with life, and
turns its attention to it, yet it will not prevent the individual from
being seized with the fear of death, and trying in every way to escape
from it, when it presents itself to him in some particular real case, or
even only in his imagination, and he is compelled to contemplate it. For
just as, so long as his knowledge was directed to life as such, he was
obliged to recognise immortality in it, so when death is brought before
his eyes, he is obliged to recognise it as that which it is, the temporal
end of the particular temporal phenomenon. What we fear in death is by no
means the pain, for it lies clearly on this side of death, and, moreover,
we often take refuge in death from pain, just as, on the contrary, we
sometimes endure the most fearful suffering merely to escape death for a
while, although it would be quick and easy. Thus we distinguish pain and
death as two entirely different evils. What we fear in death is the end of
the individual, which it openly professes itself to be, and since the
individual is a particular objectification of the will to live itself, its
whole nature struggles against death. Now when feeling thus exposes us
helpless, reason can yet step in and for the most part overcome its
adverse influence, for it places us upon a higher standpoint, from which
we no longer contemplate the particular but the whole. Therefore a
philosophical knowledge of the nature of the world, which extended to the
point we have now reached in this work but went no farther, could even at
this point of view overcome the terror of death in the measure in which
reflection had power over direct feeling in the given individual. A man
who had thoroughly assimilated the truths we have already advanced, but
had not come to know, either from his own experience or from a deeper
insight, that constant suffering is essential to life, who found
satisfaction and all that he wished in life, and could calmly and
deliberately desire that his life, as he had hitherto known it, should
endure for ever or repeat itself ever anew, and whose love of life was so
great that he willingly and gladly accepted all the hardships and miseries
to which it is exposed for the sake of its pleasures,—such a man would
stand “with firm-knit bones on the well-rounded, enduring earth,” and
would have nothing to fear. Armed with the knowledge we have given him, he
would await with indifference the death that hastens towards him on the
wings of time. He would regard it as a false illusion, an impotent
spectre, which frightens the weak but has no power over him who knows that
he is himself the will of which the whole world is the objectification or
copy, and that therefore he is always certain of life, and also of the
present, the peculiar and only form of the phenomenon of the will. He
could not be terrified by an endless past or future in which he would not
be, for this he would regard as the empty delusion of the web of Mâya.
Thus he would no more fear death than the sun fears the night. In the
“Bhagavad-Gita” Krishna thus raises the mind of his young pupil Arjuna,
when, seized with compunction at the sight of the arrayed hosts (somewhat
as Xerxes was), he loses heart and desires to give up the battle in order
to avert the death of so many thousands. Krishna leads him to this point
of view, and the death of those thousands can no longer restrain him; he
gives the sign for battle. This point of view is also expressed by
Goethe’s Prometheus, especially when he says—


    “Here sit I, form mankind
    In my own image,
    A race like to myself,
    To suffer and to weep,
    Rejoice, enjoy,
    And heed thee not,
    As I.”


The philosophy of Bruno and that of Spinoza might also lead any one to
this point of view whose conviction was not shaken and weakened by their
errors and imperfections. That of Bruno has properly no ethical theory at
all, and the theory contained in the philosophy of Spinoza does not really
proceed from the inner nature of his doctrine, but is merely tacked on to
it by means of weak and palpable sophisms, though in itself it is
praiseworthy and beautiful. Finally, there are many men who would occupy
this point of view if their knowledge kept pace with their will, _i.e._,
if, free from all illusion, they were in a position to become clearly and
distinctly themselves. For this is, for knowledge, the point of view of
the complete _assertion of the will to live_.

That the will asserts itself means, that while in its objectivity, _i.e._,
in the world and life, its own nature is completely and distinctly given
it as idea, this knowledge does not by any means check its volition; but
this very life, so known, is willed as such by the will with knowledge,
consciously and deliberately, just as up to this point it willed it as
blind effort without knowledge. The opposite of this, the _denial of the
will to live_, shows itself if, when that knowledge is attained, volition
ends, because the particular known phenomena no longer act as _motives_
for willing, but the whole knowledge of the nature of the world, the
mirror of the will, which has grown up through the comprehension of the
_Ideas_, becomes a _quieter_ of the will; and thus free, the will
suppresses itself. These quite unfamiliar conceptions are difficult to
understand when expressed in this general way, but it is hoped they will
become clear through the exposition we shall give presently, with special
reference to action, of the phenomena in which, on the one hand, the
assertion in its different grades, and, on the other hand, the denial,
expresses itself. For both proceed from knowledge, yet not from abstract
knowledge, which is expressed in words, but from living knowledge, which
is expressed in action and behaviour alone, and is independent of the
dogmas which at the same time occupy the reason as abstract knowledge. To
exhibit them both, and bring them to distinct knowledge of the reason, can
alone be my aim, and not to prescribe or recommend the one or the other,
which would be as foolish as it would be useless; for the will in itself
is absolutely free and entirely self-determining, and for it there is no
law. But before we go on to the exposition referred to, we must first
explain and more exactly define this _freedom_ and its relation to
necessity. And also, with regard to the life, the assertion and denial of
which is our problem, we must insert a few general remarks connected with
the will and its objects. Through all this we shall facilitate the
apprehension of the inmost nature of the knowledge we are aiming at, of
the ethical significance of methods of action.

Since, as has been said, this whole work is only the unfolding of a single
thought, it follows that all its parts have the most intimate connection
with each other. Not merely that each part stands in a necessary relation
to what immediately precedes it, and only presupposes a recollection of
that by the reader, as is the case with all philosophies which consist
merely of a series of inferences, but that every part of the whole work is
related to every other part and presupposes it. It is, therefore,
necessary that the reader should remember not only what has just been
said, but all the earlier parts of the work, so that he may be able to
connect them with what he is reading, however much may have intervened.
Plato also makes this demand upon his readers through the intricate
digressions of his dialogues, in which he only returns to the leading
thought after long episodes, which illustrate and explain it. In our case
this demand is necessary; for the breaking up of our one single thought
into its many aspects is indeed the only means of imparting it, though not
essential to the thought itself, but merely an artificial form. The
division of four principal points of view into four books, and the most
careful bringing together of all that is related and homogeneous, assists
the exposition and its comprehension; yet the material absolutely does not
admit of an advance in a straight line, such as the progress of history,
but necessitates a more complicated exposition. This again makes a
repeated study of the book necessary, for thus alone does the connection
of all the parts with each other become distinct, and only then do they
all mutually throw light upon each other and become quite clear.(68)

§ 55. That the will as such is _free_, follows from the fact that,
according to our view, it is the thing-in-itself, the content of all
phenomena. The phenomena, on the other hand, we recognise as absolutely
subordinate to the principle of sufficient reason in its four forms. And
since we know that necessity is throughout identical with following from
given grounds, and that these are convertible conceptions, all that
belongs to the phenomenon, _i.e._, all that is object for the knowing
subject as individual, is in one aspect reason, and in another aspect
consequent; and in this last capacity is determined with absolute
necessity, and can, therefore, in no respect be other than it is. The
whole content of Nature, the collective sum of its phenomena, is thus
throughout necessary, and the necessity of every part, of every
phenomenon, of every event, can always be proved, because it must be
possible to find the reason from which it follows as a consequent. This
admits of no exception: it follows from the unrestricted validity of the
principle of sufficient reason. In another aspect, however, the same world
is for us, in all its phenomena, objectivity of will. And the will, since
it is not phenomenon, is not idea or object, but thing-in-itself, and is
not subordinate to the principle of sufficient reason, the form of all
object; thus is not determined as a consequent through any reason, knows
no necessity, _i.e._, is _free_. The concept of freedom is thus properly a
negative concept, for its content is merely the denial of necessity,
_i.e._, the relation of consequent to its reason, according to the
principle of sufficient reason. Now here lies before us in its most
distinct form the solution of that great contradiction, the union of
freedom with necessity, which has so often been discussed in recent times,
yet, so far as I know, never clearly and adequately. Everything is as
phenomenon, as object, absolutely necessary: _in itself_ it is will, which
is perfectly free to all eternity. The phenomenon, the object, is
necessarily and unalterably determined in that chain of causes and effects
which admits of no interruption. But the existence in general of this
object, and its specific nature, _i.e._, the Idea which reveals itself in
it, or, in other words, its character, is a direct manifestation of will.
Thus, in conformity with the freedom of this will, the object might not be
at all, or it might be originally and essentially something quite
different from what it is, in which case, however, the whole chain of
which it is a link, and which is itself a manifestation of the same will,
would be quite different also. But once there and existing, it has entered
the chain of causes and effects, is always necessarily determined in it,
and can, therefore, neither become something else, _i.e._, change itself,
nor yet escape from the chain, _i.e._, vanish. Man, like every other part
of Nature, is objectivity of the will; therefore all that has been said
holds good of him. As everything in Nature has its forces and qualities,
which react in a definite way when definitely affected, and constitute its
character, man also has his _character_, from which the motives call forth
his actions with necessity. In this manner of conduct his empirical
character reveals itself, but in this again his intelligible character,
the will in itself, whose determined phenomenon he is. But man is the most
complete phenomenon of will, and, as we explained in the Second Book, he
had to be enlightened with so high a degree of knowledge in order to
maintain himself in existence, that in it a perfectly adequate copy or
repetition of the nature of the world under the form of the idea became
possible: this is the comprehension of the Ideas, the pure mirror of the
world, as we learnt in the Third Book. Thus in man the will can attain to
full self-consciousness, to distinct and exhaustive knowledge of its own
nature, as it mirrors itself in the whole world. We saw in the preceding
book that art springs from the actual presence of this degree of
knowledge; and at the end of our whole work it will further appear that,
through the same knowledge, in that the will relates it to itself, a
suppression and self-denial of the will in its most perfect manifestation
is possible. So that the freedom which otherwise, as belonging to the
thing-in-itself, can never show itself in the phenomenon, in such a case
does also appear in it, and, by abolishing the nature which lies at the
foundation of the phenomenon, while the latter itself still continues to
exist in time, it brings about a contradiction of the phenomenon with
itself, and in this way exhibits the phenomena of holiness and
self-renunciation. But all this can only be fully understood at the end of
this book. What has just been said merely affords a preliminary and
general indication of how man is distinguished from all the other
phenomena of will by the fact that freedom, _i.e._, independence of the
principle of sufficient reason, which only belongs to the will as
thing-in-itself, and contradicts the phenomenon, may yet possibly, in his
case, appear in the phenomenon also, where, however, it necessarily
exhibits itself as a contradiction of the phenomenon with itself. In this
sense, not only the will in itself, but man also may certainly be called
free, and thus distinguished from all other beings. But how this is to be
understood can only become clear through all that is to follow, and for
the present we must turn away from it altogether. For, in the first place,
we must beware of the error that the action of the individual definite man
is subject to no necessity, _i.e._, that the power of the motive is less
certain than the power of the cause, or the following of the conclusion
from the premises. The freedom of the will as thing-in-itself, if, as has
been said, we abstract from the entirely exceptional case mentioned above,
by no means extends directly to its phenomenon, not even in the case in
which this reaches the highest made of its visibility, and thus does not
extend to the rational animal endowed with individual character, _i.e._,
the person. The person is never free although he is the phenomenon of a
free will; for he is already the determined phenomenon of the free
volition of this will, and, because he enters the form of every object,
the principle of sufficient reason, he develops indeed the unity of that
will in a multiplicity of actions, but on account of the timeless unity of
that volition in itself, this multiplicity exhibits in itself the regular
conformity to law of a force of Nature. Since, however, it is that free
volition that becomes visible in the person and the whole of his conduct,
relating itself to him as the concept to the definition, every individual
action of the person is to be ascribed to the free will, and directly
proclaims itself as such in consciousness. Therefore, as was said in the
Second Book, every one regards himself _a priori_ (_i.e._, here in this
original feeling) as free in his individual actions, in the sense that in
every given case every action is possible for him, and he only recognises
_a posteriori_ from experience and reflection upon experience that his
actions take place with absolute necessity from the coincidence of his
character with his motives. Hence it arises that every uncultured man,
following his feeling, ardently defends complete freedom in particular
actions, while the great thinkers of all ages, and indeed the more
profound systems of religion, have denied it. But whoever has come to see
clearly that the whole nature of man is will, and he himself only a
phenomenon of this will, and that such a phenomenon has, even from the
subject itself, the principle of sufficient reason as its necessary form,
which here appears as the law of motivation,—such a man will regard it as
just as absurd to doubt the inevitable nature of an action when the motive
is presented to a given character, as to doubt that the three angles of
any triangle are together equal to two right angles. Priestley has very
sufficiently proved the necessity of the individual action in his
“Doctrine of Philosophical Necessity;” but Kant, whose merit in this
respect is specially great, first proved the coexistence of this necessity
with the freedom of the will in itself, _i.e._, apart from the
phenomenon,(69) by establishing the distinction between the intelligible
and the empirical character. I entirely adhere to this distinction, for
the former is the will as thing-in-itself so far as it appears in a
definite individual in a definite grade, and the latter is this phenomenon
itself as it exhibits itself in time in the mode of action, and in space
in the physical structure. In order to make the relation of the two
comprehensible, the best expression is that which I have already used in
the introductory essay, that the intelligible character of every man is to
be regarded as an act of will outside time, and therefore indivisible and
unchangeable, and the manifestation of this act of will developed and
broken up in time and space and all the forms of the principle of
sufficient reason is the empirical character as it exhibits itself for
experience in the whole conduct and life of this man. As the whole tree is
only the constantly repeated manifestation of one and the same tendency,
which exhibits itself in its simplest form in the fibre, and recurs and is
easily recognised in the construction of the leaf, shoot, branch, and
trunk, so all a man’s deeds are merely the constantly repeated expression,
somewhat varied in form, of his intelligible character, and the induction
based on the sum of all these expressions gives us his empirical
character. For the rest, I shall not at this point repeat in my own words
Kant’s masterly exposition, but presuppose it as known.

In the year 1840 I dealt with the important chapter on the freedom of the
will, thoroughly and in detail, in my crowned prize-essay upon the
subject, and exposed the reason of the delusion which led men to imagine
that they found an empirically given absolute freedom of the will, that is
to say, a _liberum arbitrium indifferentiæ_, as a fact in
self-consciousness; for the question propounded for the essay was with
great insight directed to this point. Therefore, as I refer the reader to
that work, and also to the tenth paragraph of the prize-essay on the basis
of morals, which was published along with it under the title “The Two
Fundamental Problems of Ethics,” I now omit the incomplete exposition of
the necessity of the act of will, which was given at this place in the
first edition. Instead of it I shall explain the delusion mentioned above
in a brief discussion which is presupposed in the nineteenth chapter of
the supplement to the present work, and therefore could not be given in
the prize-essay referred to.

Apart from the fact that the will as the true thing-in-itself is actually
original and independent, and that the feeling of its originality and
absoluteness must accompany its acts in self-consciousness, though here
they are already determined, there arises the illusion of an empirical
freedom of the will (instead of the transcendental freedom which alone is
to be attributed to it), and thus a freedom of its particular actions,
from that attitude of the intellect towards the will which is explained,
separated, and subordinated in the nineteenth chapter of the supplement,
especially under No. 3. The intellect knows the conclusions of the will
only _a posteriori_ and empirically; therefore when a choice is presented,
it has no data as to how the will is to decide. For the intelligible
character, by virtue of which, when motives are given, only _one_ decision
is possible and is therefore necessary, does not come within the knowledge
of the intellect, but merely the empirical character is known to it
through the succession of its particular acts. Therefore it seems to the
intellect that in a given case two opposite decisions are possible for the
will. But this is just the same thing as if we were to say of a
perpendicular beam that has lost its balance, and is hesitating which way
to fall, “It can fall either to the right hand or the left.” This _can_
has merely a subjective significance, and really means “as far as the data
known to us are concerned.” Objectively, the direction of the fall is
necessarily determined as soon as the equilibrium is lost. Accordingly,
the decision of one’s own will is undetermined only to the beholder, one’s
own intellect, and thus merely relatively and subjectively for the subject
of knowing. In itself and objectively, on the other hand, in every choice
presented to it, its decision is at once determined and necessary. But
this determination only comes into consciousness through the decision that
follows upon it. Indeed, we receive an empirical proof of this when any
difficult and important choice lies before us, but only under a condition
which is not yet present, but merely hoped for, so that in the meanwhile
we can do nothing, but must remain passive. Now we consider how we shall
decide when the circumstances occur that will give us a free activity and
choice. Generally the foresight of rational deliberation recommends one
decision, while direct inclination leans rather to the other. So long as
we are compelled to remain passive, the side of reason seems to wish to
keep the upper hand; but we see beforehand how strongly the other side
will influence us when the opportunity for action arises. Till then we are
eagerly concerned to place the motives on both sides in the clearest
light, by calm meditation on the _pro et contra_, so that every motive may
exert its full influence upon the will when the time arrives, and it may
not be misled by a mistake on the part of the intellect to decide
otherwise than it would have done if all the motives had their due
influence upon it. But this distinct unfolding of the motives on both
sides is all that the intellect can do to assist the choice. It awaits the
real decision just as passively and with the same intense curiosity as if
it were that of a foreign will. Therefore from its point of view both
decisions must seem to it equally possible; and this is just the illusion
of the empirical freedom of the will. Certainly the decision enters the
sphere of the intellect altogether empirically, as the final conclusion of
the matter; but yet it proceeded from the inner nature, the intelligible
character, of the individual will in its conflict with given motives, and
therefore with complete necessity. The intellect can do nothing more than
bring out clearly and fully the nature of the motives; it cannot determine
the will itself; for the will is quite inaccessible to it, and, as we have
seen, cannot be investigated.

If, under the same circumstances, a man could act now one way and now
another, it would be necessary that his will itself should have changed in
the meantime, and thus that it should lie in time, for change is only
possible in time; but then either the will would be a mere phenomenon, or
time would be a condition of the thing-in-itself. Accordingly the dispute
as to the freedom of the particular action, the _liberum arbitrium
indifferentiæ_, really turns on the question whether the will lies in time
or not. If, as both Kant’s doctrine and the whole of my system
necessitates, the will is the thing-in-itself outside time and outside
every form of the principle of sufficient reason, not only must the
individual act in the same way in the same circumstances, and not only
must every bad action be the sure warrant of innumerable others, which the
individual _must_ perform and _cannot_ leave, but, as Kant said, if only
the empirical character and the motives were completely given, it would be
possible to calculate the future conduct of a man just as we can calculate
an eclipse of the sun or moon. As Nature is consistent, so is the
character; every action must take place in accordance with it, just as
every phenomenon takes place according to a law of Nature: the causes in
the latter case and the motives in the former are merely the occasional
causes, as was shown in the Second Book. The will, whose phenomenon is the
whole being and life of man, cannot deny itself in the particular case,
and what the man wills on the whole, that will he also will in the
particular case.

The assertion of an empirical freedom of the will, a _liberum arbitrium
indifferentiæ_, agrees precisely with the doctrine that places the inner
nature of man in a _soul_, which is originally a _knowing_, and indeed
really an abstract _thinking_ nature, and only in consequence of this a
_willing_ nature—a doctrine which thus regards the will as of a secondary
or derivative nature, instead of knowledge which is really so. The will
indeed came to be regarded as an act of thought, and to be identified with
the judgment, especially by Descartes and Spinoza. According to this
doctrine every man must become what he is only through his knowledge; he
must enter the world as a moral cipher come to know the things in it, and
thereupon determine to be this or that, to act thus or thus, and may also
through new knowledge achieve a new course of action, that is to say,
become another person. Further, he must first know a thing to be _good_,
and in consequence of this will it, instead of first _willing_ it, and in
consequence of this calling it _good_. According to my fundamental point
of view, all this is a reversal of the true relation. Will is first and
original; knowledge is merely added to it as an instrument belonging to
the phenomenon of will. Therefore every man is what he is through his
will, and his character is original, for willing is the basis of his
nature. Through the knowledge which is added to it he comes to know in the
course of experience _what he is_, _i.e._, he learns his character. Thus
he _knows_ himself in consequence of and in accordance with the nature of
his will, instead of _willing_ in consequence of and in accordance with
his knowing. According to the latter view, he would only require to
consider how he would like best to be, and he would be it; that is its
doctrine of the freedom of the will. Thus it consists really in this, that
a man is his own work guided by the light of knowledge. I, on the
contrary, say that he is his own work before all knowledge, and knowledge
is merely added to it to enlighten it. Therefore he cannot resolve to be
this or that, nor can he become other than he is; but he _is_ once for
all, and he knows in the course of experience _what_ he is. According to
one doctrine he _wills_ what he knows, and according to the other he
_knows_ what he wills.

The Greeks called the character ηθος, and its expression, _i.e._, morals,
ηθη. But this word comes from εθος, custom; they chose it in order to
express metaphorically the constancy of character through the constancy of
custom. Το γαρ ηθος απο του εθους εχει την επωνυμιαν. ηθικε γαρ καλειται
δια το εθιζεσθαι (_a voce_ ηθος, _i.e._, _consuetudo_ ηθος _est
appellatum: ethica ergo dicta est_ απο του εθιζεσθαι, _sivi ab
assuescendo_) says Aristotle (Eth. Magna, i. 6, p. 1186, and Eth. Eud., p.
1220, and Eth. Nic., p. 1103, ed. Ber.) Stobæus quotes: οἱ δε κατα Ζηνωνα
τροπικως; ηθος εστι πηγη βιου αφ᾽ ἡς αἱ κατα μερος πραξεις ρεουσι (_Stoici
autem, Zenonis castra sequentes, metaphorice ethos definiunt vitæ fontem,
e quo singulæ manant actiones_), ii. ch. 7. In Christian theology we find
the dogma of predestination in consequence of election and non-election
(Rom. ix. 11-24), clearly originating from the knowledge that man does not
change himself, but his life and conduct, _i.e._, his empirical character,
is only the unfolding of his intelligible character, the development of
decided and unchangeable natural dispositions recognisable even in the
child; therefore, as it were, even at his birth his conduct is firmly
determined, and remains essentially the same to the end. This we entirely
agree with; but certainly the consequences which followed from the union
of this perfectly correct insight with the dogmas that already existed in
Jewish theology, and which now gave rise to the great difficulty, the
Gordian knot upon which most of the controversies of the Church turned, I
do not undertake to defend, for even the Apostle Paul scarcely succeeded
in doing so by means of his simile of the potter’s vessels which he
invented for the purpose, for the result he finally arrived at was nothing
else than this:—


    “Let mankind
    Fear the gods!
    They hold the power
    In everlasting hands:
    And they can use it
    As seems good to them.”


Such considerations, however, are really foreign to our subject. Some
explanation as to the relation between the character and the knowledge in
which all its motives lie, will now be more to the point.

The motives which determine the manifestation of the character or conduct
influence it through the medium of knowledge. But knowledge is changeable,
and often vacillates between truth and error, yet, as a rule, is rectified
more and more in the course of life, though certainly in very different
degrees. Therefore the conduct of a man may be observably altered without
justifying us in concluding that his character has been changed. What the
man really and in general wills, the striving of his inmost nature, and
the end he pursues in accordance with it, this we can never change by
influence upon him from without by instruction, otherwise we could
transform him. Seneca says admirably, _velle non discitur_; whereby he
preferred truth to his Stoic philosophers, who taught διδακτην ειναι την
αρετην (_doceri posse virtutem_). From without the will can only be
affected by motives. But these can never change the will itself; for they
have power over it only under the presupposition that it is precisely such
as it is. All that they can do is thus to alter the direction of its
effort, _i.e._, bring it about that it shall seek in another way than it
has hitherto done that which it invariably seeks. Therefore instruction,
improved knowledge, in other words, influence from without, may indeed
teach the will that it erred in the means it employed, and can therefore
bring it about that the end after which it strives once for all according
to its inner nature shall be pursued on an entirely different path and in
an entirely different object from what has hitherto been the case. But it
can never bring about that the will shall will something actually
different from what it has hitherto willed; this remains unchangeable, for
the will is simply this willing itself, which would have to be abolished.
The former, however, the possible modification of knowledge, and through
knowledge of conduct, extends so far that the will seeks to attain its
unalterable end, for example, Mohammed’s paradise, at one time in the real
world, at another time in a world of imagination, adapting the means to
each, and thus in the first case applying prudence, might, and fraud, and
in the second case, abstinence, justice, alms, and pilgrimages to Mecca.
But its effort itself has not therefore changed, still less the will
itself. Thus, although its action certainly shows itself very different at
different times, its willing has yet remained precisely the same. _Velle
non discitur._

For motives to act, it is necessary not only that they should be present,
but that they should be known; for, according to a very good expression of
the schoolmen, which we referred to once before, _causa finalis movet non
secundum suum esse reale; sed secundum esse cognitum_. For example, in
order that the relation may appear that exists in a given man between
egoism and sympathy, it is not sufficient that he should possess wealth
and see others in want, but he must also know what he can do with his
wealth, both for himself and for others: not only must the suffering of
others be presented to him, but he must know both what suffering and also
what pleasure is. Perhaps, on a first occasion, he did not know all this
so well as on a second; and if, on a similar occasion, he acts
differently, this arises simply from the fact that the circumstances were
really different, as regards the part of them that depends on his knowing
them, although they seem to be the same. As ignorance of actually existing
circumstances robs them of their influence, so, on the other hand,
entirely imaginary circumstances may act as if they were real, not only in
the case of a particular deception, but also in general and continuously.
For example, if a man is firmly persuaded that every good action will be
repaid him a hundredfold in a future life, such a conviction affects him
in precisely the same way as a good bill of exchange at a very long date,
and he can give from mere egoism, as from another point of view he would
take from egoism. He has not changed himself: _velle non discitur._ It is
on account of this great influence of knowledge upon action, while the
will remains unchangeable, that the character develops and its different
features appear only little by little. Therefore it shows itself different
at every period of life, and an impetuous, wild youth may be succeeded by
a staid, sober, manly age. Especially what is bad in the character will
always come out more strongly with time, yet sometimes it occurs that
passions which a man gave way to in his youth are afterwards voluntarily
restrained, simply because the motives opposed to them have only then come
into knowledge. Hence, also, we are all innocent to begin with, and this
merely means that neither we nor others know the evil of our own nature;
it only appears with the motives, and only in time do the motives appear
in knowledge. Finally we come to know ourselves as quite different from
what _a priori_ we supposed ourselves to be, and then we are often
terrified at ourselves.

Repentance never proceeds from a change of the will (which is impossible),
but from a change of knowledge. The essential and peculiar in what I have
always willed I must still continue to will; for I myself am this will
which lies outside time and change. I can therefore never repent of what I
have willed, though I can repent of what I have done; because, led by
false conceptions, I did something that was not in conformity with my
will. The discovery of this through fuller knowledge is _repentance_. This
extends not merely to worldly wisdom, to the choice of the means, and the
judgment of the appropriateness of the end to my own will, but also to
what is properly ethical. For example, I may have acted more egotistically
than is in accordance with my character, led astray by exaggerated ideas
of the need in which I myself stood, or of the craft, falseness, and
wickedness of others, or because I hurried too much, _i.e._, acted without
deliberation, determined not by motives distinctly known _in abstracto_,
but by merely perceived motives, by the present and the emotion which it
excited, and which was so strong that I had not properly the use of my
reason; but the return of reflection is thus here also merely corrected
knowledge, and from this repentance may proceed, which always proclaims
itself by making amends for the past, as far as is possible. Yet it must
be observed that, in order to deceive themselves, men prearrange what seem
to be hasty errors, but are really secretly considered actions. For we
deceive and flatter no one through such fine devices as ourselves. The
converse of the case we have given may also occur. I may be misled by too
good an opinion of others, or want of knowledge of the relative value of
the good things of life, or some abstract dogma in which I have since lost
faith, and thus I may act less egotistically than is in keeping with my
character, and lay up for myself repentance of another kind. Thus
repentance is always corrected knowledge of the relation of an act to its
special intention. When the will reveals its Ideas in space alone, _i.e._,
through mere form, the matter in which other Ideas—in this case natural
forces—already reign, resists the will, and seldom allows the form that is
striving after visibility to appear in perfect purity and distinctness,
_i.e._, in perfect beauty. And there is an analogous hindrance to the will
as it reveals itself in time alone, _i.e._, through actions, in the
knowledge which seldom gives it the data quite correctly, so that the
action which takes place does not accurately correspond to the will, and
leads to repentance. Repentance thus always proceeds from corrected
knowledge, not from the change of the will, which is impossible. Anguish
of conscience for past deeds is anything but repentance. It is pain at the
knowledge of oneself in one’s inmost nature, _i.e._, as will. It rests
precisely on the certainty that we have still the same will. If the will
were changed, and therefore the anguish of conscience mere repentance, it
would cease to exist. The past could then no longer give us pain, for it
exhibited the expressions of a will which is no longer that of him who has
repented. We shall explain the significance of anguish of conscience in
detail farther on.

The influence which knowledge, as the medium of motives, exerts, not
indeed upon the will itself, but upon its appearance in actions, is also
the source of the principal distinction between the action of men and that
of brutes, for their methods of knowledge are different. The brute has
only knowledge of perception, the man, through reason, has also abstract
ideas, conceptions. Now, although man and brute are with equal necessity
determined by their motives, yet man, as distinguished from the brute, has
a complete _choice_, which has often been regarded as a freedom of the
will in particular actions, although it is nothing but the possibility of
a thoroughly-fought-out battle between several motives, the strongest of
which then determines it with necessity. For this the motives must have
assumed the form of abstract thoughts, because it is really only by means
of these that deliberation, _i.e._, a weighing of opposite reasons for
action, is possible. In the case of the brute there can only be a choice
between perceptible motives presented to it, so that the choice is limited
to the narrow sphere of its present sensuous perception. Therefore the
necessity of the determination of the will by the motive, which is like
that of the effect by the cause, can be exhibited perceptibly and directly
only in the case of the brutes, because here the spectator has the motives
just as directly before his eyes as their effect; while in the case of man
the motives are almost always abstract ideas, which are not communicated
to the spectator, and even for the actor himself the necessity of their
effect is hidden behind their conflict. For only _in abstracto_ can
several ideas, as judgments and chains of conclusions, lie beside each
other in consciousness, and then, free from all determination of time,
work against each other till the stronger overcomes the rest and
determines the will. This is the complete _choice_ or power of
deliberation which man has as distinguished from the brutes, and on
account of which freedom of the will has been attributed to him, in the
belief that his willing is a mere result of the operations of his
intellect, without a definite tendency which serves as its basis; while,
in truth, the motives only work on the foundation and under the
presupposition of his definite tendency, which in his case is individual,
_i.e._, a character. A fuller exposition of this power of deliberation,
and the difference between human and brute choice which is introduced by
it, will be found in the “Two Fundamental Problems of Ethics” (1st
edition, p. 35, _et seq._; 2d edition, p. 34, _et seq._), to which I
therefore refer. For the rest, this power of deliberation which man
possesses is one of those things that makes his existence so much more
miserable than that of the brute. For in general our greatest sufferings
do not lie in the present as ideas of perception or as immediate feelings;
but in the reason, as abstract conceptions, painful thoughts, from which
the brute, which lives only in the present, and therefore in enviable
carelessness, is entirely free.

It seems to have been the dependence, which we have shown, of the human
power of deliberation upon the faculty of abstract thinking, and thus also
of judging and drawing conclusions also, that led both Descartes and
Spinoza to identify the decisions of the will with the faculty of
asserting and denying (the faculty of judgment). From this Descartes
deduced the doctrine that the will, which, according to him, is
indifferently free, is the source of sin, and also of all theoretical
error. And Spinoza, on the other hand, concluded that the will is
necessarily determined by the motives, as the judgment is by the
reasons.(70) The latter doctrine is in a sense true, but it appears as a
true conclusion from false premises.

The distinction we have established between the ways in which the brutes
and man are respectively moved by motives exerts a very wide influence
upon the nature of both, and has most to do with the complete and obvious
differences of their existence. While an idea of perception is in every
case the motive which determines the brute, the man strives to exclude
this kind of motivation altogether, and to determine himself entirely by
abstract ideas. Thus he uses his prerogative of reason to the greatest
possible advantage. Independent of the present, he neither chooses nor
avoids the passing pleasure or pain, but reflects on the consequences of
both. In most cases, setting aside quite insignificant actions, we are
determined by abstract, thought motives, not present impressions.
Therefore all particular privation for the moment is for us comparatively
light, but all renunciation is terribly hard; for the former only concerns
the fleeting present, but the latter concerns the future, and includes in
itself innumerable privations, of which it is the equivalent. The causes
of our pain, as of our pleasure, lie for the most part, not in the real
present, but merely in abstract thoughts. It is these which are often
unbearable to us—inflict torments in comparison with which all the
sufferings of the animal world are very small; for even our own physical
pain is not felt at all when they are present. Indeed, in the case of keen
mental suffering, we even inflict physical suffering on ourselves merely
to distract our attention from the former to the latter. This is why, in
great mental anguish, men tear their hair, beat their breasts, lacerate
their faces, or roll on the floor, for all these are in reality only
violent means of diverting the mind from an unbearable thought. Just
because mental pain, being much greater, makes us insensible to physical
pain, suicide is very easy to the person who is in despair, or who is
consumed by morbid depression, even though formerly, in comfortable
circumstances, he recoiled at the thought of it. In the same way care and
passion (thus the play of thought) wear out the body oftener and more than
physical hardships. And in accordance with this Epictetus rightly says:
Ταρασσει τους ανθρωπους ου τα πραγματα, αλλα τα περι των πραγματων δογματα
(_Perturbant homines non res ipsæ, sed de rebus decreta_) (V.); and
Seneca: _Plura sunt quæ nos terrent, quam quæ premunt, et sæpius opinione
quam re laboramus_ (Ep. 5). Eulenspiegel also admirably bantered human
nature, for going uphill he laughed, and going downhill he wept. Indeed,
children who have hurt themselves often cry, not at the pain, but at the
thought of the pain which is awakened when some one condoles with them.
Such great differences in conduct and in life arise from the diversity
between the methods of knowledge of the brutes and man. Further, the
appearance of the distinct and decided individual character, the principal
distinction between man and the brute, which has scarcely more than the
character of the species, is conditioned by the choice between several
motives, which is only possible through abstract conceptions. For only
after a choice has been made are the resolutions, which vary in different
individuals, an indication of the individual character which is different
in each; while the action of the brute depends only upon the presence or
absence of the impression, supposing this impression to be in general a
motive for its species. And, finally, in the case of man, only the
resolve, and not the mere wish, is a valid indication of his character
both for himself and for others; but the resolve becomes for himself, as
for others, a certain fact only through the deed. The wish is merely the
necessary consequence of the present impression, whether of the outward
stimulus, or the inward passing mood; and is therefore as immediately
necessary and devoid of consideration as the action of the brutes.
Therefore, like the action of the brutes, it merely expresses the
character of the species, not that of the individual, _i.e._, it indicates
merely what _man in general_, not what the individual who experiences the
wish, is capable of doing. The deed alone,—because as human action it
always requires a certain deliberation, and because as a rule a man has
command of his reason, is considerate, _i.e._, decides in accordance with
considered and abstract motives,—is the expression of the intelligible
maxims of his conduct, the result of his inmost willing, and is related as
a letter to the word that stands for his empirical character, itself
merely the temporal expression of his intelligible character. In a healthy
mind, therefore, only deeds oppress the conscience, not wishes and
thoughts; for it is only our deeds that hold up to us the mirror of our
will. The deed referred to above, that is entirely unconsidered and is
really committed in blind passion, is to a certain extent an intermediate
thing between the mere wish and the resolve.

Therefore, by true repentance, which, however, shows itself as action
also, it can be obliterated, as a falsely drawn line, from that picture of
our will which our course of life is. I may insert the remark here, as a
very good comparison, that the relation between wish and deed has a purely
accidental but accurate analogy with that between the accumulation and
discharge of electricity.

As the result of the whole of this discussion of the freedom of the will
and what relates to it, we find that although the will may, in itself and
apart from the phenomenon, be called free and even omnipotent, yet in its
particular phenomena enlightened by knowledge, as in men and brutes, it is
determined by motives to which the special character regularly and
necessarily responds, and always in the same way. We see that because of
the possession on his part of abstract or rational knowledge, man, as
distinguished from the brutes, has a _choice_, which only makes him the
scene of the conflict of his motives, without withdrawing him from their
control. This choice is therefore certainly the condition of the
possibility of the complete expression of the individual character, but is
by no means to be regarded as freedom of the particular volition, _i.e._,
independence of the law of causality, the necessity of which extends to
man as to every other phenomenon. Thus the difference between human
volition and that of the brutes, which is introduced by reason or
knowledge through concepts, extends to the point we have indicated, and no
farther. But, what is quite a different thing, there may arise a
phenomenon of the human will which is quite impossible in the brute
creation, if man altogether lays aside the knowledge of particular things
as such which is subordinate to the principle of sufficient reason, and by
means of his knowledge of the Ideas sees through the _principium
individuationis_. Then an actual appearance of the real freedom of the
will as a thing-in-itself is possible, by which the phenomenon comes into
a sort of contradiction with itself, as is indicated by the word
self-renunciation; and, finally, the “in-itself” of its nature suppresses
itself. But this, the one, real, and direct expression of the freedom of
the will in itself in the phenomenon, cannot be distinctly explained here,
but will form the subject of the concluding part of our work.

Now that we have shown clearly in these pages the unalterable nature of
the empirical character, which is just the unfolding of the intelligible
character that lies outside time, together with the necessity with which
actions follow upon its contact with motives, we hasten to anticipate an
argument which may very easily be drawn from this in the interest of bad
dispositions. Our character is to be regarded as the temporal unfolding of
an extra-temporal, and therefore indivisible and unalterable, act of will,
or an intelligible character. This necessarily determines all that is
essential in our conduct in life, _i.e._, its ethical content, which must
express itself in accordance with it in its phenomenal appearance, the
empirical character; while only what is unessential in this, the outward
form of our course of life, depends upon the forms in which the motives
present themselves. It might, therefore, be inferred that it is a waste of
trouble to endeavour to improve one’s character, and that it is wiser to
submit to the inevitable, and gratify every inclination at once, even if
it is bad. But this is precisely the same thing as the theory of an
inevitable fate which is called αργος λογος, and in more recent times
Turkish faith. Its true refutation, as it is supposed to have been given
by Chrysippus, is explained by Cicero in his book _De Fato_, ch. 12, 13.

Though everything may be regarded as irrevocably predetermined by fate,
yet it is so only through the medium of the chain of causes; therefore in
no case can it be determined that an effect shall appear without its
cause. Thus it is not simply the event that is predetermined, but the
event as the consequence of preceding causes; so that fate does not decide
the consequence alone, but also the means as the consequence of which it
is destined to appear. Accordingly, if some means is not present, it is
certain that the consequence also will not be present: each is always
present in accordance with the determination of fate, but this is never
known to us till afterwards.

As events always take place according to fate, _i.e._, according to the
infinite concatenation of causes, so our actions always take place
according to our intelligible character. But just as we do not know the
former beforehand, so no _a priori_ insight is given us into the latter,
but we only come to know ourselves as we come to know other persons _a
posteriori_ through experience. If the intelligible character involved
that we could only form a good resolution after a long conflict with a bad
disposition, this conflict would have to come first and be waited for.
Reflection on the unalterable nature of the character, on the unity of the
source from which all our actions flow, must not mislead us into claiming
the decision of the character in favour of one side or the other; it is in
the resolve that follows that we shall see what manner of men we are, and
mirror ourselves in our actions. This is the explanation of the
satisfaction or the anguish of soul with which we look back on the course
of our past life. Both are experienced, not because these past deeds have
still an existence; they are past, they have been, and now are no more;
but their great importance for us lies in their significance, lies in the
fact that these deeds are the expression of the character, the mirror of
the will, in which we look and recognise our inmost self, the kernel of
our will. Because we experience this not before, but only after, it
behoves us to strive and fight in time, in order that the picture we
produce by our deeds may be such that the contemplation of it may calm us
as much as possible, instead of harassing us. The significance of this
consolation or anguish of soul will, as we have said, be inquired into
farther on; but to this place there belongs the inquiry which follows, and
which stands by itself.

Besides the intelligible and the empirical character, we must mention a
third which is different from them both, the _acquired character_, which
one only receives in life through contact with the world, and which is
referred to when one is praised as a man of character or censured as being
without character. Certainly one might suppose that, since the empirical
character, as the phenomenon of the intelligible, is unalterable, and,
like every natural phenomenon, is consistent with itself, man would always
have to appear like himself and consistent, and would therefore have no
need to acquire a character artificially by experience and reflection. But
the case is otherwise, and although a man is always the same, yet he does
not always understand himself, but often mistakes himself, till he has in
some degree acquired real self-knowledge. The empirical character, as a
mere natural tendency, is in itself irrational; nay, more, its expressions
are disturbed by reason, all the more so the more intellect and power of
thought the man has; for these always keep before him what becomes _man in
general_ as the character of the species, and what is possible for him
both in will and in deed. This makes it the more difficult for him to see
how much his individuality enables him to will and to accomplish. He finds
in himself the germs of all the various human pursuits and powers, but the
difference of degree in which they exist in his individuality is not clear
to him in the absence of experience; and if he now applies himself to the
pursuits which alone correspond to his character, he yet feels, especially
at particular moments and in particular moods, the inclination to directly
opposite pursuits which cannot be combined with them, but must be entirely
suppressed if he desires to follow the former undisturbed. For as our
physical path upon earth is always merely a line, not an extended surface,
so in life, if we desire to grasp and possess one thing, we must renounce
and leave innumerable others on the right hand and on the left. If we
cannot make up our minds to this, but, like children at the fair, snatch
at everything that attracts us in passing, we are making the perverse
endeavour to change the line of our path into an extended surface; we run
in a zigzag, skip about like a will o’ the wisp, and attain to nothing.
Or, to use another comparison, as, according to Hobbes’ philosophy of law,
every one has an original right to everything but an exclusive right to
nothing, yet can obtain an exclusive right to particular things by
renouncing his right to all the rest, while others, on their part, do
likewise with regard to what he has chosen; so is it in life, in which
some definite pursuit, whether it be pleasure, honour, wealth, science,
art, or virtue, can only be followed with seriousness and success when all
claims that are foreign to it are given up, when everything else is
renounced. Accordingly, the mere will and the mere ability are not
sufficient, but a man must also _know_ what he wills, and _know_ what he
can do; only then will he show character, and only then can he accomplish
something right. Until he attains to that, notwithstanding the natural
consistency of the empirical character, he is without character. And
although, on the whole, he must remain true to himself, and fulfil his
course, led by his dæmon, yet his path will not be a straight line, but
wavering and uneven. He will hesitate, deviate, turn back, lay up for
himself repentance and pain. And all this is because, in great and small,
he sees before him all that is possible and attainable for man in general,
but does not know what part of all this is alone suitable for him, can be
accomplished by him, and is alone enjoyable by him. He will, therefore,
envy many men on account of a position and circumstances which are yet
only suitable to their characters and not to his, and in which he would
feel unhappy, if indeed he found them endurable at all. For as a fish is
only at home in water, a bird in the air, a mole in the earth, so every
man is only at home in the atmosphere suitable to him. For example, not
all men can breathe the air of court life. From deficiency of proper
insight into all this, many a man will make all kinds of abortive
attempts, will do violence to his character in particulars, and yet, on
the whole, will have to yield to it again; and what he thus painfully
attains will give him no pleasure; what he thus learns will remain dead;
even in an ethical regard, a deed that is too noble for his character,
that has not sprung from pure, direct impulse, but from a concept, a
dogma, will lose all merit, even in his own eyes, through subsequent
egoistical repentance. _Velle non discitur._ We only become conscious of
the inflexibility of another person’s character through experience, and
till then we childishly believe that it is possible, by means of rational
ideas, by prayers and entreaties, by example and noble-mindedness, ever to
persuade any one to leave his own way, to change his course of conduct, to
depart from his mode of thinking, or even to extend his capacities: so is
it also with ourselves. We must first learn from experience what we desire
and what we can do. Till then we know it not, we are without character,
and must often be driven back to our own way by hard blows from without.
But if we have finally learnt it, then we have attained to what in the
world is called character, the _acquired character_. This is accordingly
nothing but the most perfect knowledge possible of our own individuality.
It is the abstract, and consequently distinct, knowledge of the
unalterable qualities of our own empirical character, and of the measure
and direction of our mental and physical powers, and thus of the whole
strength and weakness of our own individuality. This places us in a
position to carry out deliberately and methodically the rôle which belongs
to our own person, and to fill up the gaps which caprices or weaknesses
produce in it, under the guidance of fixed conceptions. This rôle is in
itself unchangeably determined once for all, but hitherto we have allowed
it to follow its natural course without any rule. We have now brought to
distinct conscious maxims which are always present to us the form of
conduct which is necessarily determined by our own individual nature, and
now we conduct it in accordance with them as deliberately as if we had
learned it; without ever falling into error through the passing influence
of the mood or the impression of the present, without being checked by the
bitterness or sweetness of some particular thing we meet with on our path,
without delay, without hesitation, without inconsistency. We shall now no
longer, as novices, wait, attempt, and grope about in order to see what we
really desire and are able to do, but we know this once for all, and in
every choice we have only to apply general principles to particular cases,
and arrive at once at a decision. We know our will in general, and do not
allow ourselves to be led by the passing mood or by solicitations from
without to resolve in particular cases what is contrary to it as a whole.
We know in the same way the nature and the measure of our strength and our
weakness, and thereby are spared much suffering. For we experience no real
pleasure except in the use and feeling of our own powers, and the greatest
pain is the conscious deficiency of our powers where we need them. If,
now, we have discovered where our strength and our weakness lie, we will
endeavour to cultivate, employ, and in every way make use of those talents
which are naturally prominent in us. We will always turn to those
occupations in which they are valuable and to the purpose, and entirely
avoid, even with self-renunciation, those pursuits for which we have
naturally little aptitude; we will beware of attempting that in which we
have no chance of succeeding. Only he who has attained to this will
constantly and with full consciousness be completely himself, and will
never fail himself at the critical moment, because he will always have
known what he could expect from himself. He will often enjoy the
satisfaction of feeling his strength, and seldom experience the pain of
being reminded of his weakness. The latter is mortification, which causes
perhaps the greatest of mental sufferings; therefore it is far more
endurable to have our misfortune brought clearly before us than our
incapacity. And, further, if we are thus fully acquainted with our
strength and our weakness, we will not attempt to make a show of powers
which we do not possess; we will not play with base coin, for all such
dissimulation misses the mark in the end. For since the whole man is only
the phenomenon of his will, nothing can be more perverse than to try, by
means of reflection, to become something else than one is, for this is a
direct contradiction of the will with itself. The imitation of the
qualities and idiosyncrasies of others is much more shameful than to dress
in other people’s clothes; for it is the judgment of our own worthlessness
pronounced by ourselves. Knowledge of our own mind and its capacities of
every kind, and their unalterable limits, is in this respect the surest
way to the attainment of the greatest possible contentment with ourselves.
For it holds good of inward as of outward circumstances that there is for
us no consolation so effective as the complete certainty of unalterable
necessity. No evil that befalls us pains us so much as the thought of the
circumstances by which it might have been warded off. Therefore nothing
comforts us so effectually as the consideration of what has happened from
the standpoint of necessity, from which all accidents appear as tools in
the hand of an overruling fate, and we therefore recognise the evil that
has come to us as inevitably produced by the conflict of inner and outer
circumstances; in other words, fatalism. We really only complain and storm
so long as we hope either to affect others or to excite ourselves to
unheard-of efforts. But children and grown-up people know very well to
yield contentedly as soon as they clearly see that it absolutely cannot be
otherwise:—Θυμὸν ἐνὶ στήθεσσι φίλον δαμάσσαντες ἀνάγκη (_Animo in
pectoribus nostro domito necessitate_). We are like the entrapped
elephants, that rage and struggle for many days, till they see that it is
useless, and then suddenly offer their necks quietly to the yoke, tamed
for ever. We are like King David, who, as long as his son still lived,
unceasingly importuned Jehovah with prayers, and behaved himself as if in
despair; but as soon as his son was dead, thought no longer about it.
Hence it arises that innumerable permanent ills, such as lameness,
poverty, low estate, ugliness, a disagreeable dwelling-place, are borne
with indifference by innumerable persons, and are no longer felt, like
healed wounds, just because these persons know that inward or outward
necessity renders it impossible that any change can take place in these
things; while those who are more fortunate cannot understand how such
misfortunes can be borne. Now as with outward necessity, so also with
inward; nothing reconciles so thoroughly as a distinct knowledge of it. If
we have once for all distinctly recognised not only our good qualities and
our strength, but also our defects and weakness, established our aim
accordingly, and rest satisfied concerning what cannot be attained, we
thus escape in the surest way, as far as our individuality permits, the
bitterest of all sorrows, discontentment with ourselves, which is the
inevitable result of ignorance of our own individuality, of false conceit
and the audacity that proceeds from it. To the bitter chapter of the
self-knowledge here recommended the lines of Ovid admit of excellent
application—


    “_Optimus ille animi vindex lædentia pectus,_
    _Vincula qui rupit, dedoluitque semel._”


So much with regard to the _acquired character_, which, indeed, is not of
so much importance for ethics proper as for life in the world. But its
investigation was related as that of a third species to the investigation
of the intelligible and the empirical character, in regard to which we
were obliged to enter upon a somewhat detailed inquiry in order to bring
out clearly how in all its phenomena the will is subject to necessity,
while yet in itself it may be called free and even omnipotent.

§ 56. This freedom, this omnipotence, as the expression of which the whole
visible world exists and progressively develops in accordance with the
laws which belong to the form of knowledge, can now, at the point at which
in its most perfect manifestation it has attained to the completely
adequate knowledge of its own nature, express itself anew in two ways.
Either it wills here, at the summit of mental endowment and
self-consciousness, simply what it willed before blindly and
unconsciously, and if so, knowledge always remains its _motive_ in the
whole as in the particular case. Or, conversely, this knowledge becomes
for it a _quieter_, which appeases and suppresses all willing. This is
that assertion and denial of the will to live which was stated above in
general terms. As, in the reference of individual conduct, a general, not
a particular manifestation of will, it does not disturb and modify the
development of the character, nor does it find its expression in
particular actions; but, either by an ever more marked appearance of the
whole method of action it has followed hitherto, or conversely by the
entire suppression of it, it expresses in a living form the maxims which
the will has freely adopted in accordance with the knowledge it has now
attained to. By the explanations we have just given of freedom, necessity,
and character, we have somewhat facilitated and prepared the way for the
clearer development of all this, which is the principal subject of this
last book. But we shall have done so still more when we have turned our
attention to life itself, the willing or not willing of which is the great
question, and have endeavoured to find out generally what the will itself,
which is everywhere the inmost nature of this life, will really attain by
its assertion—in what way and to what extent this assertion satisfies or
can satisfy the will; in short, what is generally and mainly to be
regarded as its position in this its own world, which in every relation
belongs to it.

First of all, I wish the reader to recall the passage with which we closed
the Second Book,—a passage occasioned by the question, which met us then,
as to the end and aim of the will. Instead of the answer to this question,
it appeared clearly before us how, in all the grades of its manifestation,
from the lowest to the highest, the will dispenses altogether with a final
goal and aim. It always strives, for striving is its sole nature, which no
attained goal can put an end to. Therefore it is not susceptible of any
final satisfaction, but can only be restrained by hindrances, while in
itself it goes on for ever. We see this in the simplest of all natural
phenomena, gravity, which does not cease to strive and press towards a
mathematical centre to reach which would be the annihilation both of
itself and matter, and would not cease even if the whole universe were
already rolled into one ball. We see it in the other simple natural
phenomena. A solid tends towards fluidity either by melting or dissolving,
for only so will its chemical forces be free; rigidity is the imprisonment
in which it is held by cold. The fluid tends towards the gaseous state,
into which it passes at once as soon as all pressure is removed from it.
No body is without relationship, _i.e._, without tendency or without
desire and longing, as Jacob Böhme would say. Electricity transmits its
inner self-repulsion to infinity, though the mass of the earth absorbs the
effect. Galvanism is certainly, so long as the pile is working, an
aimless, unceasingly repeated act of repulsion and attraction. The
existence of the plant is just such a restless, never satisfied striving,
a ceaseless tendency through ever-ascending forms, till the end, the seed,
becomes a new starting-point; and this repeated _ad infinitum_—nowhere an
end, nowhere a final satisfaction, nowhere a resting-place. It will also
be remembered, from the Second Book, that the multitude of natural forces
and organised forms everywhere strive with each other for the matter in
which they desire to appear, for each of them only possesses what it has
wrested from the others; and thus a constant internecine war is waged,
from which, for the most part, arises the resistance through which that
striving, which constitutes the inner nature of everything, is at all
points hindered; struggles in vain, yet, from its nature, cannot leave
off; toils on laboriously till this phenomenon dies, when others eagerly
seize its place and its matter.

We have long since recognised this striving, which constitutes the kernel
and in-itself of everything, as identical with that which in us, where it
manifests itself most distinctly in the light of the fullest
consciousness, is called _will_. Its hindrance through an obstacle which
places itself between it and its temporary aim we call _suffering_, and,
on the other hand, its attainment of the end satisfaction, wellbeing,
happiness. We may also transfer this terminology to the phenomena of the
unconscious world, for though weaker in degree, they are identical in
nature. Then we see them involved in constant suffering, and without any
continuing happiness. For all effort springs from defect—from discontent
with one’s estate—is thus suffering so long as it is not satisfied; but no
satisfaction is lasting, rather it is always merely the starting-point of
a new effort. The striving we see everywhere hindered in many ways,
everywhere in conflict, and therefore always under the form of suffering.
Thus, if there is no final end of striving, there is no measure and end of
suffering.

But what we only discover in unconscious Nature by sharpened observation,
and with an effort, presents itself distinctly to us in the intelligent
world in the life of animals, whose constant suffering is easily proved.
But without lingering over these intermediate grades, we shall turn to the
life of man, in which all this appears with the greatest distinctness,
illuminated by the clearest knowledge; for as the phenomenon of will
becomes more complete, the suffering also becomes more and more apparent.
In the plant there is as yet no sensibility, and therefore no pain. A
certain very small degree of suffering is experienced by the lowest
species of animal life—infusoria and radiata; even in insects the capacity
to feel and suffer is still limited. It first appears in a high degree
with the complete nervous system of vertebrate animals, and always in a
higher degree the more intelligence develops. Thus, in proportion as
knowledge attains to distinctness, as consciousness ascends, pain also
increases, and therefore reaches its highest degree in man. And then,
again, the more distinctly a man knows, the more intelligent he is, the
more pain he has; the man who is gifted with genius suffers most of all.
In this sense, that is, with reference to the degree of knowledge in
general, not mere abstract rational knowledge, I understand and use here
that saying of the Preacher: _Qui auget scientiam, auget at dolorem._ That
philosophical painter or painting philosopher, Tischbein, has very
beautifully expressed the accurate relation between the degree of
consciousness and that of suffering by exhibiting it in a visible and
clear form in a drawing. The upper half of his drawing represents women
whose children have been stolen, and who in different groups and
attitudes, express in many ways deep maternal pain, anguish, and despair.
The lower half of the drawing represents sheep whose lambs have been taken
away. They are arranged and grouped in precisely the same way; so that
every human head, every human attitude of the upper half, has below a
brute head and attitude corresponding to it. Thus we see distinctly how
the pain which is possible in the dull brute consciousness is related to
the violent grief, which only becomes possible through distinctness of
knowledge and clearness of consciousness.

We desire to consider in this way, in _human existence_, the inner and
essential destiny of will. Every one will easily recognise that same
destiny expressed in various degrees in the life of the brutes, only more
weakly, and may also convince himself to his own satisfaction, from the
suffering animal world, _how essential to all life is suffering_.

§ 57. At every grade that is enlightened by knowledge, the will appears as
an individual. The human individual finds himself as finite in infinite
space and time, and consequently as a vanishing quantity compared with
them. He is projected into them, and, on account of their unlimited
nature, he has always a merely relative, never absolute _when_ and _where_
of his existence; for his place and duration are finite parts of what is
infinite and boundless. His real existence is only in the present, whose
unchecked flight into the past is a constant transition into death, a
constant dying. For his past life, apart from its possible consequences
for the present, and the testimony regarding the will that is expressed in
it, is now entirely done with, dead, and no longer anything; and,
therefore, it must be, as a matter of reason, indifferent to him whether
the content of that past was pain or pleasure. But the present is always
passing through his hands into the past; the future is quite uncertain and
always short. Thus his existence, even when we consider only its formal
side, is a constant hurrying of the present into the dead past, a constant
dying. But if we look at it from the physical side; it is clear that, as
our walking is admittedly merely a constantly prevented falling, the life
of our body is only a constantly prevented dying, an ever-postponed death:
finally, in the same way, the activity of our mind is a constantly
deferred ennui. Every breath we draw wards off the death that is
constantly intruding upon us. In this way we fight with it every moment,
and again, at longer intervals, through every meal we eat, every sleep we
take, every time we warm ourselves, &c. In the end, death must conquer,
for we became subject to him through birth, and he only plays for a little
while with his prey before he swallows it up. We pursue our life, however,
with great interest and much solicitude as long as possible, as we blow
out a soap-bubble as long and as large as possible, although we know
perfectly well that it will burst.

We saw that the inner being of unconscious nature is a constant striving
without end and without rest. And this appears to us much more distinctly
when we consider the nature of brutes and man. Willing and striving is its
whole being, which may be very well compared to an unquenchable thirst.
But the basis of all willing is need, deficiency, and thus pain.
Consequently, the nature of brutes and man is subject to pain originally
and through its very being. If, on the other hand, it lacks objects of
desire, because it is at once deprived of them by a too easy satisfaction,
a terrible void and ennui comes over it, _i.e._, its being and existence
itself becomes an unbearable burden to it. Thus its life swings like a
pendulum backwards and forwards between pain and ennui. This has also had
to express itself very oddly in this way; after man had transferred all
pain and torments to hell, there then remained nothing over for heaven but
ennui.

But the constant striving which constitutes the inner nature of every
manifestation of will obtains its primary and most general foundation at
the higher grades of objectification, from the fact that here the will
manifests itself as a living body, with the iron command to nourish it;
and what gives strength to this command is just that this body is nothing
but the objectified will to live itself. Man, as the most complete
objectification of that will, is in like measure also the most necessitous
of all beings: he is through and through concrete willing and needing; he
is a concretion of a thousand necessities. With these he stands upon the
earth, left to himself, uncertain about everything except his own need and
misery. Consequently the care for the maintenance of that existence under
exacting demands, which are renewed every day, occupies, as a rule, the
whole of human life. To this is directly related the second claim, that of
the propagation of the species. At the same time he is threatened from all
sides by the most different kinds of dangers, from which it requires
constant watchfulness to escape. With cautious steps and casting anxious
glances round him he pursues his path, for a thousand accidents and a
thousand enemies lie in wait for him. Thus he went while yet a savage,
thus he goes in civilised life; there is no security for him.


    “_Qualibus in tenebris vitæ, quantisque periclis_
    _Degitur hocc’ ævi, quodcunque est!_”—LUCR. ii. 15.


The life of the great majority is only a constant struggle for this
existence itself, with the certainty of losing it at last. But what
enables them to endure this wearisome battle is not so much the love of
life as the fear of death, which yet stands in the background as
inevitable, and may come upon them at any moment. Life itself is a sea,
full of rocks and whirlpools, which man avoids with the greatest care and
solicitude, although he knows that even if he succeeds in getting through
with all his efforts and skill, he yet by doing so comes nearer at every
step to the greatest, the total, inevitable, and irremediable shipwreck,
death; nay, even steers right upon it: this is the final goal of the
laborious voyage, and worse for him than all the rocks from which he has
escaped.

Now it is well worth observing that, on the one hand, the suffering and
misery of life may easily increase to such an extent that death itself, in
the flight from which the whole of life consists, becomes desirable, and
we hasten towards it voluntarily; and again, on the other hand, that as
soon as want and suffering permit rest to a man, ennui is at once so near
that he necessarily requires diversion. The striving after existence is
what occupies all living things and maintains them in motion. But when
existence is assured, then they know not what to do with it; thus the
second thing that sets them in motion is the effort to get free from the
burden of existence, to make it cease to be felt, “to kill time,” _i.e._,
to escape from ennui. Accordingly we see that almost all men who are
secure from want and care, now that at last they have thrown off all other
burdens, become a burden to themselves, and regard as a gain every hour
they succeed in getting through; and thus every diminution of the very
life which, till then, they have employed all their powers to maintain as
long as possible. Ennui is by no means an evil to be lightly esteemed; in
the end it depicts on the countenance real despair. It makes beings who
love each other so little as men do, seek each other eagerly, and thus
becomes the source of social intercourse. Moreover, even from motives of
policy, public precautions are everywhere taken against it, as against
other universal calamities. For this evil may drive men to the greatest
excesses, just as much as its opposite extreme, famine: the people require
_panem et circenses_. The strict penitentiary system of Philadelphia makes
use of ennui alone as a means of punishment, through solitary confinement
and idleness, and it is found so terrible that it has even led prisoners
to commit suicide. As want is the constant scourge of the people, so ennui
is that of the fashionable world. In middle-class life ennui is
represented by the Sunday, and want by the six week-days.

Thus between desiring and attaining all human life flows on throughout.
The wish is, in its nature, pain; the attainment soon begets satiety: the
end was only apparent; possession takes away the charm; the wish, the
need, presents itself under a new form; when it does not, then follows
desolateness, emptiness, ennui, against which the conflict is just as
painful as against want. That wish and satisfaction should follow each
other neither too quickly nor too slowly reduces the suffering, which both
occasion to the smallest amount, and constitutes the happiest life. For
that which we might otherwise call the most beautiful part of life, its
purest joy, if it were only because it lifts us out of real existence and
transforms us into disinterested spectators of it—that is, pure knowledge,
which is foreign to all willing, the pleasure of the beautiful, the true
delight in art—this is granted only to a very few, because it demands rare
talents, and to these few only as a passing dream. And then, even these
few, on account of their higher intellectual power, are made susceptible
of far greater suffering than duller minds can ever feel, and are also
placed in lonely isolation by a nature which is obviously different from
that of others; thus here also accounts are squared. But to the great
majority of men purely intellectual pleasures are not accessible. They are
almost quite incapable of the joys which lie in pure knowledge. They are
entirely given up to willing. If, therefore, anything is to win their
sympathy, to be _interesting_ to them, it must (as is implied in the
meaning of the word) in some way excite their _will_, even if it is only
through a distant and merely problematical relation to it; the will must
not be left altogether out of the question, for their existence lies far
more in willing than in knowing,—action and reaction is their one element.
We may find in trifles and everyday occurrences the naïve expressions of
this quality. Thus, for example, at any place worth seeing they may visit,
they write their names, in order thus to react, to affect the place since
it does not affect them. Again, when they see a strange rare animal, they
cannot easily confine themselves to merely observing it; they must rouse
it, tease it, play with it, merely to experience action and reaction; but
this need for excitement of the will manifests itself very specially in
the discovery and support of card-playing, which is quite peculiarly the
expression of the miserable side of humanity.

But whatever nature and fortune may have done, whoever a man be and
whatever he may possess, the pain which is essential to life cannot be
thrown off:—Πηλειδης δ᾽ ῳμωξεν, ιδων εις ουρανον ευρυν (_Pelides autem
ejulavit, intuitus in cælum latum_). And again:—Ζηνος μεν παις ηα
Κρονιονος, αυταρ οιζυν ειχον απειρεσιην (_Jovis quidem filius eram
Saturnii; verum ærumnam habebam infinitam_). The ceaseless efforts to
banish suffering accomplish no more than to make it change its form. It is
essentially deficiency, want, care for the maintenance of life. If we
succeed, which is very difficult, in removing pain in this form, it
immediately assumes a thousand others, varying according to age and
circumstances, such as lust, passionate love, jealousy, envy, hatred,
anxiety, ambition, covetousness, sickness, &c., &c. If at last it can find
entrance in no other form, it comes in the sad, grey garments of
tediousness and ennui, against which we then strive in various ways. If
finally we succeed in driving this away, we shall hardly do so without
letting pain enter in one of its earlier forms, and the dance begin again
from the beginning; for all human life is tossed backwards and forwards
between pain and ennui. Depressing as this view of life is, I will draw
attention, by the way, to an aspect of it from which consolation may be
drawn, and perhaps even a stoical indifference to one’s own present ills
may be attained. For our impatience at these arises for the most part from
the fact that we regard them as brought about by a chain of causes which
might easily be different. We do not generally grieve over ills which are
directly necessary and quite universal; for example, the necessity of age
and of death, and many daily inconveniences. It is rather the
consideration of the accidental nature of the circumstances that brought
some sorrow just to us, that gives it its sting. But if we have recognised
that pain, as such, is inevitable and essential to life, and that nothing
depends upon chance but its mere fashion, the form under which it presents
itself, that thus our present sorrow fills a place that, without it, would
at once be occupied by another which now is excluded by it, and that
therefore fate can affect us little in what is essential; such a
reflection, if it were to become a living conviction, might produce a
considerable degree of stoical equanimity, and very much lessen the
anxious care for our own well-being. But, in fact, such a powerful control
of reason over directly felt suffering seldom or never occurs.

Besides, through this view of the inevitableness of pain, of the
supplanting of one pain by another, and the introduction of a new pain
through the passing away of that which preceded it, one might be led to
the paradoxical but not absurd hypothesis, that in every individual the
measure of the pain essential to him was determined once for all by his
nature, a measure which could neither remain empty, nor be more than
filled, however much the form of the suffering might change. Thus his
suffering and well-being would by no means be determined from without, but
only through that measure, that natural disposition, which indeed might
experience certain additions and diminutions from the physical condition
at different times, but yet, on the whole, would remain the same, and
would just be what is called the temperament, or, more accurately, the
degree in which he might be ευκολος or δυσκολος, as Plato expresses it in
the First Book of the Republic, _i.e._, in an easy or difficult mood. This
hypothesis is supported not only by the well-known experience that great
suffering makes all lesser ills cease to be felt, and conversely that
freedom from great suffering makes even the most trifling inconveniences
torment us and put us out of humour; but experience also teaches that if a
great misfortune, at the mere thought of which we shuddered, actually
befalls us, as soon as we have overcome the first pain of it, our
disposition remains for the most part unchanged; and, conversely, that
after the attainment of some happiness we have long desired, we do not
feel ourselves on the whole and permanently very much better off and
agreeably situated than before. Only the moment at which these changes
occur affects us with unusual strength, as deep sorrow or exulting joy,
but both soon pass away, for they are based upon illusion. For they do not
spring from the immediately present pleasure or pain, but only from the
opening up of a new future which is anticipated in them. Only by borrowing
from the future could pain or pleasure be heightened so abnormally, and
consequently not enduringly. It would follow, from the hypothesis
advanced, that a large part of the feeling of suffering and of well-being
would be subjective and determined _a priori_, as is the case with
knowing; and we may add the following remarks as evidence in favour of it.
Human cheerfulness or dejection are manifestly not determined by external
circumstances, such as wealth and position, for we see at least as many
glad faces among the poor as among the rich. Further, the motives which
induce suicide are so very different, that we can assign no motive that is
so great as to bring it about, even with great probability, in every
character, and few that would be so small that the like of them had never
caused it. Now although the degree of our serenity or sadness is not at
all times the same, yet, in consequence of this view, we shall not
attribute it to the change of outward circumstances, but to that of the
inner condition, the physical state. For when an actual, though only
temporary, increase of our serenity, even to the extent of joyfulness,
takes place, it usually appears without any external occasion. It is true
that we often see our pain arise only from some definite external
relation, and are visibly oppressed and saddened by this only. Then we
believe that if only this were taken away, the greatest contentment would
necessarily ensue. But this is illusion. The measure of our pain and our
happiness is on the whole, according to our hypothesis, subjectively
determined for each point of time, and the motive for sadness is related
to that, just as a blister which draws to a head all the bad humours
otherwise distributed is related to the body. The pain which is at that
period of time essential to our nature, and therefore cannot be shaken
off, would, without the definite external cause of our suffering, be
divided at a hundred points, and appear in the form of a hundred little
annoyances and cares about things which we now entirely overlook, because
our capacity for pain is already filled by that chief evil which has
concentrated in a point all the suffering otherwise dispersed. This
corresponds also to the observation that if a great and pressing care is
lifted from our breast by its fortunate issue, another immediately takes
its place, the whole material of which was already there before, yet could
not come into consciousness as care because there was no capacity left for
it, and therefore this material of care remained indistinct and unobserved
in a cloudy form on the farthest horizon of consciousness. But now that
there is room, this prepared material at once comes forward and occupies
the throne of the reigning care of the day (πρυτανευουσα). And if it is
very much lighter in its matter than the material of the care which has
vanished, it knows how to blow itself out so as apparently to equal it in
size, and thus, as the chief care of the day, completely fills the throne.

Excessive joy and very keen suffering always occur in the same person, for
they condition each other reciprocally, and are also in common conditioned
by great activity of the mind. Both are produced, as we have just seen,
not by what is really present, but by the anticipation of the future. But
since pain is essential to life, and its degree is also determined by the
nature of the subject, sudden changes, because they are always external,
cannot really alter its degree. Thus an error and delusion always lies at
the foundation of immoderate joy or grief, and consequently both these
excessive strainings of the mind can be avoided by knowledge. Every
immoderate joy (_exultatio, insolens lætitia_) always rests on the
delusion that one has found in life what can never be found there—lasting
satisfaction of the harassing desires and cares, which are constantly
breeding new ones. From every particular delusion of this kind one must
inevitably be brought back later, and then when it vanishes must pay for
it with pain as bitter as the joy its entrance caused was keen. So far,
then, it is precisely like a height from which one can come down only by a
fall. Therefore one ought to avoid them; and every sudden excessive grief
is just a fall from some such height, the vanishing of such a delusion,
and so conditioned by it. Consequently we might avoid them both if we had
sufficient control over ourselves to survey things always with perfect
clearness as a whole and in their connection, and steadfastly to guard
against really lending them the colours which we wish they had. The
principal effort of the Stoical ethics was to free the mind from all such
delusion and its consequences, and to give it instead an equanimity that
could not be disturbed. It is this insight that inspires Horace in the
well-known ode—


    “_Æquam memento rebus in arduiis_
    Servare mentem, non secus in bonis
        _Ab insolenti temperatam_
          _Lætitia._”


For the most part, however, we close our minds against the knowledge,
which may be compared to a bitter medicine, that suffering is essential to
life, and therefore does not flow in upon us from without, but that every
one carries about with him its perennial source in his own heart. We
rather seek constantly for an external particular cause, as it were, a
pretext for the pain which never leaves us, just as the free man makes
himself an idol, in order to have a master. For we unweariedly strive from
wish to wish; and although every satisfaction, however much it promised,
when attained fails to satisfy us, but for the most part comes presently
to be an error of which we are ashamed, yet we do not see that we draw
water with the sieve of the Danaides, but ever hasten to new desires.


    “_Sed, dum abest quod avemus, id exsuperare videtur_
    _Cætera; post aliud, quum contigit illud, avemus;_
    _Et sitis æqua tenet vitai semper hiantes._”—LUCR. iii. 1095.


Thus it either goes on for ever, or, what is more rare and presupposes a
certain strength of character, till we reach a wish which is not satisfied
and yet cannot be given up. In that case we have, as it were, found what
we sought, something that we can always blame, instead of our own nature,
as the source of our suffering. And thus, although we are now at variance
with our fate, we are reconciled to our existence, for the knowledge is
again put far from us that suffering is essential to this existence
itself, and true satisfaction impossible. The result of this form of
development is a somewhat melancholy disposition, the constant endurance
of a single great pain, and the contempt for all lesser sorrows or joys
that proceeds from it; consequently an already nobler phenomenon than that
constant seizing upon ever-new forms of illusion, which is much more
common.

§ 58. All satisfaction, or what is commonly called happiness, is always
really and essentially only _negative_, and never positive. It is not an
original gratification coming to us of itself, but must always be the
satisfaction of a wish. The wish, _i.e._, some want, is the condition
which precedes every pleasure. But with the satisfaction the wish and
therefore the pleasure cease. Thus the satisfaction or the pleasing can
never be more than the deliverance from a pain, from a want; for such is
not only every actual, open sorrow, but every desire, the importunity of
which disturbs our peace, and, indeed, the deadening ennui also that makes
life a burden to us. It is, however, so hard to attain or achieve
anything; difficulties and troubles without end are opposed to every
purpose, and at every step hindrances accumulate. But when finally
everything is overcome and attained, nothing can ever be gained but
deliverance from some sorrow or desire, so that we find ourselves just in
the same position as we occupied before this sorrow or desire appeared.
All that is even directly given us is merely the want, _i.e._, the pain.
The satisfaction and the pleasure we can only know indirectly through the
remembrance of the preceding suffering and want, which ceases with its
appearance. Hence it arises that we are not properly conscious of the
blessings and advantages we actually possess, nor do we prize them, but
think of them merely as a matter of course, for they gratify us only
negatively by restraining suffering. Only when we have lost them do we
become sensible of their value; for the want, the privation, the sorrow,
is the positive, communicating itself directly to us. Thus also we are
pleased by the remembrance of past need, sickness, want, and such like,
because this is the only means of enjoying the present blessings. And,
further, it cannot be denied that in this respect, and from this
standpoint of egoism, which is the form of the will to live, the sight or
the description of the sufferings of others affords us satisfaction and
pleasure in precisely the way Lucretius beautifully and frankly expresses
it in the beginning of the Second Book—


    “_Suave, mari magno, turbantibus æquora ventis,_
    _E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem:_
    _Non, quia vexari quemquam est jucunda voluptas;_
    _Sed, quibus ipse malis careas, quia cernere suave est._”


Yet we shall see farther on that this kind of pleasure, through knowledge
of our own well-being obtained in this way, lies very near the source of
real, positive wickedness.

That all happiness is only of a negative not a positive nature, that just
on this account it cannot be lasting satisfaction and gratification, but
merely delivers us from some pain or want which must be followed either by
a new pain, or by languor, empty longing, and ennui; this finds support in
art, that true mirror of the world and life, and especially in poetry.
Every epic and dramatic poem can only represent a struggle, an effort, and
fight for happiness, never enduring and complete happiness itself. It
conducts its heroes through a thousand difficulties and dangers to the
goal; as soon as this is reached, it hastens to let the curtain fall; for
now there would remain nothing for it to do but to show that the
glittering goal in which the hero expected to find happiness had only
disappointed him, and that after its attainment he was no better off than
before. Because a genuine enduring happiness is not possible, it cannot be
the subject of art. Certainly the aim of the idyll is the description of
such a happiness, but one also sees that the idyll as such cannot
continue. The poet always finds that it either becomes epical in his
hands, and in this case it is a very insignificant epic, made up of
trifling sorrows, trifling delights, and trifling efforts—this is the
commonest case—or else it becomes a merely descriptive poem, describing
the beauty of nature, _i.e._, pure knowing free from will, which
certainly, as a matter of fact, is the only pure happiness, which is
neither preceded by suffering or want, nor necessarily followed by
repentance, sorrow, emptiness, or satiety; but this happiness cannot fill
the whole life, but is only possible at moments. What we see in poetry we
find again in music; in the melodies of which we have recognised the
universal expression of the inmost history of the self-conscious will, the
most secret life, longing, suffering, and delight; the ebb and flow of the
human heart. Melody is always a deviation from the keynote through a
thousand capricious wanderings, even to the most painful discord, and then
a final return to the keynote which expresses the satisfaction and
appeasing of the will, but with which nothing more can then be done, and
the continuance of which any longer would only be a wearisome and
unmeaning monotony corresponding to ennui.

All that we intend to bring out clearly through these investigations, the
impossibility of attaining lasting satisfaction and the negative nature of
all happiness, finds its explanation in what is shown at the conclusion of
the Second Book: that the will, of which human life, like every
phenomenon, is the objectification, is a striving without aim or end. We
find the stamp of this endlessness imprinted upon all the parts of its
whole manifestation, from its most universal form, endless time and space,
up to the most perfect of all phenomena, the life and efforts of man. We
may theoretically assume three extremes of human life, and treat them as
elements of actual human life. First, the powerful will, the strong
passions (Radscha-Guna). It appears in great historical characters; it is
described in the epic and the drama. But it can also show itself in the
little world, for the size of the objects is measured here by the degree
in which they influence the will, not according to their external
relations. Secondly, pure knowing, the comprehension of the Ideas,
conditioned by the freeing of knowledge from the service of will: the life
of genius (Satwa-Guna). Thirdly and lastly, the greatest lethargy of the
will, and also of the knowledge attaching to it, empty longing,
life-benumbing languor (Tama-Guna). The life of the individual, far from
becoming permanently fixed in one of these extremes, seldom touches any of
them, and is for the most part only a weak and wavering approach to one or
the other side, a needy desiring of trifling objects, constantly
recurring, and so escaping ennui. It is really incredible how meaningless
and void of significance when looked at from without, how dull and
unenlightened by intellect when felt from within, is the course of the
life of the great majority of men. It is a weary longing and complaining,
a dream-like staggering through the four ages of life to death,
accompanied by a series of trivial thoughts. Such men are like clockwork,
which is wound up, and goes it knows not why; and every time a man is
begotten and born, the clock of human life is wound up anew, to repeat the
same old piece it has played innumerable times before, passage after
passage, measure after measure, with insignificant variations. Every
individual, every human being and his course of life, is but another short
dream of the endless spirit of nature, of the persistent will to live; is
only another fleeting form, which it carelessly sketches on its infinite
page, space and time; allows to remain for a time so short that it
vanishes into nothing in comparison with these, and then obliterates to
make new room. And yet, and here lies the serious side of life, every one
of these fleeting forms, these empty fancies, must be paid for by the
whole will to live, in all its activity, with many and deep sufferings,
and finally with a bitter death, long feared and coming at last. This is
why the sight of a corpse makes us suddenly so serious.

The life of every individual, if we survey it as a whole and in general,
and only lay stress upon its most significant features, is really always a
tragedy, but gone through in detail, it has the character of a comedy. For
the deeds and vexations of the day, the restless irritation of the moment,
the desires and fears of the week, the mishaps of every hour, are all
through chance, which is ever bent upon some jest, scenes of a comedy. But
the never-satisfied wishes, the frustrated efforts, the hopes unmercifully
crushed by fate, the unfortunate errors of the whole life, with increasing
suffering and death at the end, are always a tragedy. Thus, as if fate
would add derision to the misery of our existence, our life must contain
all the woes of tragedy, and yet we cannot even assert the dignity of
tragic characters, but in the broad detail of life must inevitably be the
foolish characters of a comedy.

But however much great and small trials may fill human life, they are not
able to conceal its insufficiency to satisfy the spirit; they cannot hide
the emptiness and superficiality of existence, nor exclude ennui, which is
always ready to fill up every pause that care may allow. Hence it arises
that the human mind, not content with the cares, anxieties, and
occupations which the actual world lays upon it, creates for itself an
imaginary world also in the form of a thousand different superstitions,
then finds all manner of employment with this, and wastes time and
strength upon it, as soon as the real world is willing to grant it the
rest which it is quite incapable of enjoying. This is accordingly most
markedly the case with nations for which life is made easy by the
congenial nature of the climate and the soil, most of all with the Hindus,
then with the Greeks, the Romans, and later with the Italians, the
Spaniards, &c. Demons, gods, and saints man creates in his own image; and
to them he must then unceasingly bring offerings, prayers, temple
decorations, vows and their fulfilment, pilgrimages, salutations,
ornaments for their images, &c. Their service mingles everywhere with the
real, and, indeed, obscures it. Every event of life is regarded as the
work of these beings; the intercourse with them occupies half the time of
life, constantly sustains hope, and by the charm of illusion often becomes
more interesting than intercourse with real beings. It is the expression
and symptom of the actual need of mankind, partly for help and support,
partly for occupation and diversion; and if it often works in direct
opposition to the first need, because when accidents and dangers arise
valuable time and strength, instead of being directed to warding them off,
are uselessly wasted on prayers and offerings; it serves the second end
all the better by this imaginary converse with a visionary spirit world;
and this is the by no means contemptible gain of all superstitions.

§ 59. If we have so far convinced ourselves _a priori_, by the most
general consideration, by investigation of the primary and elemental
features of human life, that in its whole plan it is capable of no true
blessedness, but is in its very nature suffering in various forms, and
throughout a state of misery, we might now awaken this conviction much
more vividly within us if, proceeding more _a posteriori_, we were to turn
to more definite instances, call up pictures to the fancy, and illustrate
by examples the unspeakable misery which experience and history present,
wherever one may look and in whatever direction one may seek. But the
chapter would have no end, and would carry us far from the standpoint of
the universal, which is essential to philosophy; and, moreover, such a
description might easily be taken for a mere declamation on human misery,
such as has often been given, and, as such, might be charged with
one-sidedness, because it started from particular facts. From such a
reproach and suspicion our perfectly cold and philosophical investigation
of the inevitable suffering which is founded in the nature of life is
free, for it starts from the universal and is conducted _a priori_. But
confirmation _a posteriori_ is everywhere easily obtained. Every one who
has awakened from the first dream of youth, who has considered his own
experience and that of others, who has studied himself in life, in the
history of the past and of his own time, and finally in the works of the
great poets, will, if his judgment is not paralysed by some indelibly
imprinted prejudice, certainly arrive at the conclusion that this human
world is the kingdom of chance and error, which rule without mercy in
great things and in small, and along with which folly and wickedness also
wield the scourge. Hence it arises that everything better only struggles
through with difficulty; what is noble and wise seldom attains to
expression, becomes effective and claims attention, but the absurd and the
perverse in the sphere of thought, the dull and tasteless in the sphere of
art, the wicked and deceitful in the sphere of action, really assert a
supremacy, only disturbed by short interruptions. On the other hand,
everything that is excellent is always a mere exception, one case in
millions, and therefore, if it presents itself in a lasting work, this,
when it has outlived the enmity of its contemporaries, exists in
isolation, is preserved like a meteoric stone, sprung from an order of
things different from that which prevails here. But as far as the life of
the individual is concerned, every biography is the history of suffering,
for every life is, as a rule, a continual series of great and small
misfortunes, which each one conceals as much as possible, because he knows
that others can seldom feel sympathy or compassion, but almost always
satisfaction at the sight of the woes from which they are themselves for
the moment exempt. But perhaps at the end of life, if a man is sincere and
in full possession of his faculties, he will never wish to have it to live
over again, but rather than this, he will much prefer absolute
annihilation. The essential content of the famous soliloquy in “Hamlet” is
briefly this: Our state is so wretched that absolute annihilation would be
decidedly preferable. If suicide really offered us this, so that the
alternative “to be or not to be,” in the full sense of the word, was
placed before us, then it would be unconditionally to be chosen as “a
consummation devoutly to be wished.” But there is something in us which
tells us that this is not the case: suicide is not the end; death is not
absolute annihilation. In like manner, what was said by the father of
history(71) has not since him been contradicted, that no man has ever
lived who has not wished more than once that he had not to live the
following day. According to this, the brevity of life, which is so
constantly lamented, may be the best quality it possesses. If, finally, we
should bring clearly to a man’s sight the terrible sufferings and miseries
to which his life is constantly exposed, he would be seized with horror;
and if we were to conduct the confirmed optimist through the hospitals,
infirmaries, and surgical operating-rooms, through the prisons,
torture-chambers, and slave-kennels, over battle-fields and places of
execution; if we were to open to him all the dark abodes of misery, where
it hides itself from the glance of cold curiosity, and, finally, allow him
to glance into the starving dungeon of Ugolino, he, too, would understand
at last the nature of this “best of possible worlds.” For whence did Dante
take the materials for his hell but from this our actual world? And yet he
made a very proper hell of it. And when, on the other hand, he came to the
task of describing heaven and its delights, he had an insurmountable
difficulty before him, for our world affords no materials at all for this.
Therefore there remained nothing for him to do but, instead of describing
the joys of paradise, to repeat to us the instruction given him there by
his ancestor, by Beatrice, and by various saints. But from this it is
sufficiently clear what manner of world it is. Certainly human life, like
all bad ware, is covered over with a false lustre: what suffers always
conceals itself; on the other hand, whatever pomp or splendour any one can
get, he makes a show of openly, and the more inner contentment deserts
him, the more he desires to exist as fortunate in the opinion of others:
to such an extent does folly go, and the opinion of others is a chief aim
of the efforts of every one, although the utter nothingness of it is
expressed in the fact that in almost all languages vanity, _vanitas_,
originally signifies emptiness and nothingness. But under all this false
show, the miseries of life can so increase—and this happens every day—that
the death which hitherto has been feared above all things is eagerly
seized upon. Indeed, if fate will show its whole malice, even this refuge
is denied to the sufferer, and, in the hands of enraged enemies, he may
remain exposed to terrible and slow tortures without remedy. In vain the
sufferer then calls on his gods for help; he remains exposed to his fate
without grace. But this irremediableness is only the mirror of the
invincible nature of his will, of which his person is the objectivity. As
little as an external power can change or suppress this will, so little
can a foreign power deliver it from the miseries which proceed from the
life which is the phenomenal appearance of that will. In the principal
matter, as in everything else, a man is always thrown back upon himself.
In vain does he make to himself gods in order to get from them by prayers
and flattery what can only be accomplished by his own will-power. The Old
Testament made the world and man the work of a god, but the New Testament
saw that, in order to teach that holiness and salvation from the sorrows
of this world can only come from the world itself, it was necessary that
this god should become man. It is and remains the will of man upon which
everything depends for him. Fanatics, martyrs, saints of every faith and
name, have voluntarily and gladly endured every torture, because in them
the will to live had suppressed itself; and then even the slow destruction
of its phenomenon was welcome to them. But I do not wish to anticipate the
later exposition. For the rest, I cannot here avoid the statement that, to
me, _optimism_, when it is not merely the thoughtless talk of such as
harbour nothing but words under their low foreheads, appears not merely as
an absurd, but also as a really _wicked_ way of thinking, as a bitter
mockery of the unspeakable suffering of humanity. Let no one think that
Christianity is favourable to optimism; for, on the contrary, in the
Gospels world and evil are used as almost synonymous.(72)

§ 60. We have now completed the two expositions it was necessary to
insert; the exposition of the freedom of the will in itself together with
the necessity of its phenomenon, and the exposition of its lot in the
world which reflects its own nature, and upon the knowledge of which it
has to assert or deny itself. Therefore we can now proceed to bring out
more clearly the nature of this assertion and denial itself, which was
referred to and explained in a merely general way above. This we shall do
by exhibiting the conduct in which alone it finds its expression, and
considering it in its inner significance.

The _assertion of the will_ is the continuous willing itself, undisturbed
by any knowledge, as it fills the life of man in general. For even the
body of a man is the objectivity of the will, as it appears at this grade
and in this individual. And thus his willing which develops itself in time
is, as it were, a paraphrase of his body, an elucidation of the
significance of the whole and its parts; it is another way of exhibiting
the same thing-in-itself, of which the body is already the phenomenon.
Therefore, instead of saying assertion of the will, we may say assertion
of the body. The fundamental theme or subject of all the multifarious acts
of will is the satisfaction of the wants which are inseparable from the
existence of the body in health, they already have their expression in it,
and may be referred to the maintenance of the individual and the
propagation of the species. But indirectly the most different kinds of
motives obtain in this way power over the will, and bring about the most
multifarious acts of will. Each of these is only an example, an instance,
of the will which here manifests itself generally. Of what nature this
example may be, what form the motive may have and impart to it, is not
essential; the important point here is that something is willed in general
and the degree of intensity with which it is so willed. The will can only
become visible in the motives, as the eye only manifests its power of
seeing in the light. The motive in general stands before the will in
protean forms. It constantly promises complete satisfaction, the quenching
of the thirst of will. But whenever it is attained it at once appears in
another form, and thus influences the will anew, always according to the
degree of the intensity of this will, and its relation to knowledge which
are revealed as empirical character, in these very examples and instances.

From the first appearance of consciousness, a man finds himself a willing
being, and as a rule, his knowledge remains in constant relation to his
will. He first seeks to know thoroughly the objects of his desire, and
then the means of attaining them. Now he knows what he has to do, and, as
a rule, he does not strive after other knowledge. He moves and acts; his
consciousness keeps him always working directly and actively towards the
aims of his will; his thought is concerned with the choice of motives.
Such is life for almost all men; they wish, they know what they wish, and
they strive after it, with sufficient success to keep them from despair,
and sufficient failure to keep them from ennui and its consequences. From
this proceeds a certain serenity, or at least indifference, which cannot
be affected by wealth or poverty; for the rich and the poor do not enjoy
what they have, for this, as we have shown, acts in a purely negative way,
but what they hope to attain to by their efforts. They press forward with
much earnestness, and indeed with an air of importance; thus children also
pursue their play. It is always an exception if such a life suffers
interruption from the fact that either the æsthetic demand for
contemplation or the ethical demand for renunciation proceed from a
knowledge which is independent of the service of the will, and directed to
the nature of the world in general. Most men are pursued by want all
through life, without ever being allowed to come to their senses. On the
other hand, the will is often inflamed to a degree that far transcends the
assertion of the body, and then violent emotions and powerful passions
show themselves, in which the individual not only asserts his own
existence, but denies and seeks to suppress that of others when it stands
in his way.

The maintenance of the body through its own powers is so small a degree of
the assertion of will, that if it voluntarily remains at this degree, we
might assume that, with the death of this body, the will also which
appeared in it would be extinguished. But even the satisfaction of the
sexual passions goes beyond the assertion of one’s own existence, which
fills so short a time, and asserts life for an indefinite time after the
death of the individual. Nature, always true and consistent, here even
naïve, exhibits to us openly the inner significance of the act of
generation. Our own consciousness, the intensity of the impulse, teaches
us that in this act the most decided _assertion of the will to live_
expresses itself, pure and without further addition (any denial of other
individuals); and now, as the consequence of this act, a new life appears
in time and the causal series, _i.e._, in nature; the begotten appears
before the begetter, different as regards the phenomenon, but in himself,
_i.e._, according to the Idea, identical with him. Therefore it is this
act through which every species of living creature binds itself to a whole
and is perpetuated. Generation is, with reference to the begetter, only
the expression, the symptom, of his decided assertion of the will to live:
with reference to the begotten, it is not the cause of the will which
appears in him, for the will in itself knows neither cause nor effect,
but, like all causes, it is merely the occasional cause of the phenomenal
appearance of this will at this time in this place. As thing-in-itself,
the will of the begetter and that of the begotten are not different, for
only the phenomenon, not the thing-in-itself, is subordinate to the
_principim individuationis_. With that assertion beyond our own body and
extending to the production of a new body, suffering and death, as
belonging to the phenomenon of life, have also been asserted anew, and the
possibility of salvation, introduced by the completest capability of
knowledge, has for this time been shown to be fruitless. Here lies the
profound reason of the shame connected with the process of generation.
This view is mythically expressed in the dogma of Christian theology that
we are all partakers in Adam’s first transgression (which is clearly just
the satisfaction of sexual passion), and through it are guilty of
suffering and death. In this theology goes beyond the consideration of
things according to the principle of sufficient reason, and recognises the
Idea of man, the unity of which is re-established out of its dispersion
into innumerable individuals through the bond of generation which holds
them all together. Accordingly it regards every individual as on one side
identical with Adam, the representative of the assertion of life, and, so
far, as subject to sin (original sin), suffering, and death; on the other
side, the knowledge of the Idea of man enables it to regard every
individual as identical with the saviour, the representative of the denial
of the will to live, and, so far as a partaker of his sacrifice of
himself, saved through his merits, and delivered from the bands of sin and
death, _i.e._, the world (Rom. v. 12-21).

Another mythical exposition of our view of sexual pleasure as the
assertion of the will to live beyond the individual life, as an attainment
to life which is brought about for the first time by this means, or as it
were a renewed assignment of life, is the Greek myth of Proserpine, who
might return from the lower world so long as she had not tasted its fruit,
but who became subject to it altogether through eating the pomegranate.
This meaning appears very clearly in Goethe’s incomparable presentation of
this myth, especially when, as soon as she has tasted the pomegranate, the
invisible chorus of the Fates—


                    “Thou art ours!
    Fasting shouldest thou return:
    And the bite of the apple makes thee ours!”


It is worth noticing that Clement of Alexandria (Strom. iii. c. 15)
illustrates the matter with the same image and the same expression: Οἱ μεν
ευνουχισαντες ἑαυτους απο πασης ἁμαρτιας, δια την βασιλειαν, των ουρανων,
μακαριοι οὑτοι εισιν, οἱ του κοσμου νηστευοντες; (_Qui se castrarunt ab
omni peccato propter regnum cœlorum, ii sunt beati, a mundo jejunantes_).

The sexual impulse also proves itself the decided and strongest assertion
of life by the fact that to man in a state of nature, as to the brutes, it
is the final end, the highest goal of life. Self-maintenance is his first
effort, and as soon as he has made provision for that, he only strives
after the propagation of the species: as a merely natural being he can
attempt no more. Nature also, the inner being of which is the will to live
itself, impels with all her power both man and the brute towards
propagation. Then it has attained its end with the individual, and is
quite indifferent to its death, for, as the will to live, it cares only
for the preservation of the species, the individual is nothing to it.
Because the will to live expresses itself most strongly in the sexual
impulse, the inner being of nature, the old poets and philosophers—Hesiod
and Parmenides—said very significantly that Eros is the first, the
creator, the principle from which all things proceed. (Cf. Arist. Metaph.,
i. 4.) Pherecydes said: Εις ερωτα μεταβεβλησθαι τον Δια, μελλοντα
δημιουργειν (_Jovem, cum mundum fabricare vellet, in cupidinem sese
transformasse_). _Proclus ad Plat. Tim._, l. iii. A complete treatment of
this subject we have recently received from G. F. Schœmann, “_De Cupidine
Cosmogonico_,” 1852. The Mâya of the Hindus, whose work and web is the
whole world of illusion, is also symbolised by love.

The genital organs are, far more than any other external member of the
body, subject merely to the will, and not at all to knowledge. Indeed, the
will shows itself here almost as independent of knowledge, as in those
parts which, acting merely in consequence of stimuli, are subservient to
vegetative life and reproduction, in which the will works blindly as in
unconscious nature. For generation is only reproduction passing over to a
new individual, as it were reproduction at the second power, as death is
only excretion at the second power. According to all this, the genitals
are properly the _focus_ of will, and consequently the opposite pole of
the brain, the representative of knowledge, _i.e._, the other side of the
world, the world as idea. The former are the life-sustaining principle
ensuring endless life to time. In this respect they were worshipped by the
Greeks in the _phallus_, and by the Hindus in the _lingam_, which are thus
the symbol of the assertion of the will. Knowledge, on the other hand,
affords the possibility of the suppression of willing, of salvation
through freedom, of conquest and annihilation of the world.

We already considered fully at the beginning of this Fourth Book how the
will to live in its assertion must regard its relation to death. We saw
that death does not trouble it, because it exists as something included in
life itself and belonging to it. Its opposite, generation, completely
counterbalances it; and, in spite of the death of the individual, ensures
and guarantees life to the will to live through all time. To express this
the Hindus made the _lingam_ an attribute of Siva, the god of death. We
also fully explained there how he who with full consciousness occupies the
standpoint of the decided assertion of life awaits death without fear. We
shall therefore say nothing more about this here. Without clear
consciousness most men occupy this standpoint and continually assert life.
The world exists as the mirror of this assertion, with innumerable
individuals in infinite time and space, in infinite suffering, between
generation and death without end. Yet from no side is a complaint to be
further raised about this; for the will conducts the great tragedy and
comedy at its own expense, and is also its own spectator. The world is
just what it is because the will, whose manifestation it is, is what it
is, because it so wills. The justification of suffering is, that in this
phenomenon also the will asserts itself; and this assertion is justified
and balanced by the fact that the will bears the suffering. Here we get a
glimpse of _eternal justice_ in the whole: we shall recognise it later
more definitely and distinctly, and also in the particular. But first we
must consider temporal or human justice.(73)

§ 61. It may be remembered from the Second Book that in the whole of
nature, at all the grades of the objectification of will, there was a
necessary and constant conflict between the individuals of all species;
and in this way was expressed the inner contradiction of the will to live
with itself. At the highest grade of the objectification, this phenomenon,
like all others, will exhibit itself with greater distinctness, and will
therefore be more easily explained. With this aim we shall next attempt to
trace the source of _egoism_ as the starting-point of all conflict.

We have called time and space the _principium individuationis_, because
only through them and in them is multiplicity of the homogeneous possible.
They are the essential forms of natural knowledge, _i.e._, knowledge
springing from the will. Therefore the will everywhere manifests itself in
the multiplicity of individuals. But this multiplicity does not concern
the will as thing-in-itself, but only its phenomena. The will itself is
present, whole and undivided, in every one of these, and beholds around it
the innumerably repeated image of its own nature; but this nature itself,
the actually real, it finds directly only in its inner self. Therefore
every one desires everything for himself, desires to possess, or at least
to control, everything, and whatever opposes it it would like to destroy.
To this is added, in the case of such beings as have knowledge, that the
individual is the supporter of the knowing subject, and the knowing
subject is the supporter of the world, _i.e._, that the whole of Nature
outside the knowing subject, and thus also all other individuals, exist
only in its idea; it is only conscious of them as its idea, thus merely
indirectly as something which is dependent on its own nature and
existence; for with its consciousness the world necessarily disappears for
it, _i.e._, its being and non-being become synonymous and
indistinguishable. Every knowing individual is thus in truth, and finds
itself as the whole will to live, or the inner being of the world itself,
and also as the complemental condition of the world as idea, consequently
as a microcosm which is of equal value with the macrocosm. Nature itself,
which is everywhere and always truthful, gives him this knowledge,
originally and independently of all reflection, with simple and direct
certainty. Now from these two necessary properties we have given the fact
may be explained that every individual, though vanishing altogether and
diminished to nothing in the boundless world, yet makes itself the centre
of the world, has regard for its own existence and well-being before
everything else; indeed, from the natural standpoint, is ready to
sacrifice everything else for this—is ready to annihilate the world in
order to maintain its own self, this drop in the ocean, a little longer.
This disposition is _egoism_, which is essential to everything in Nature.
Yet it is just through egoism that the inner conflict of the will with
itself attains to such a terrible revelation; for this egoism has its
continuance and being in that opposition of the microcosm and macrocosm,
or in the fact that the objectification of will has the _principium
individuationis_ for its form, through which the will manifests itself in
the same way in innumerable individuals, and indeed entire and completely
in both aspects (will and idea) in each. Thus, while each individual is
given to itself directly as the whole will and the whole subject of ideas,
other individuals are only given it as ideas. Therefore its own being, and
the maintenance of it, is of more importance to it than that of all others
together. Every one looks upon his own death as upon the end of the world,
while he accepts the death of his acquaintances as a matter of comparative
indifference, if he is not in some way affected by it. In the
consciousness that has reached the highest grade, that of man, egoism, as
well as knowledge, pain and pleasure, must have reached its highest grade
also, and the conflict of individuals which is conditioned by it must
appear in its most terrible form. And indeed we see this everywhere before
our eyes, in small things as in great. Now we see its terrible side in the
lives of great tyrants and miscreants, and in world-desolating wars; now
its absurd side, in which it is the theme of comedy, and very specially
appears as self-conceit and vanity. Rochefoucault understood this better
than any one else, and presented it in the abstract. We see it both in the
history of the world and in our own experience. But it appears most
distinctly of all when any mob of men is set free from all law and order;
then there shows itself at once in the distinctest form the _bellum omnium
contra omnes_, which Hobbes has so admirably described in the first
chapter _De Cive_. We see not only how every one tries to seize from the
other what he wants himself, but how often one will destroy the whole
happiness or life of another for the sake of an insignificant addition to
his own happiness. This is the highest expression of egoism, the
manifestations of which in this regard are only surpassed by those of
actual wickedness, which seeks, quite disinterestedly, the hurt and
suffering of others, without any advantage to itself. Of this we shall
speak soon. With this exhibition of the source of egoism the reader should
compare the presentation of it in my prize-essay on the basis of morals, §
14.

A chief source of that suffering which we found above to be essential and
inevitable to all life is, when it really appears in a definite form, that
_Eris_, the conflict of all individuals, the expression of the
contradiction, with which the will to live is affected in its inner self,
and which attains a visible form through the _principium individuationis_.
Wild-beast fights are the most cruel means of showing this directly and
vividly. In this original discord lies an unquenchable source of
suffering, in spite of the precautions that have been taken against it,
and which we shall now consider more closely.

§ 62. It has already been explained that the first and simplest assertion
of the will to live is only the assertion of one’s own body, _i.e._, the
exhibition of the will through acts in time, so far as the body, in its
form and design, exhibits the same will in space, and no further. This
assertion shows itself as maintenance of the body, by means of the
application of its own powers. To it is directly related the satisfaction
of the sexual impulse; indeed this belongs to it, because the genitals
belong to the body. Therefore _voluntary_ renunciation of the satisfaction
of that impulse, based upon no _motive_, is already a denial of the will
to live, is a voluntary self-suppression of it, upon the entrance of
knowledge which acts as a _quieter_. Accordingly such denial of one’s own
body exhibits itself as a contradiction by the will of its own phenomenon.
For although here also the body objectifies in the genitals the will to
perpetuate the species, yet this is not willed. Just on this account,
because it is a denial or suppression of the will to live, such a
renunciation is a hard and painful self-conquest; but of this later. But
since the will exhibits that _self-assertion_ of one’s own body in
innumerable individuals beside each other, it very easily extends in one
individual, on account of the egoism peculiar to them all, beyond this
assertion to the _denial_ of the same will appearing in another
individual. The will of the first breaks through the limits of the
assertion of will of another, because the individual either destroys or
injures this other body itself, or else because it compels the powers of
the other body to serve _its own_ will, instead of the will which
manifests itself in that other body. Thus if, from the will manifesting
itself as another body, it withdraws the powers of this body, and so
increases the power serving its own will beyond that of its own body, it
consequently asserts its own will beyond its own body by means of the
negation of the will appearing in another body. This breaking through the
limits of the assertion of will of another has always been distinctly
recognised, and its concept denoted by the word _wrong_. For both sides
recognise the fact instantly, not, indeed, as we do here in distinct
abstraction, but as feeling. He who suffers wrong feels the transgression
into the sphere of the assertion of his own body, through the denial of it
by another individual, as a direct and mental pain which is entirely
separated and different from the accompanying physical suffering
experienced from the act or the vexation at the loss. To the doer of
wrong, on the other hand, the knowledge presents itself that he is in
himself the same will which appears in that body also, and which asserts
itself with such vehemence; the one phenomenon that, transgressing the
limits of its own body and its powers, it extends to the denial of this
very will in another phenomenon, and so, regarded as will in itself, it
strives against itself by this vehemence and rends itself. Moreover, this
knowledge presents itself to him instantly, not _in abstracto_, but as an
obscure feeling; and this is called remorse, or, more accurately in this
case, the feeling of _wrong committed_.

_Wrong_, the conception of which we have thus analysed in its most general
and abstract form, expresses itself in the concrete most completely,
peculiarly, and palpably in cannibalism. This is its most distinct and
evident type, the terrible picture of the greatest conflict of the will
with itself at the highest grade of its objectification, which is man.
Next to this, it expresses itself most distinctly in murder; and therefore
the committal of murder is followed instantly and with fearful
distinctness by remorse, the abstract and dry significance of which we
have just given, which inflicts a wound on our peace of mind that a
lifetime cannot heal. For our horror at the murder committed, as also our
shrinking from the committal of it, corresponds to that infinite clinging
to life with which everything living, as phenomenon of the will to live,
is penetrated. (We shall analyse this feeling which accompanies the doing
of wrong and evil, in other words, the pangs of conscience, more fully
later on, and raise its concept to distinctness.) Mutilation, or mere
injury of another body, indeed every blow, is to be regarded as in its
nature the same as murder, and differing from it only in degree. Further,
wrong shows itself in the subjugation of another individual, in forcing
him into slavery, and, finally, in the seizure of another’s goods, which,
so far as these goods are regarded as the fruit of his labour, is just the
same thing as making him a slave, and is related to this as mere injury is
to murder.

For _property_, which is not taken from a man without _wrong_, can,
according to our explanation of wrong, only be that which has been
produced by his own powers. Therefore by taking this we really take the
powers of his body from the will objectified in it, to make them subject
to the will objectified in another body. For only so does the wrong-doer,
by seizing, not the body of another, but a lifeless thing quite different
from it, break into the sphere of the assertion of will of another person,
because the powers, the work of this other body, are, as it were,
incorporated and identified with this thing. It follows from this that all
true, _i.e._, moral, right of property is based simply and solely on work,
as was pretty generally assumed before Kant, and is distinctly and
beautifully expressed in the oldest of all codes of law: “Wise men who
know the past explain that a cultured field is the property of him who cut
down the wood and cleared and ploughed it, as an antelope belongs to the
first hunter who mortally wounds it” (Laws of Manu, ix. 44). Kant’s
philosophy of law is an extraordinary concatenation of errors all leading
to each other, and he bases the right of property upon first occupation.
To me this is only explicable on the supposition that his powers were
failing through old age. For how should the mere avowal of my will to
exclude others from the use of a thing at once give me a _right_ to it?
Clearly such an avowal itself requires a foundation of right, instead of
being one, as Kant assumes. And how would he act unjustly _in se_, _i.e._,
morally, who does not respect that claim to the sole possession of a thing
which is based upon nothing but its own avowal? How should his conscience
trouble him about it? For it is so clear and easy to understand that there
can be absolutely no such thing as a just seizure of anything, but only a
just conversion or acquired possession of it, by spending our own original
powers upon it. When, by any foreign labour, however little, a thing has
been cultivated, improved, kept from harm or preserved, even if this
labour were only the plucking or picking up from the ground of fruit that
has grown wild; the person who forcibly seizes such a thing clearly
deprives the other of the result of his labour expended upon it, makes the
body of this other serve his will instead of its own, asserts his will
beyond its own phenomenon to the denial of that of the other, _i.e._, does
injustice or wrong.(74) On the other hand, the mere enjoyment of a thing,
without any cultivation or preservation of it from destruction, gives just
as little right to it as the mere avowal of our desire for its sole
possession. Therefore, though one family has hunted a district alone, even
for a hundred years, but has done nothing for its improvement; if a
stranger comes and desires to hunt there, it cannot prevent him from doing
so without moral injustice. Thus the so-called right of preoccupation,
according to which, for the mere past enjoyment of a thing, there is
demanded the further recompense of the exclusive right to its future
enjoyment, is morally entirely without foundation. A new-comer might with
far better right reply to him who was depending upon such a right, “Just
because you have so long enjoyed, it is right that others should now enjoy
also.” No moral right can be established to the sole possession of
anything upon which labour cannot be expended, either in improving it or
in preserving it from harm, unless it be through a voluntary surrender on
the part of others, as a reward for other services. This, however, already
presupposes a community regulated by agreement—the State. The morally
established right of property, as we have deduced it above, gives, from
its nature, to the owner of a thing, the same unlimited power over it
which he has over his own body; and hence it follows that he can part with
his possessions to others either in exchange or as a gift, and they then
possess them with the same moral right as he did.

As regards the doing of wrong generally, it occurs either through violence
or through craft; it matters not which as far as what is morally essential
is concerned. First, in the case of murder, it is a matter of indifference
whether I make use of a dagger or of poison; and the case of every bodily
injury is analogous. Other cases of wrong can all be reduced to the fact
that I, as the doer of wrong, compel another individual to serve my will
instead of his own, to act according to my will instead of according to
his own. On the path of violence I attain this end through physical
causality, but on the path of craft by means of motivation, _i.e._, by
means of causality through knowledge; for I present to his will illusive
motives, on account of which he follows my will, while he believes he is
following his own. Since the medium in which the motives lie is knowledge,
I can only accomplish this by falsifying his knowledge, and this is the
_lie_. The lie always aims at influencing another’s will, not merely his
knowledge, for itself and as such, but only as a means, so far as it
determines his will. For my lying itself, inasmuch as it proceeds from my
will, requires a motive; and only the will of another can be such a
motive, not his knowledge in and for itself; for as such it can never have
an influence upon _my_ will, therefore it can never move it, can never be
a motive of its aim. But only the willing and doing of another can be
this, and his knowledge indirectly through it. This holds good not only of
all lies that have manifestly sprung from self-interest, but also of those
which proceed from pure wickedness, which seeks enjoyment in the painful
consequences of the error into which it has led another. Indeed, mere
empty boasting aims at influencing the will and action of others more or
less, by increasing their respect or improving their opinion of the
boaster. The mere refusal of a truth, _i.e._, of an assertion generally,
is in itself no wrong, but every imposing of a lie is certainly a wrong.
He who refuses to show the strayed traveller the right road does him no
wrong, but he who directs him to a false road certainly does. It follows
from what has been said, that every _lie_, like every act of violence, is
as such _wrong_, because as such it has for its aim the extension of the
authority of my will to other individuals, and so the assertion of my will
through the denial of theirs, just as much as violence has. But the most
complete lie is the _broken contract_, because here all the conditions
mentioned are completely and distinctly present together. For when I enter
into a contract, the promised performance of the other individual is
directly and confessedly the motive for my reciprocal performance. The
promises were deliberately and formally exchanged. The fulfilment of the
declarations made is, it is assumed, in the power of each. If the other
breaks the covenant, he has deceived me, and by introducing merely
illusory motives into my knowledge, he has bent my will according to his
intention; he has extended the control of his will to another individual,
and thus has committed a distinct wrong. On this is founded the moral
lawfulness and validity of the _contract_.

Wrong through violence is not so _shameful_ to the doer of it as wrong
through craft; for the former arises from physical power, which under all
circumstances impresses mankind; while the latter, by the use of
subterfuge, betrays weakness, and lowers man at once as a physical and
moral being. This is further the case because lying and deception can only
succeed if he who employs them expresses at the same time horror and
contempt of them in order to win confidence, and his victory rests on the
fact that men credit him with honesty which he does not possess. The deep
horror which is always excited by cunning, faithlessness, and treachery
rests on the fact that good faith and honesty are the bond which
externally binds into a unity the will which has been broken up into the
multiplicity of individuals, and thereby limits the consequences of the
egoism which results from that dispersion. Faithlessness and treachery
break this outward bond asunder, and thus give boundless scope to the
consequences of egoism.

In the connection of our system we have found that the content of the
concept of _wrong_ is that quality of the conduct of an individual in
which he extends the assertion of the will appearing in his own body so
far that it becomes the denial of the will appearing in the bodies of
others. We have also laid down, by means of very general examples, the
limits at which the province of wrong begins; for we have at once defined
its gradations, from the highest degree to the lowest, by means of a few
leading conceptions. According to this, the concept of wrong is the
original and positive, and the concept of right, which is opposed to it,
is the derivative and negative; for we must keep to the concepts, and not
to the words. As a matter of fact, there would be no talk of right if
there were no such thing as wrong. The concept right contains merely the
negation of wrong, and every action is subsumed under it which does not
transgress the limit laid down above, _i.e._, is not a denial of the will
of another for the stronger assertion of our own. That limit, therefore,
divides, as regards a purely _moral_ definition, the whole province of
possible actions into such as are wrong or right. Whenever an action does
not encroach, in the way explained above, on the sphere of the assertion
of will of another, denying it, it is not wrong. Therefore, for example,
the refusal of help to another in great need, the quiet contemplation of
the death of another from starvation while we ourselves have more than
enough, is certainly cruel and fiendish, but it is not wrong; only it can
be affirmed with certainty that whoever is capable of carrying unkindness
and hardness to such a degree will certainly also commit every wrong
whenever his wishes demand it and no compulsion prevents it.

But the conception of right as the negation of wrong finds its principal
application, and no doubt its origin, in cases in which an attempted wrong
by violence is warded off. This warding off cannot itself be wrong, and
consequently is right, although the violence it requires, regarded in
itself and in isolation, would be wrong, and is here only justified by the
motive, _i.e._, becomes right. If an individual goes so far in the
assertion of his own will that he encroaches upon the assertion of will
which is essential to my person as such, and denies it, then my warding
off of that encroachment is only the denial of that denial, and thus from
my side is nothing more than the assertion of the will which essentially
and originally appears in my body, and is already implicitly expressed by
the mere appearance of this body; consequently is not wrong, but right.
That is to say: I have then a right to deny that denial of another with
the force necessary to overcome it, and it is easy to see that this may
extend to the killing of the other individual, whose encroachment as
external violence pressing upon me may be warded off by a somewhat
stronger counteraction, entirely without wrong, consequently with right.
For all that happens from my side lies always within the sphere of the
assertion of will essential to my person as such, and already expressed by
it (which is the scene of the conflict), and does not encroach on that of
the other, consequently is only negation of the negation, and thus
affirmation, not itself negation. Thus if the will of another denies my
will, as this appears in my body and the use of its powers for its
maintenance, without denial of any foreign will which observes a like
limitation, I can _without wrong_ compel it to desist from such denial,
_i.e._, I have so far a _right of compulsion_.

In all cases in which I have a right of compulsion, a complete right to
use _violence_ against another, I may, according to the circumstances,
just as well oppose the violence of the other with _craft_ without doing
any wrong, and accordingly I have an actual _right to lie precisely so far
as I have a right of compulsion_. Therefore a man acts with perfect right
who assures a highway robber who is searching him that he has nothing more
upon him; or, if a burglar has broken into his house by night, induces him
by a lie to enter a cellar and then locks him in. A man who has been
captured and carried off by robbers, for example by pirates, has the right
to kill them not only by violence but also by craft, in order to regain
his freedom. Thus, also, a promise is certainly not binding when it has
been extorted by direct bodily violence, because he who suffers such
compulsion may with full right free himself by killing, and, _a fortiori_,
by deceiving his oppressor. Whoever cannot recover through force the
property which has been stolen from him, commits no wrong if he can
accomplish it through craft. Indeed, if some one plays with me for money
he has stolen from me, I have the right to use false dice against him,
because all that I win from him already belongs to me. Whoever would deny
this must still more deny the justifiableness of stratagem in war, which
is just an acted lie, and is a proof of the saying of Queen Christina of
Sweden, “The words of men are to be esteemed as nothing; scarcely are
their deeds to be trusted.” So sharply does the limit of right border upon
that of wrong. For the rest, I regard it as superfluous to show that all
this completely agrees with what was said above about the unlawfulness of
the lie and of violence. It may also serve to explain the peculiar theory
of the lie told under pressure.(75)

In accordance with what has been said, wrong and right are merely moral
determinations, _i.e._, such as are valid with regard to the consideration
of human action as such, and in relation _to the inner significance of
this action in itself_. This asserts itself directly in consciousness
through the fact that the doing of wrong is accompanied by an inward pain,
which is the merely felt consciousness of the wrong-doer of the excessive
strength of the assertion of will in itself, which extends even to the
denial of the manifestation of the will of another, and also the
consciousness that although he is different from the person suffering
wrong as far as the manifestation is concerned, yet in himself he is
identical with him. The further explanation of this inner significance of
all pain of conscience cannot be given till later. He who suffers wrong
is, on the other hand, painfully conscious of the denial of his will, as
it is expressed through the body and its natural requirements, for the
satisfaction of which nature refers him to the powers of his body; and at
the same time he is conscious that without doing wrong he might ward off
that denial by every means unless he lacks the power. This purely moral
significance is the only one which right and wrong have for men as men,
not as members of the State, and which consequently remains even when man
is in a state of nature without any positive law. It constitutes the basis
and the content of all that has on this account been named _natural law_,
though it is better called moral law, for its validity does not extend to
suffering, to the external reality, but only to the action of man and the
self-knowledge of his individual will which grows up in him from his
action, and which is called _conscience_. It cannot, however, in a state
of nature, assert itself in all cases, and outwardly upon other
individuals, and prevent might from reigning instead of right. In a state
of nature it depends upon every one merely to see that in every case he
_does_ no wrong, but by no means to see that in every case he _suffers_ no
wrong, for this depends on the accident of his outward power. Therefore
the concepts right and wrong, even in a state of nature, are certainly
valid and by no means conventional, but there they are valid merely as
_moral_ concepts, for the self-knowledge of one’s own will in each. They
are a fixed point in the scale of the very different degrees of strength
with which the will to live asserts itself in human individuals, like the
freezing-point on the thermometer; the point at which the assertion of
one’s own will becomes the denial of the will of another, _i.e._,
specifies through wrong-doing the degree of its intensity, combined with
the degree in which knowledge is involved in the _principium
individuationis_ (which is the form of all knowledge that is subject to
the will). But whoever wants to set aside the purely moral consideration
of human action, or denies it, and wishes to regard conduct merely in its
outward effects and their consequences, may certainly, with Hobbes,
explain right and wrong as conventional definitions arbitrarily assumed,
and therefore not existing outside positive law, and we can never show him
through external experience what does not belong to such experience.
Hobbes himself characterises his completely empirical method of thought
very remarkably by the fact that in his book “_De Principiis Geometrarum_”
he denies all pure mathematics properly so called, and obstinately
maintains that the point has extension and the line has breadth, and we
can never show him a point without extension or a line without breadth.
Thus we can just as little impart to him the _a priori_ nature of
mathematics as the _a priori_ nature of right, because he shuts himself
out from all knowledge which is not empirical.

The pure doctrine of right is thus a chapter of ethics, and is directly
related only to _action_, not to _suffering_; for only the former is the
expression of will, and this alone is considered by ethics. Suffering is
mere occurrence. Ethics can only have regard to suffering indirectly,
merely to show that what takes place merely to avoid suffering wrong is
itself no infliction of wrong. The working out of this chapter of ethics
would contain the precise definition of the limits to which an individual
may go in the assertion of the will already objectified in his body
without denying the same will as it appears in another individual; and
also the actions which transgress these limits, which consequently are
wrong, and therefore in their turn may be warded off without wrong. Thus
our own _action_ always remains the point of view of the investigation.

But the _suffering of wrong_ appears as an event in outward experience,
and in it is manifested, as we have said, more distinctly than anywhere
else, the phenomenon of the conflict of the will to live with itself,
arising from the multiplicity of individuals and from egoism, both of
which are conditioned through the _principium individuationis_, which is
the form of the world as idea for the knowledge of the individual. We also
saw above that a very large part of the suffering essential to human life
has its perennial source in that conflict of individuals.

The reason, however, which is common to all these individuals, and which
enables them to know not merely the particular case, as the brutes do, but
also the whole abstractly in its connection, has also taught them to
discern the source of that suffering, and induced them to consider the
means of diminishing it, or, when possible, of suppressing it by a common
sacrifice, which is, however, more than counterbalanced by the common
advantage that proceeds from it. However agreeable it is to the egoism of
the individual to inflict wrong in particular cases, this has yet a
necessary correlative in the suffering of wrong of another individual, to
whom it is a great pain. And because the reason which surveys the whole
left the one-sided point of view of the individual to which it belongs,
and freed itself for the moment from its dependence upon it, it saw the
pleasure of an individual in inflicting wrong always outweighed by the
relatively greater pain of the other who suffered the wrong; and it found
further, that because here everything was left to chance, every one had to
fear that the pleasure of conveniently inflicting wrong would far more
rarely fall to his lot than the pain of enduring it. From this reason
recognised that both in order to diminish the suffering which is
everywhere disseminated, and as far as possible to divide it equally, the
best and only means was to spare all the pain of suffering wrong by
renouncing all the pleasure to be obtained by inflicting it. This means is
the _contract of the state_ or _law_. It is easily conceived, and little
by little carried out by the egoism, which, through the use of reason,
proceeds methodically and forsakes its one-sided point of view. This
origin of the state and of law I have indicated was already exhibited as
such by Plato in the “Republic.” In fact, it is the essential and only
origin, determined by the nature of the matter. Moreover, in no land can
the state have ever had a different origin, because it is just this mode
of originating this aim that makes it a state. But it is a matter of
indifference whether, in each particular nation, the condition which
preceded it was that of a horde of savages independent of each other
(anarchy), or that of a horde of slaves ruled at will by the stronger
(despotism). In both cases there existed as yet no state; it first arose
through that common agreement; and according as that agreement is more or
less free from anarchy or despotism, the state is more or less perfect.
Republics tend to anarchy, monarchies to despotism, and the mean of
constitutional monarchy, which was therefore devised, tends to government
by factions. In order to found a perfect state, we must begin by providing
beings whose nature allows them always to sacrifice their own to the
public good. Till then, however, something may be attained through the
existence of _one_ family whose good is quite inseparable from that of the
country; so that, at least in matters of importance, it can never advance
the one without the other. On this rests the power and the advantage of
the hereditary monarchy.

Now as ethics was concerned exclusively with right and wrong doing, and
could accurately point out the limits of his action to whoever was
resolved to do no wrong; politics, on the contrary, the theory of
legislation, is exclusively concerned with the _suffering_ of wrong, and
would never trouble itself with wrong-doing at all if it were not on
account of its ever-necessary correlative, the suffering of wrong, which
it always keeps in view as the enemy it opposes. Indeed, if it were
possible to conceive an infliction of wrong with which no suffering of
wrong on the part of another was connected, the state would, consistently,
by no means prohibit it. And because in ethics the will, the disposition,
is the object of consideration, and the only real thing, the firm will to
do wrong, which is only restrained and rendered ineffective by external
might, and the actually committed wrong, are to it quite the same, and it
condemns him who so wills as unjust at its tribunal. On the other hand,
will and disposition, merely as such, do not concern the state at all, but
only the _deed_ (whether it is merely attempted or carried out), on
account of its correlative, the _suffering_ on the part of another. Thus
for the state the deed, the event, is the only real; the disposition, the
intention, is only investigated so far as the significance of the deed
becomes known through it. Therefore the state will forbid no one to carry
about in his thought murder and poison against another, so long as it
knows certainly that the fear of the sword and the wheel will always
restrain the effects of that will. The state has also by no means to
eradicate the foolish purpose, the inclination to wrong-doing, the wicked
disposition; but merely always to place beside every possible motive for
doing a wrong a more powerful motive for leaving it undone in the
inevitable punishment that will ensue. Therefore the criminal code is as
complete a register as possible of motives against every criminal action
that can possibly be imagined—both _in abstracto_, in order to make any
case that occurs an application _in concreto_. Politics or legislation
will therefore for this end borrow from that chapter of ethics which is
the doctrine of right, and which, besides the inner significance of right
and wrong, determines the exact limits between them. Yet it will only do
so for the purpose of making use of its reverse side, and regarding all
the limits which ethics lays down as not to be transgressed, if we are to
avoid _doing_ wrong, from the other side, as the limits which we must not
allow others to transgress if we do not wish to _suffer_ wrong, and from
which we have therefore a _right_ to drive others back. Therefore these
limits are, as much as possible, from the passive side, barricaded by
laws. It is evident that as an historian has very wittily been called an
inverted prophet, the professor of law is an inverted moralist, and
therefore law itself, in its proper sense, _i.e._, the doctrine of the
_right_, which we ought to maintain, is inverted ethics in that chapter of
it in which the rights are laid down which we ought not to violate. The
concept of wrong and its negation, that of right, which is originally
_ethical_, becomes _juridical_ by the transference of the starting-point
from the active to the passive side, and thus by inversion. This, as well
as Kant’s theory of law, which very falsely deduces the institution of the
state as a moral duty from his categorical imperative, has, even in the
most recent times, repeatedly occasioned the very extraordinary error that
the state is an institution for furthering morality; that it arises from
the endeavour after this, and is, consequently, directed against egoism.
As if the inward disposition, to which alone morality or immorality
belongs, the externally free will, would allow itself to be modified from
without and changed by influences exerted upon it! Still more perverse is
the theory that the state is the condition of freedom in the moral sense,
and in this way the condition of morality; for freedom lies beyond the
phenomenon, and indeed beyond human arrangements. The state is, as we have
said, so little directed against egoism in general and as such, that, on
the contrary, it has sprung from egoism and exists only in its service—an
egoism that well understands itself, proceeds methodically and forsakes
the one-sided for the universal point of view, and so by addition is the
common egoism of all. The state is thus instituted under the correct
presupposition that pure morality, _i.e._, right action from moral
grounds, is not to be expected; if this were not the case, it would itself
be superfluous. Thus the state, which aims at well-being, is by no means
directed against egoism, but only against the disadvantageous consequences
which arise from the multiplicity of egoistic individuals, and
reciprocally affect them all and disturb their well-being. Therefore it
was already said by Aristotle (De. Rep. iii.): Τελος μεν ουν πολεως το ευ
ζην; τουτο δε εστιν το ζῃν ευδαιμονως και καλως (_Finis civitatis est bene
vivere, hoc autem est beate et pulchre vivere_). Hobbes also has
accurately and excellently expounded this origin and end of the state; and
that old first principle of all state policy, _salus publica prima lex
esto_, indicates the same thing. If the state completely attains its end,
it will produce the same outward result as if perfect justice of
disposition prevailed everywhere. But the inner nature and origin of both
phenomena will be the converse. Thus in the second case it would be that
no one wished to _do_ wrong, and in the first that no one wished to
_suffer_ wrong, and the means appropriate to this end had been fully
employed. Thus the same line may be drawn from opposite directions, and a
beast of prey with a muzzle is as harmless as a graminivorous animal. But
beyond this point the state cannot go. It cannot exhibit a phenomenon such
as would spring from universal mutual well-wishing and love. For just as
we found that from its nature it would not forbid the doing of a wrong
which involved no corresponding suffering of wrong on the part of another,
and prohibits all wrong-doing only because this is impossible; so
conversely, in accordance with its tendency towards the well-being of all,
it would very gladly take care that every benevolent action and work of
human love should be _experienced_, if it were not that these also have an
inevitable correlative in the _performance_ of acts of benevolence and
works of love, and every member of the state would wish to assume the
passive and none the active rôle, and there would be no reason for
exacting the latter from one member of the state rather than from another.
Accordingly only the negative, which is just the _right_, not the
positive, which has been comprehended under the name of obligations of
love, or, less completely, duties, _can be exacted by force_.

Legislation, as we have said, borrows the pure philosophy of right, or the
doctrine of the nature and limits of right and wrong, from ethics, in
order to apply it from the reverse side to its own ends, which are
different from those of ethics, and to institute positive legislation and
the means of supporting it, _i.e._, the state, in accordance with it.
Positive legislation is thus the inverted application of the purely moral
doctrine of right. This application may be made with reference to the
peculiar relations and circumstances of a particular people. But only if
the positive legislation is, in essential matters, throughout determined
in accordance with the guidance of the pure theory of right, and for each
of its propositions a ground can be established in the pure theory of
right, is the legislation which has arisen a _positive right_ and the
state a community _based upon right_, a _state_ in the proper meaning of
the word, a morally permissible, not immoral institution. Otherwise the
positive legislation is, on the contrary, the establishment of a _positive
wrong_; it is itself an openly avowed enforced wrong. Such is every
despotism, the constitution of most Mohammedan kingdoms; and indeed
various parts of many constitutions are also of this kind; for example,
serfdom, vassalage, and many such institutions. The pure theory of right
or natural right—better, moral right—though always reversed, lies at the
foundation of every just positive legislation, as pure mathematics lies at
the foundation of every branch of applied mathematics. The most important
points of the doctrine of right, as philosophy has to supply it for that
end to legislation, are the following: 1. The explanation of the inner and
real significance both of the origin of the conceptions of wrong and
right, and of their application and position in ethics. 2. The deduction
of the law of property. 3. The deduction of the moral validity of
contracts; for this is the moral basis of the contract of the state. 4.
The explanation of the origin and the aim of the state, of the relation of
this aim to ethics, and of the intentional transference of the ethical
doctrine of right, by reversing it, to legislation, in consequence of this
relation. 5. The deduction of the right of punishment. The remaining
content of the doctrine of right is mere application of these principles,
mere accurate definition of the limits of right and wrong for all possible
relations of life, which are consequently united and distributed under
certain points of view and titles. In these special doctrines the books
which treat of pure law are fairly at one; it is only in the principles
that they differ much, for these are always connected with some
philosophical system. In connection with our system, we have explained the
first four of these principal points shortly and generally, yet definitely
and distinctly, and it remains for us to speak in the same way of the
right of punishment.

Kant makes the fundamentally false assertion that apart from the state
there would be no complete right of property. It follows from our
deduction, as given above, that even in a state of nature there is
property with complete natural, _i.e._, moral right, which cannot be
injured without wrong, but may without wrong be defended to the uttermost.
On the other hand, it is certain that apart from the state there is no
right of punishment. All right to punish is based upon the positive law
alone, which _before_ the offence has determined a punishment for it, the
threat of which, as a counter-motive, is intended to outweigh all possible
motives for the offence. This positive law is to be regarded as sanctioned
and recognised by all the members of the state. It is thus based upon a
common contract which the members of the state are in duty bound to
fulfil, and thus, on the one hand, to inflict the punishment, and, on the
other hand, to endure it; thus the endurance of the punishment may with
right be enforced. Consequently the immediate _end of punishment_ is, in
the particular case, _the fulfilment of the law as a contract_. But the
one end of the _law_ is _deterrence_ from the infringement of the rights
of others. For, in order that every one may be protected from suffering
wrong, men have combined to form a state, have renounced the doing of
wrong, and assumed the task of maintaining the state. Thus the law and the
fulfilment of it, the punishment, are essentially directed to the
_future_, not to the _past_. This distinguishes _punishment_ from
_revenge_; for the motives which instigate the latter are solely concerned
with what has happened, and thus with the past as such. All requital of
wrong by the infliction of pain, without any aim for the future, is
revenge, and can have no other end than consolation for the suffering one
has borne by the sight of the suffering one has inflicted upon another.
This is wickedness and cruelty, and cannot be morally justified. Wrong
which some one has inflicted upon me by no means entitles me to inflict
wrong upon him. The requital of evil with evil without further intention
is neither morally nor otherwise through any rational ground to be
justified, and the _jus talionis_ set up as the absolute, final principle
of the right of punishment, is meaningless. Therefore Kant’s theory of
punishment as mere requital for requital’s sake is a completely groundless
and perverse view. Yet it is always appearing in the writings of many
jurists, under all kinds of lofty phrases, which amount to nothing but
empty words, as: Through the punishment the crime is expiated or
neutralised and abolished, and many such. But no man has the right to set
himself up as a purely moral judge and requiter, and punish the misdeeds
of another with pains which he inflicts upon him, and so to impose penance
upon him for his sins. Nay, this would rather be the most presumptuous
arrogance; and therefore the Bible says, “Vengeance is mine; I will repay,
saith the Lord.” But man has the right to care for the safety of society;
and this can only be done by interdicting all actions which are denoted by
the word “criminal,” in order to prevent them by means of counter-motives,
which are the threatened punishments. And this threat can only be made
effective by carrying it out when a case occurs in spite of it.
Accordingly that the end of punishment, or more accurately of penal law,
is the deterrence from crime, is a truth so generally recognised and
indeed self-evident, that in England it is expressed in the very old form
of indictment which is still served by the counsel for the Crown in
criminal actions, for it concludes with the words, “If this be proved,
you, the said N. N., ought to be punished with pains of law, to deter
others from the like crimes in all time coming.” If a prince desires to
extend mercy to a criminal who has justly been condemned, his Ministers
will represent to him that, if he does, this crime will soon be repeated.
An end for the future distinguishes punishment from revenge, and
punishment only has this end when it is inflicted _in fulfilment of a
law_. It thus announces itself as inevitable in every future case, and
thus the law obtains the power to deter, in which its end really consists.
Now here a Kantian would inevitably reply that certainly according to this
view the punished criminal would be used “merely as a means.” This
proposition, so unweariedly repeated by all the Kantians, “Man must always
be treated as an end, never as a means,” certainly sounds significant, and
is therefore a very suitable proposition for those who like to have a
formula which saves them all further thought; but looked at in the light,
it is an exceedingly vague, indefinite assertion, which reaches its aim
quite indirectly, requires to be explained, defined, and modified in every
case of its application, and, if taken generally, is insufficient, meagre,
and moreover problematical. The murderer who has been condemned to the
punishment of death according to law must now, at any rate, and with
complete right, be used as a mere means. For public security, the chief
end of the state, is disturbed by him; indeed it is abolished if the law
is not carried out. The murderer, his life, his person, must now be the
means of fulfilling the law, and thereby of re-establishing the public
security. And he is made such a means with perfect right, in fulfilment of
the contract of the state, which was entered into by him because he was a
citizen, and in accordance with which, in order to enjoy security for his
life, freedom, and property, he has pledged his life, his freedom, and his
property for the security of all, which pledge has now been forfeited.

This theory of punishment which we have established, the theory which is
directly supported by sound reason, is certainly in the main no new
thought; but it is a thought which was almost supplanted by new errors,
and therefore it was necessary to exhibit it as distinctly as possible.
The same thing is in its essence contained in what Puffendorf says on the
subject, “_De Officio Hominis et Civis_” (Bk. ii. chap. 12). Hobbes also
agrees with it, “Leviathan” (chaps. 15-28). In our own day Feurbach is
well known to have maintained it. Indeed, it occurs even in the utterances
of the ancient philosophers. Plato expresses it clearly in the
“Protagoras” (p. 114, edit. Bip.), also in the “Gorgias” (p. 168), and
lastly in the eleventh book of the “Laws” (p. 165). Seneca expresses
Plato’s opinion and the theory of all punishment in the short sentence,
“_Nemo prudens punit, quia peccatum est; sed ne peccetur_” (De Ira, i.
16).

Thus we have come to recognise in the state the means by which egoism
endowed with reason seeks to escape from its own evil consequences which
turn against itself, and now each promotes the well-being of all because
he sees that his own well-being is involved in it. If the state attained
its end completely, then to a certain extent something approaching to an
Utopia might finally, by the removal of all kinds of evil, be brought
about. For by the human powers united in it, it is able to make the rest
of nature more and more serviceable. But as yet the state has always
remained very far from this goal. And even if it attained to it,
innumerable evils essential to all life would still keep it in suffering;
and finally, if they were all removed, ennui would at once occupy every
place they left. And besides, the strife of individuals is never
completely abolished by the state, for it vexes in trifles when it is
prohibited in greater things. Finally, Eris, happily expelled from within,
turns to what is without; as the conflict of individuals, she is banished
by the institution of the state; but she reappears from without as the war
of nations, and now demands in bulk and at once, as an accumulated debt,
the bloody sacrifice which by wise precautions has been denied her in the
particular. And even supposing that all this were finally overcome and
removed, by wisdom founded on the experience of thousands of years, at the
end the result would be the actual over-population of the whole planet,
the terrible evil of which only a bold imagination can now realise.(76)

§ 63. We have recognised _temporal justice_, which has its seat in the
state, as requiting and punishing, and have seen that this only becomes
justice through a reference to the _future_. For without this reference
all punishing and requiting would be an outrage without justification, and
indeed merely the addition of another evil to that which has already
occurred, without meaning or significance. But it is quite otherwise with
_eternal justice_, which was referred to before, and which rules not the
state but the world, is not dependent upon human institutions, is not
subject to chance and deception, is not uncertain, wavering, and erring,
but infallible, fixed, and sure. The conception of requital implies that
of time; therefore _eternal justice_ cannot be requital. Thus it cannot,
like temporal justice, admit of respite and delay, and require time in
order to triumph, equalising the evil deed by the evil consequences only
by means of time. The punishment must here be so bound up with the offence
that both are one.


    Δοκειτε πηδᾳν τ᾽ αδικηματ᾽ εις θεους
    Πτεροισι, κἀπειτ᾽ εν Διος δελτου πτυχαις
    Γραφειν τιν᾽ αυτα, Ζηνα δ᾽ εισορωντα νιν
    Θνητοις δικαζειν? Ουδ᾽ ὁ παρ ουρανος,
    Διος γραφοντος ταρ βροτων ἁμαρτιας,
    Εξαρκεσειεν, ουδ᾽ εκεινος αν σκοπων
    Πεμπειν ἑκαστῳ ζημιαν; αλλ᾽ ἡ Δικη
    Ενταυθα που εστιν εγγυς, ει βουλεσθ᾽ ὁρᾳν.

    Eurip. ap. Stob. Ecl., i. c. 4.

    (“Volare pennis scelera ad ætherias domus
    Putatis, illic in Jovis tabularia
    Scripto referri; tum Jovem lectis super
    Sententiam proferre?—sed mortalium
    Facinora cœli, quantaquanta est, regia
    Nequit tenere: nec legendis Juppiter
    Et puniendis par est. Est tamen ultio,
    Et, si intuemur, illa nos habitat prope.”)


Now that such an eternal justice really lies in the nature of the world
will soon become completely evident to whoever has grasped the whole of
the thought which we have hitherto been developing.

The world, in all the multiplicity of its parts and forms, is the
manifestation, the objectivity, of the one will to live. Existence itself,
and the kind of existence, both as a collective whole and in every part,
proceeds from the will alone. The will is free, the will is almighty. The
will appears in everything, just as it determines itself in itself and
outside time. The world is only the mirror of this willing; and all
finitude, all suffering, all miseries, which it contains, belong to the
expression of that which the will wills, are as they are because the will
so wills. Accordingly with perfect right every being supports existence in
general, and also the existence of its species and its peculiar
individuality, entirely as it is and in circumstances as they are, in a
world such as it is, swayed by chance and error, transient, ephemeral, and
constantly suffering; and in all that it experiences, or indeed can
experience, it always gets its due. For the will belongs to it; and as the
will is, so is the world. Only this world itself can bear the
responsibility of its own existence and nature—no other; for by what means
could another have assumed it? Do we desire to know what men, morally
considered, are worth as a whole and in general, we have only to consider
their fate as a whole and in general. This is want, wretchedness,
affliction, misery, and death. Eternal justice reigns; if they were not,
as a whole, worthless, their fate, as a whole, would not be so sad. In
this sense we may say, the world itself is the judgment of the world. If
we could lay all the misery of the world in one scale of the balance, and
all the guilt of the world in the other, the needle would certainly point
to the centre.

Certainly, however, the world does not exhibit itself to the knowledge of
the individual as such, developed for the service of the will, as it
finally reveals itself to the inquirer as the objectivity of the one and
only will to live, which he himself is. But the sight of the uncultured
individual is clouded, as the Hindus say, by the veil of Mâyâ. He sees not
the thing-in-itself but the phenomenon in time and space, the _principium
individuationis_, and in the other forms of the principle of sufficient
reason. And in this form of his limited knowledge he sees not the inner
nature of things, which is one, but its phenomena as separated, disunited,
innumerable, very different, and indeed opposed. For to him pleasure
appears as one thing and pain as quite another thing: one man as a
tormentor and a murderer, another as a martyr and a victim; wickedness as
one thing and evil as another. He sees one man live in joy, abundance, and
pleasure, and even at his door another die miserably of want and cold.
Then he asks, Where is the retribution? And he himself, in the vehement,
pressure of will which is his origin and his nature, seizes upon the
pleasures and enjoyments of life, firmly embraces them, and knows not that
by this very act of his will he seizes and hugs all those pains and
sorrows at the sight of which he shudders. He sees the ills and he sees
the wickedness in the world, but far from knowing that both of these are
but different sides of the manifestation of the one will to live, he
regards them as very different, and indeed quite opposed, and often seeks
to escape by wickedness, _i.e._, by causing the suffering of another, from
ills, from the suffering of his own individuality, for he is involved in
the _principium individuationis_, deluded by the veil of Mâyâ. Just as a
sailor sits in a boat trusting to his frail barque in a stormy sea,
unbounded in every direction, rising and falling with the howling
mountainous waves; so in the midst of a world of sorrows the individual
man sits quietly, supported by and trusting to the _principium
individuationis_, or the way in which the individual knows things as
phenomena. The boundless world, everywhere full of suffering in the
infinite past, in the infinite future, is strange to him, indeed is to him
but a fable; his ephemeral person, his extensionless present, his
momentary satisfaction, this alone has reality for him; and he does all to
maintain this, so long as his eyes are not opened by a better knowledge.
Till then, there lives only in the inmost depths of his consciousness a
very obscure presentiment that all that is after all not really so strange
to him, but has a connection with him, from which the _principium
individuationis_ cannot protect him. From this presentiment arises that
ineradicable _awe_ common to all men (and indeed perhaps even to the most
sensible of the brutes) which suddenly seizes them if by any chance they
become puzzled about the _principium individuationis_, because the
principle of sufficient reason in some one of its forms seems to admit of
an exception. For example, if it seems as if some change took place
without a cause, or some one who is dead appears again, or if in any other
way the past or the future becomes present or the distant becomes near.
The fearful terror at anything of the kind is founded on the fact that
they suddenly become puzzled about the forms of knowledge of the
phenomenon, which alone separate their own individuality from the rest of
the world. But even this separation lies only in the phenomenon, and not
in the thing-in-itself; and on this rests eternal justice. In fact, all
temporal happiness stands, and all prudence proceeds, upon ground that is
undermined. They defend the person from accidents and supply its
pleasures; but the person is merely phenomenon, and its difference from
other individuals, and exemption from the sufferings which they endure,
rests merely in the form of the phenomenon, the _principium
individuationis_. According to the true nature of things, every one has
all the suffering of the world as his own, and indeed has to regard all
merely possible suffering as for him actual, so long as he is the fixed
will to live, _i.e._, asserts life with all his power. For the knowledge
that sees through the _principium individuationis_, a happy life in time,
the gift of chance or won by prudence, amid the sorrows of innumerable
others, is only the dream of a beggar in which he is a king, but from
which he must awake and learn from experience that only a fleeting
illusion had separated him from the suffering of his life.

Eternal justice withdraws itself from the vision that is involved in the
knowledge which follows the principle of sufficient reason in the
_principium individuationis_; such vision misses it altogether unless it
vindicates it in some way by fictions. It sees the bad, after misdeeds and
cruelties of every kind, live in happiness and leave the world unpunished.
It sees the oppressed drag out a life full of suffering to the end without
an avenger, a requiter appearing. But that man only will grasp and
comprehend eternal justice who raises himself above the knowledge that
proceeds under the guidance of the principle of sufficient reason, bound
to the particular thing, and recognises the Ideas, sees through the
_principium individuationis_, and becomes conscious that the forms of the
phenomenon do not apply to the thing-in-itself. Moreover, he alone, by
virtue of the same knowledge, can understand the true nature of virtue, as
it will soon disclose itself to us in connection with the present inquiry,
although for the practice of virtue this knowledge in the abstract is by
no means demanded. Thus it becomes clear to whoever has attained to the
knowledge referred to, that because the will is the in-itself of all
phenomena, the misery which is awarded to others and that which he
experiences himself, the bad and the evil, always concerns only that one
inner being which is everywhere the same, although the phenomena in which
the one and the other exhibits itself exist as quite different
individuals, and are widely separated by time and space. He sees that the
difference between him who inflicts the suffering and him who must bear it
is only the phenomenon, and does not concern the thing-in-itself, for this
is the will living in both, which here, deceived by the knowledge which is
bound to its service, does not recognise itself, and seeking an increased
happiness in _one_ of its phenomena, produces great suffering in
_another_, and thus, in the pressure of excitement, buries its teeth in
its own flesh, not knowing that it always injures only itself, revealing
in this form, through the medium of individuality, the conflict with
itself which it bears in its inner nature. The inflicter of suffering and
the sufferer are one. The former errs in that he believes he is not a
partaker in the suffering; the latter, in that he believes he is not a
partaker in the guilt. If the eyes of both were opened, the inflicter of
suffering would see that he lives in all that suffers pain in the wide
world, and which, if endowed with reason, in vain asks why it was called
into existence for such great suffering, its desert of which it does not
understand. And the sufferer would see that all the wickedness which is or
ever was committed in the world proceeds from that will which constitutes
_his_ own nature also, appears also in _him_, and that through this
phenomenon and its assertion he has taken upon himself all the sufferings
which proceed from such a will and bears them as his due, so long as he is
this will. From this knowledge speaks the profound poet Calderon in “Life
a Dream”—


    “Pues el delito mayor
    Del hombre es haber nacido.”

    (“For the greatest crime of man
    Is that he ever was born.”)


Why should it not be a crime, since, according to an eternal law, death
follows upon it? Calderon has merely expressed in these lines the
Christian dogma of original sin.

The living knowledge of eternal justice, of the balance that inseparably
binds together the _malum culpæ_ with the _malum pœnæ_, demands the
complete transcending of individuality and the principle of its
possibility. Therefore it will always remain unattainable to the majority
of men, as will also be the case with the pure and distinct knowledge of
the nature of all virtue, which is akin to it, and which we are about to
explain. Accordingly the wise ancestors of the Hindu people have directly
expressed it in the Vedas, which are only allowed to the three regenerate
castes, or in their esoteric teaching, so far at any rate as conception
and language comprehend it, and their method of exposition, which always
remains pictorial and even rhapsodical, admits; but in the religion of the
people, or exoteric teaching, they only communicate it by means of myths.
The direct exposition we find in the Vedas, the fruit of the highest human
knowledge and wisdom, the kernel of which has at last reached us in the
Upanishads as the greatest gift of this century. It is expressed in
various ways, but especially by making all the beings in the world, living
and lifeless, pass successively before the view of the student, and
pronouncing over every one of them that word which has become a formula,
and as such has been called the Mahavakya: Tatoumes,—more correctly, Tat
twam asi,—which means, “This thou art.”(77) But for the people, that great
truth, so far as in their limited condition they could comprehend it, was
translated into the form of knowledge which follows the principle of
sufficient reason. This form of knowledge is indeed, from its nature,
quite incapable of apprehending that truth pure and in itself, and even
stands in contradiction to it, yet in the form of a myth it received a
substitute for it which was sufficient as a guide for conduct. For the
myth enables the method of knowledge, in accordance with the principle of
sufficient reason, to comprehend by figurative representation the ethical
significance of conduct, which itself is ever foreign to it. This is the
aim of all systems of religion, for as a whole they are the mythical
clothing of the truth which is unattainable to the uncultured human
intellect. In this sense this myth might, in Kant’s language, be called a
postulate of the practical reason; but regarded as such, it has the great
advantage that it contains absolutely no elements but such as lie before
our eyes in the course of actual experience, and can therefore support all
its conceptions with perceptions. What is here referred to is the myth of
the transmigration of souls. It teaches that all sufferings which in life
one inflicts upon other beings must be expiated in a subsequent life in
this world, through precisely the same sufferings; and this extends so
far, that he who only kills a brute must, some time in endless time, be
born as the same kind of brute and suffer the same death. It teaches that
wicked conduct involves a future life in this world in suffering and
despised creatures, and, accordingly, that one will then be born again in
lower castes, or as a woman, or as a brute, as Pariah or Tschandala, as a
leper, or as a crocodile, and so forth. All the pains which the myth
threatens it supports with perceptions from actual life, through suffering
creatures which do not know how they have merited their misery, and it
does not require to call in the assistance of any other hell. As a reward,
on the other hand, it promises re-birth in better, nobler forms, as
Brahmans, wise men, or saints. The highest reward, which awaits the
noblest deeds and the completest resignation, which is also given to the
woman who in seven successive lives has voluntarily died on the funeral
pile of her husband, and not less to the man whose pure mouth has never
uttered a single lie,—this reward the myth can only express negatively in
the language of this world by the promise, which is so often repeated,
that they shall never be born again, _Non adsumes iterum existentiam
apparentem_; or, as the Buddhists, who recognise neither Vedas nor castes,
express it, “Thou shalt attain to Nirvâna,” _i.e._, to a state in which
four things no longer exist—birth, age, sickness, and death.

Never has a myth entered, and never will one enter, more closely into the
philosophical truth which is attainable to so few than this primitive
doctrine of the noblest and most ancient nation. Broken up as this nation
now is into many parts, this myth yet reigns as the universal belief of
the people, and has the most decided influence upon life to-day, as four
thousand years ago. Therefore Pythagoras and Plato have seized with
admiration on that _ne plus ultra_ of mythical representation, received it
from India or Egypt, honoured it, made use of it, and, we know not how
far, even believed it. We, on the contrary, now send the Brahmans English
clergymen and evangelical linen-weavers to set them right out of sympathy,
and to show them that they are created out of nothing, and ought
thankfully to rejoice in the fact. But it is just the same as if we fired
a bullet against a cliff. In India our religions will never take root. The
ancient wisdom of the human race will not be displaced by what happened in
Galilee. On the contrary, Indian philosophy streams back to Europe, and
will produce a fundamental change in our knowledge and thought.

§ 64. From our exposition of eternal justice, which is not mythical but
philosophical, we will now proceed to the kindred investigation of the
ethical significance of conduct and of conscience, which is the merely
felt knowledge of that significance. But first I wish at this point to
draw attention to two peculiarities of human nature, that might help to
make clear how the nature of that eternal justice, and the unity and
identity of the will in all its phenomena upon which it rests, is known to
every one, at least as an obscure feeling.

When a bad deed has been done, it affords satisfaction not only to the
sufferer, who for the most part feels the desire of revenge, but also to
the perfectly indifferent spectator, to see that he who caused another
pain suffers himself a like measure of pain; and this quite independently
of the end which we have shown the state has in view in punishment, and
which is the foundation of penal law. It seems to me that what expresses
itself here is nothing but the consciousness of that eternal justice,
which is, nevertheless, at once misunderstood and falsified by the
unenlightened mind, for, involved in the _principium individuationis_, it
produces an amphiboly of the concepts and demands from the phenomenon what
only belongs to the thing in itself. It does not see how far in themselves
the offender and the offended are one, and that it is the same being
which, not recognising itself in its own manifestation, bears both the
pain and the guilt, but it desires rather to see the pain also in the
particular individual to whom the guilt belongs. Therefore, most persons
would demand that a man who had a very high degree of wickedness which
might yet occur in many others, only not matched with other qualities such
as are found in him, a man who also far surpassed others by extraordinary
intellectual powers, and who inflicted unspeakable sufferings upon
millions of others—for example, as a conqueror,—most persons, I say, would
demand that such a man should at some time and in some place expiate all
these sufferings by a like amount of pain; for they do not recognise how
in themselves the inflicter of suffering and the sufferers are one, and
that it is the same will through which the latter exist and live which
also appears in the former, and just through him attains to a distinct
revelation of its nature, and which likewise suffers both in the oppressed
and the oppressor; and indeed in the latter in a greater measure, as the
consciousness has attained a higher degree of clearness and distinctness
and the will has greater vehemence. But that the deeper knowledge, which
is no longer involved in the _principium individuationis_, from which all
virtue and nobleness proceed, no longer retains the disposition which
demands requital, is shown by the Christian ethics, which absolutely
forbids all requital of evil with evil, and allows eternal justice to
proceed in the sphere of the thing-in-itself, which is different from that
of the phenomenon. (“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the
Lord,”—Rom. xii. 19.)

A much more striking, but also a much rarer, characteristic of human
nature, which expresses that desire to draw eternal justice into the
province of experience, _i.e._, of individuality, and at the same time
indicates a felt consciousness that, as I have expressed it above, the
will to live conducts at its own cost the great tragedy and comedy, and
that the same one will lives in all manifestations,—such a characteristic,
I say, is the following. We sometimes see a man so deeply moved by a great
injury which he has experienced, or, it may be, only witnessed, that he
deliberately and irretrievably stakes his own life in order to take
vengeance on the perpetrator of that wrong. We see him seek for some
mighty oppressor through long years, murder him at last, and then himself
die on the scaffold, as he had foreseen, and often, it may be, did not
seek to avoid, for his life had value for him only as a means of
vengeance. We find examples of this especially among the Spaniards.(78)
If, now, we consider the spirit of that desire for retribution carefully,
we find that it is very different from common revenge, which seeks to
mitigate the suffering, endured by the sight of the suffering inflicted;
indeed, we find that what it aims at deserves to be called, not so much
revenge as punishment. For in it there really lies the intention of an
effect upon the future through the example, and that without any selfish
aim, either for the avenging person, for it costs him his life, or for a
society which secures its own safety by laws. For that punishment is
carried out by individuals, not by the state, nor is it in fulfilment of a
law, but, on the contrary, always concerns a deed which the state either
would not or could not punish, and the punishment of which it condemns. It
seems to me that the indignation which carries such a man so far beyond
the limits of all self-love springs from the deepest consciousness that he
himself is the whole will to live, which appears in all beings through all
time, and that therefore the most distant future belongs to him just as
the present, and cannot be indifferent to him. Asserting this will, he yet
desires that in the drama which represents its nature no such fearful
wrong shall ever appear again, and wishes to frighten ever future
wrong-doer by the example of a vengeance against which there is no means
of defence, since the avenger is not deterred by the fear of death. The
will to live, though still asserting itself, does not here depend any
longer upon the particular phenomenon, the individual, but comprehends the
Idea of man, and wishes to keep its manifestation pure from such a fearful
and shocking wrong. It is a rare, very significant, and even sublime trait
of character through which the individual sacrifices himself by striving
to make himself the arm of eternal justice, of the true nature of which he
is yet ignorant.

§ 65. In all the preceding investigations of human action, we have been
leading up to the final investigation, and have to a considerable extent
lightened the task of raising to abstract and philosophical clearness, and
exhibiting as a branch of our central thought that special ethical
significance of action which in life is with perfect understanding denoted
by the words _good_ and _bad_.

First, however, I wish to trace back to their real meaning those
conceptions of _good_ and _bad_ which have been treated by the
philosophical writers of the day, very extraordinarily, as simple
conceptions, and thus incapable of analysis; so that the reader may not
remain involved in the senseless delusion that they contain more than is
actually the case, and express in and for themselves all that is here
necessary. I am in a position to do this because in ethics I am no more
disposed to take refuge behind the word _good_ than formerly behind the
words _beautiful_ and _true_, in order that by the adding a “ness,” which
at the present day is supposed to have a special σεμνοτης, and therefore
to be of assistance in various cases, and by assuming an air of solemnity,
I might induce the belief that by uttering three such words I had done
more than denote three very wide and abstract, and consequently empty
conceptions, of very different origin and significance. Who is there,
indeed, who has made himself acquainted with the books of our own day to
whom these three words, admirable as are the things to which they
originally refer, have not become an aversion after he has seen for the
thousandth time how those who are least capable of thinking believe that
they have only to utter these three words with open mouth and the air of
an intelligent sheep, in order to have spoken the greatest wisdom?

The explanation of the concept _true_ has already been given in the essay
on the principle of sufficient reason, chap. v. § 29 _et seq._ The content
of the concept _beautiful_ found for the first time its proper explanation
through the whole of the Third Book of the present work. We now wish to
discover the significance of the concept _good_, which can be done with
very little trouble. This concept is essentially relative, and signifies
_the conformity of an object to any definite effort of the will_.
Accordingly everything that corresponds to the will in any of its
expressions and fulfils its end is thought through the concept _good_,
however different such things may be in other respects. Thus we speak of
good eating, good roads, good weather, good weapons, good omens, and so
on; in short, we call everything good that is just as we wish it to be;
and therefore that may be good in the eyes of one man which is just the
reverse in those of another. The conception of the good divides itself
into two sub-species—that of the direct and present satisfaction of any
volition, and that of its indirect satisfaction which has reference to the
future, _i.e._, the agreeable and the useful. The conception of the
opposite, so long as we are speaking of unconscious existence, is
expressed by the word _bad_, more rarely and abstractly by the word
_evil_, which thus denotes everything that does not correspond to any
effort of the will. Like all other things that can come into relation to
the will, men who are favourable to the ends which happen to be desired,
who further and befriend them, are called good, in the same sense, and
always with that relative limitation, which shows itself, for example, in
the expression, “I find this good, but you don’t.” Those, however, who are
naturally disposed not to hinder the endeavours of others, but rather to
assist them, and who are thus consistently helpful, benevolent, friendly,
and charitable, are called _good_ men, on account of this relation of
their conduct to the will of others in general. In the case of conscious
beings (brutes and men) the contrary conception is denoted in German, and,
within the last hundred years or so, in French also, by a different word
from that which is used in speaking of unconscious existence; in German,
_böse_; in French, _méchant_; while in almost all other languages this
distinction does not exist; and κακος, _malus_, _cattivo_, _bad_, are used
of men, as of lifeless things, which are opposed to the ends of a definite
individual will. Thus, having started entirely from the passive element in
the good, the inquiry could only proceed later to the active element, and
investigate the conduct of the man who is called good, no longer with
reference to others, but to himself; specially setting itself the task of
explaining both the purely objective respect which such conduct produces
in others, and the peculiar contentment with himself which it clearly
produces in the man himself, since he purchases it with sacrifices of
another kind; and also, on the other hand, the inner pain which
accompanies the bad disposition, whatever outward advantages it brings to
him who entertains it. It was from this source that the ethical systems,
both the philosophical and those which are supported by systems of
religion, took their rise. Both seek constantly in some way or other to
connect happiness with virtue, the former either by means of the principle
of contradiction or that of sufficient reason, and thus to make happiness
either identical with or the consequence of virtue, always sophistically;
the latter, by asserting the existence of other worlds than that which
alone can be known to experience.(79) In our system, on the contrary,
virtue will show itself, not as a striving after happiness, that is,
well-being and life, but as an effort in quite an opposite direction.

It follows from what has been said above, that the _good_ is, according to
its concept, των πρως τι; thus every good is essentially relative, for its
being consists in its relation to a desiring will. _Absolute good_ is,
therefore, a contradiction in terms; highest good, _summum bonum_, really
signifies the same thing—a final satisfaction of the will, after which no
new desire could arise,—a last motive, the attainment of which would
afford enduring satisfaction of the will. But, according to the
investigations which have already been conducted in this Fourth Book, such
a consummation is not even thinkable. The will can just as little cease
from willing altogether on account of some particular satisfaction, as
time can end or begin; for it there is no such thing as a permanent
fulfilment which shall completely and for ever satisfy its craving. It is
the vessel of the Danaides; for it there is no highest good, no absolute
good, but always a merely temporary good. If, however, we wish to give an
honorary position, as it were emeritus, to an old expression, which from
custom we do not like to discard altogether, we may, metaphorically and
figuratively, call the complete self-effacement and denial of the will,
the true absence of will, which alone for ever stills and silences its
struggle, alone gives that contentment which can never again be disturbed,
alone redeems the world, and which we shall now soon consider at the close
of our whole investigation—the absolute good, the _summum bonum_—and
regard it as the only radical cure of the disease of which all other means
are only palliations or anodynes. In this sense the Greek τελος and also
_finis bonorum_ correspond to the thing still better. So much for the
words _good_ and _bad_; now for the thing itself.

If a man is always disposed to do _wrong_ whenever the opportunity
presents itself, and there is no external power to restrain him, we call
him _bad_. According to our doctrine of wrong, this means that such a man
does not merely assert the will to live as it appears in his own body, but
in this assertion goes so far that he denies the will which appears in
other individuals. This is shown by the fact that he desires their powers
for the service of his own will, and seeks to destroy their existence when
they stand in the way of its efforts. The ultimate source of this is a
high degree of egoism, the nature of which has been already explained. Two
things are here apparent. In the first place, that in such a man an
excessively vehement will to live expresses itself, extending far beyond
the assertion of his own body; and, in the second place, that his
knowledge, entirely given up to the principle of sufficient reason and
involved in the _principium individuationis_, cannot get beyond the
difference which this latter principle establishes between his own person
and every one else. Therefore he seeks his own well-being alone,
completely indifferent to that of all others, whose existence is to him
altogether foreign and divided from his own by a wide gulf, and who are
indeed regarded by him as mere masks with no reality behind them. And
these two qualities are the constituent elements of the bad character.

This great intensity of will is in itself and directly a constant source
of suffering. In the first place, because all volition as such arises from
want; that is, suffering. (Therefore, as will be remembered, from the
Third Book, the momentary cessation of all volition, which takes place
whenever we give ourselves up to æsthetic contemplation, as pure will-less
subject of knowledge, the correlative of the Idea, is one of the principal
elements in our pleasure in the beautiful.) Secondly, because, through the
causal connection of things, most of our desires must remain unfulfilled,
and the will is oftener crossed than satisfied, and therefore much intense
volition carries with it much intense suffering. For all suffering is
simply unfulfilled and crossed volition; and even the pain of the body
when it is injured or destroyed is as such only possible through the fact
that the body is nothing but the will itself become object. Now on this
account, because much intense suffering is inseparable from much intense
volition, very bad men bear the stamp of inward suffering in the very
expression of the countenance; even when they have attained every external
happiness, they always look unhappy so long as they are not transported by
some momentary ecstasy and are not dissembling. From this inward torment,
which is absolutely and directly essential to them, there finally proceeds
that delight in the suffering of others which does not spring from mere
egoism, but is disinterested, and which constitutes _wickedness_ proper,
rising to the pitch of _cruelty_. For this the suffering of others is not
a means for the attainment of the ends of its own will, but an end in
itself. The more definite explanation of this phenomenon is as
follows:—Since man is a manifestation of will illuminated by the clearest
knowledge, he is always contrasting the actual and felt satisfaction of
his will with the merely possible satisfaction of it which knowledge
presents to him. Hence arises envy: every privation is infinitely
increased by the enjoyment of others, and relieved by the knowledge that
others also suffer the same privation. Those ills which are common to all
and inseparable from human life trouble us little, just as those which
belong to the climate, to the whole country. The recollection of greater
sufferings than our own stills our pain; the sight of the sufferings of
others soothes our own. If, now, a man is filled with an exceptionally
intense pressure of will,—if with burning eagerness he seeks to accumulate
everything to slake the thirst of his egoism, and thus experiences, as he
inevitably must, that all satisfaction is merely apparent, that the
attained end never fulfils the promise of the desired object, the final
appeasing of the fierce pressure of will, but that when fulfilled the wish
only changes its form, and now torments him in a new one; and indeed that
if at last all wishes are exhausted, the pressure of will itself remains
without any conscious motive, and makes itself known to him with fearful
pain as a feeling of terrible desolation and emptiness; if from all this,
which in the case of the ordinary degrees of volition is only felt in a
small measure, and only produces the ordinary degree of melancholy, in the
case of him who is a manifestation of will reaching the point of
extraordinary wickedness, there necessarily springs an excessive inward
misery, an eternal unrest, an incurable pain; he seeks indirectly the
alleviation which directly is denied him,—seeks to mitigate his own
suffering by the sight of the suffering of others, which at the same time
he recognises as an expression of his power. The suffering of others now
becomes for him an end in itself, and is a spectacle in which he delights;
and thus arises the phenomenon of pure cruelty, blood-thirstiness, which
history exhibits so often in the Neros and Domitians, in the African Deis,
in Robespierre, and the like.

The desire of revenge is closely related to wickedness. It recompenses
evil with evil, not with reference to the future, which is the character
of punishment, but merely on account of what has happened, what is past,
as such, thus disinterestedly, not as a means, but as an end, in order to
revel in the torment which the avenger himself has inflicted on the
offender. What distinguishes revenge from pure wickedness, and to some
extent excuses it, is an appearance of justice. For if the same act, which
is now revenge, were to be done legally, that is, according to a
previously determined and known rule, and in a society which had
sanctioned this rule, it would be punishment, and thus justice.

Besides the suffering which has been described, and which is inseparable
from wickedness, because it springs from the same root, excessive
vehemence of will, another specific pain quite different from this is
connected with wickedness, which is felt in the case of every bad action,
whether it be merely injustice proceeding from egoism or pure wickedness,
and according to the length of its duration is called _the sting of
conscience_ or _remorse_. Now, whoever remembers and has present in his
mind the content of the preceding portion of this Fourth Book, and
especially the truth explained at the beginning of it, that life itself is
always assured to the will to live, as its mere copy or mirror, and also
the exposition of eternal justice, will find that the sting of conscience
can have no other meaning than the following, _i.e._, its content,
abstractly expressed, is what follows, in which two parts are
distinguished, which again, however, entirely coincide, and must be
thought as completely united.

However closely the veil of Mâyâ may envelop the mind of the bad man,
_i.e._, however firmly he may be involved in the _principium
individuationis_, according to which he regards his person as absolutely
different and separated by a wide gulf from all others, a knowledge to
which he clings with all his might, as it alone suits and supports his
egoism, so that knowledge is almost always corrupted by will, yet there
arises in the inmost depths of his consciousness the secret presentiment
that such an order of things is only phenomenal, and that their real
constitution is quite different. He has a dim foreboding that, however
much time and space may separate him from other individuals and the
innumerable miseries which they suffer, and even suffer through him, and
may represent them as quite foreign to him, yet in themselves, and apart
from the idea and its forms, it is the one will to live appearing in them
all, which here failing to recognise itself, turns its weapons against
itself, and, by seeking increased happiness in one of its phenomena,
imposes the greatest suffering upon another. He dimly sees that he, the
bad man, is himself this whole will; that consequently he is not only the
inflicter of pain but also the endurer of it, from whose suffering he is
only separated and exempted by an illusive dream, the form of which is
space and time, which, however, vanishes away; that he must in reality pay
for the pleasure with the pain, and that all suffering which he only knows
as possible really concerns him as the will to live, inasmuch as the
possible and actual, the near and the distant in time and space, are only
different for the knowledge of the individual, only by means of the
_principium individuationis_, not in themselves. This is the truth which
mythically, _i.e._, adapted to the principle of sufficient reason, and so
translated into the form of the phenomenal, is expressed in the
transmigration of souls. Yet it has its purest expression, free from all
foreign admixture, in that obscurely felt yet inconsolable misery called
remorse. But this springs also from a second immediate knowledge, which is
closely bound to the first—the knowledge of the strength with which the
will to live asserts itself in the wicked individual, which extends far
beyond his own individual phenomenon, to the absolute denial of the same
will appearing in other individuals. Consequently the inward horror of the
wicked man at his own deed, which he himself tries to conceal, contains,
besides that presentment of the nothingness, the mere illusiveness of the
_principium individuationis_, and of the distinction established by it
between him and others; also the knowledge of the vehemence of his own
will, the intensity with which he has seized upon life and attached
himself closely to it, even that life whose terrible side he sees before
him in the misery of those who are oppressed by him, and with which he is
yet so firmly united, that just on this account the greatest atrocity
proceeds from him himself, as a means for the fuller assertion of his own
will. He recognises himself as the concentrated manifestation of the will
to live, feels to what degree he is given up to life, and with it also to
innumerable sufferings which are essential to it, for it has infinite time
and infinite space to abolish the distinction between the possible and the
actual, and to change all the sufferings which as yet are merely _known_
to him into sufferings he has _experienced_. The millions of years of
constant rebirth certainly exist, like the whole past and future, only in
conception; occupied time, the form of the phenomenon of the will, is only
the present, and for the individual time is ever new: it seems to him
always as if he had newly come into being. For life is inseparable from
the will to live, and the only form of life is the present. Death (the
repetition of the comparison must be excused) is like the setting of the
sun, which is only apparently swallowed up by the night, but in reality,
itself the source of all light, burns without intermission, brings new
days to new worlds, is always rising and always setting. Beginning and end
only concern the individual through time, the form of the phenomenon for
the idea. Outside time lies only the will, Kant’s thing-in-itself, and its
adequate objectification, the Idea of Plato. Therefore suicide affords no
escape; what every one in his inmost consciousness _wills_, that must he
_be_; and what every one _is_, that he _wills_. Thus, besides the merely
felt knowledge of the illusiveness and nothingness of the forms of the
idea which separate individuals, it is the self-knowledge of one’s own
will and its degree that gives the sting to conscience. The course of life
draws the image of the empirical character, whose original is the
intelligible character, and horrifies the wicked man by this image. He is
horrified all the same whether the image is depicted in large characters,
so that the world shares his horror, or in such small ones that he alone
sees it, for it only concerns him directly. The past would be a matter of
indifference, and could not pain the conscience if the character did not
feel itself free from all time and unalterable by it, so long as it does
not deny itself. Therefore things which are long past still weigh on the
conscience. The prayer, “Lead me not into temptation,” means, “Let me not
see what manner of person I am.” In the might with which the bad man
asserts life, and which exhibits itself to him in the sufferings which he
inflicts on others, he measures how far he is from the surrender and
denial of that will, the only possible deliverance from the world and its
miseries. He sees how far he belongs to it, and how firmly he is bound to
it; the _known_ suffering of others has no power to move him; he is given
up to life and _felt_ suffering. It remains hidden whether this will ever
break and overcome the vehemence of his will.

This exposition of the significance and inner nature of the _bad_, which
as mere feeling, _i.e._, not as distinct, abstract knowledge, is the
content of _remorse_, will gain distinctness and completeness by the
similar consideration of the _good_ as a quality of human will, and
finally of absolute resignation and holiness, which proceeds from it when
it has attained its highest grade. For opposites always throw light upon
each other, and the day at once reveals both itself and the night, as
Spinoza admirably remarks.

§ 66. A theory of morals without proof, that is, mere moralising, can
effect nothing, because it does not act as a motive. A theory of morals
which does act as a motive can do so only by working on self-love. But
what springs from this source has no moral worth. It follows from this
that no genuine virtue can be produced through moral theory or abstract
knowledge in general, but that such virtue must spring from that intuitive
knowledge which recognises in the individuality of others the same nature
as in our own.

For virtue certainly proceeds from knowledge, but not from the abstract
knowledge that can be communicated through words. If it were so, virtue
could be taught, and by here expressing in abstract language its nature
and the knowledge which lies at its foundation, we should make every one
who comprehends this even ethically better. But this is by no means the
case. On the contrary, ethical discourses and preaching will just as
little produce a virtuous man as all the systems of æsthetics from
Aristotle downwards have succeeded in producing a poet. For the real inner
nature of virtue the concept is unfruitful, just as it is in art, and it
is only in a completely subordinate position that it can be of use as a
tool in the elaboration and preserving of what has been ascertained and
inferred by other means. _Velle non discitur._ Abstract dogmas are, in
fact, without influence upon virtue, _i.e._, upon the goodness of the
disposition. False dogmas do not disturb it; true ones will scarcely
assist it. It would, in fact, be a bad look-out if the cardinal fact in
the life of man, his ethical worth, that worth which counts for eternity,
were dependent upon anything the attainment of which is so much a matter
of chance as is the case with dogmas, religious doctrines, and
philosophical theories. For morality dogmas have this value only: The man
who has become virtuous from knowledge of another kind, which is presently
to be considered, possesses in them a scheme or formula according to which
he accounts to his own reason, for the most part fictitiously, for his
non-egoistical action, the nature of which it, _i.e._, he himself, does
not comprehend, and with which account he has accustomed it to be content.

Upon conduct, outward action, dogmas may certainly exercise a powerful
influence, as also custom and example (the last because the ordinary man
does not trust his judgment, of the weakness of which he is conscious, but
only follows his own or some one else’s experience), but the disposition
is not altered in this way.(80) All abstract knowledge gives only motives;
but, as was shown above, motives can only alter the direction of the will,
not the will itself. All communicable knowledge, however, can only affect
the will as a motive. Thus when dogmas lead it, what the man really and in
general wills remains still the same. He has only received different
thoughts as to the ways in which it is to be attained, and imaginary
motives guide him just like real ones. Therefore, for example, it is all
one, as regards his ethical worth, whether he gives large gifts to the
poor, firmly persuaded that he will receive everything tenfold in a future
life, or expends the same sum on the improvement of an estate which will
yield interest, certainly late, but all the more surely and largely. And
he who for the sake of orthodoxy commits the heretic to the flames is as
much a murderer as the bandit who does it for gain; and indeed, as regards
inward circumstances, so also was he who slaughtered the Turks in the Holy
Land, if, like the burner of heretics, he really did so because he thought
that he would thereby gain a place in heaven. For these are careful only
for themselves, for their own egoism, just like the bandit, from whom they
are only distinguished by the absurdity of their means. From without, as
has been said, the will can only be reached through motives, and these
only alter the way in which it expresses itself, never the will itself.
_Velle non discitur._

In the case of good deeds, however, the doer of which appeals to dogmas,
we must always distinguish whether these dogmas really are the motives
which lead to the good deeds, or whether, as was said above, they are
merely the illusive account of them with which he seeks to satisfy his own
reason with regard to a good deed which really flows from quite a
different source, a deed which he does because he is good, though he does
not understand how to explain it rightly, and yet wishes to think
something with regard to it. But this distinction is very hard to make,
because it lies in the heart of a man. Therefore we can scarcely ever pass
a correct moral judgment on the action of others, and very seldom on our
own. The deeds and conduct of an individual and of a nation may be very
much modified through dogmas, example, and custom. But in themselves all
deeds (_opera operata_) are merely empty forms, and only the disposition
which leads to them gives them moral significance. This disposition,
however, may be quite the same when its outward manifestation is very
different. With an equal degree of wickedness, one man may die on the
wheel, and another in the bosom of his family. It may be the same grade of
wickedness which expresses itself in one nation in the coarse
characteristics of murder and cannibalism, and in another finely and
softly in miniature, in court intrigues, oppressions, and delicate plots
of every kind; the inner nature remains the same. It is conceivable that a
perfect state, or perhaps indeed a complete and firmly believed doctrine
of rewards and punishments after death, might prevent every crime;
politically much would be gained thereby; morally, nothing; only the
expression of the will in life would be restricted.

Thus genuine goodness of disposition, disinterested virtue, and pure
nobility do not proceed from abstract knowledge. Yet they do proceed from
knowledge; but it is a direct intuitive knowledge, which can neither be
reasoned away, nor arrived at by reasoning, a knowledge which, just
because it is not abstract, cannot be communicated, but must arise in each
for himself, which therefore finds its real and adequate expression not in
words, but only in deeds, in conduct, in the course of the life of man. We
who here seek the theory of virtue, and have therefore also to express
abstractly the nature of the knowledge which lies at its foundation, will
yet be unable to convey that knowledge itself in this expression. We can
only give the concept of this knowledge, and thus always start from action
in which alone it becomes visible, and refer to action as its only
adequate expression. We can only explain and interpret action, _i.e._,
express abstractly what really takes place in it.

Before we speak of the _good_ proper, in opposition to the _bad_, which
has been explained, we must touch on an intermediate grade, the mere
negation of the bad: this is _justice_. The nature of right and wrong has
been fully explained above; therefore we may briefly say here, that he who
voluntarily recognises and observes those merely moral limits between
wrong and right, even where this is not secured by the state or any other
external power, thus he who, according to our explanation, never carries
the assertion of his own will so far as to deny the will appearing in
another individual, is _just_. Thus, in order to increase his own
well-being, he will not inflict suffering upon others, _i.e._, he will
commit no crime, he will respect the rights and the property of others. We
see that for such a just man the _principium individuationis_ is no
longer, as in the case of the bad man, an absolute wall of partition. We
see that he does not, like the bad man, merely assert his own
manifestation of will and deny all others; that other persons are not for
him mere masks, whose nature is quite different from his own; but he shows
in his conduct that he also recognises his own nature—the will to live as
a thing-in-itself, in the foreign manifestation which is only given to him
as idea. Thus he finds himself again in that other manifestation, up to a
certain point, that of doing no wrong, _i.e._, abstaining from injury. To
this extent, therefore, he sees through the _principium individuationis_,
the veil of Mâyâ; so far he sets the being external to him on a level with
his own—he does it no injury.

If we examine the inmost nature of this justice, there already lies in it
the resolution not to go so far in the assertion of one’s own will as to
deny the manifestations of will of others, by compelling them to serve
one’s own. One will therefore wish to render to others as much as one
receives from them. The highest degree of this justice of disposition,
which is, however, always united with goodness proper, whose character is
no longer merely negative, extends so far that a man doubts his right to
inherited property, wishes to support his body only by his own powers,
mental and physical, feels every service of others and every luxury a
reproach, and finally embraces voluntary poverty. Thus we see how Pascal,
when he became an ascetic, would no longer permit any services to be
rendered him, although he had servants enough; in spite of his constant
bad health he made his bed himself, brought his own food from the kitchen,
&c. (“Vie de Pascal, par sa Sœur,” p. 19). Quite in keeping with this, it
is reported that many Hindus, even Rajas with great wealth, expend it
merely on the maintenance of their position, their court and attendants,
and themselves observe with the greatest scrupulousness the maxim that a
man should eat nothing that he has not himself both sowed and reaped. Yet
a certain misunderstanding lies at the bottom of this; for one man, just
because he is rich and powerful, can render such signal services to the
whole of human society that they counterbalance the wealth he has
inherited, for the secure possession of which he is indebted to society.
In reality that excessive justice of such Hindus is already more than
justice; it is actual renunciation, denial of the will to
live,—asceticism, of which we shall speak last. On the other hand, pure
idleness and living through the exertions of others, in the case of
inherited wealth, without accomplishing anything, may be regarded as
morally wrong, even if it must remain right according to positive laws.

We have found that voluntary justice has its inmost source in a certain
degree of penetration of the _principium individuationis_, while the
unjust remain entirely involved in this principle. This penetration may
exist not only in the degree which is required for justice, but also in
the higher degree which leads to benevolence and well-doing, to love of
mankind. And this may take place however strong and energetic in itself
the will which appears in such an individual may be. Knowledge can always
counterbalance it in him, teach him to resist the tendency to wrong, and
even produce in him every degree of goodness, and indeed of resignation.
Thus the good man is by no means to be regarded as originally a weaker
manifestation of will than the bad man, but it is knowledge which in him
masters the blind striving of will. There are certainly individuals who
merely seem to have a good disposition on account of the weakness of the
will appearing in them, but what they are soon appears from the fact that
they are not capable of any remarkable self-conquest in order to perform a
just or good deed.

If, however, as a rare exception, we meet a man who possesses a
considerable income, but uses very little of it for himself and gives all
the rest to the poor, while he denies himself many pleasures and comforts,
and we seek to explain the action of this man, we shall find, apart
altogether from the dogmas through which he tries to make his action
intelligible to his reason, that the simplest general expression and the
essential character of his conduct is that _he makes less distinction than
is usually made between himself and others_. This distinction is so great
in the eyes of many that the suffering of others is a direct pleasure to
the wicked and a welcome means of happiness to the unjust. The merely just
man is content not to cause it; and, in general, most men know and are
acquainted with innumerable sufferings of others in their vicinity, but do
not determine to mitigate them, because to do so would involve some
self-denial on their part. Thus, in each of all these a strong distinction
seems to prevail between his own ego and that of others; on the other
hand, to the noble man we have imagined, this distinction is not so
significant. The _principium individuationis_, the form of the phenomenon,
no longer holds him so tightly in its grasp, but the suffering which he
sees in others touches him almost as closely as his own. He therefore
tries to strike a balance between them, denies himself pleasures,
practises renunciation, in order to mitigate the sufferings of others. He
sees that the distinction between himself and others, which to the bad man
is so great a gulf, only belongs to a fleeting and illusive phenomenon. He
recognises directly and without reasoning that the in-itself of his own
manifestation is also that of others, the will to live, which constitutes
the inner nature of everything and lives in all; indeed, that this applies
also to the brutes and the whole of nature, and therefore he will not
cause suffering even to a brute.(81)

He is now just as little likely to allow others to starve, while he
himself has enough and to spare, as any one would be to suffer hunger one
day in order to have more the next day than he could enjoy. For to him who
does works of love the veil of Mâyâ has become transparent, the illusion
of the _principium individuationis_ has left him. He recognises himself,
his will, in every being, and consequently also in the sufferer. He is now
free from the perversity with which the will to live, not recognising
itself, here in one individual enjoys a fleeting and precarious pleasure,
and there in another pays for it with suffering and starvation, and thus
both inflicts and endures misery, not knowing that, like Thyestes, it
eagerly devours its own flesh; and then, on the one hand, laments its
undeserved suffering, and on the other hand transgresses without fear of
Nemesis, always merely because, involved in the _principium
individuationis_, thus generally in the kind of knowledge which is
governed by the principle of sufficient reason, it does not recognise
itself in the foreign phenomenon, and therefore does not perceive eternal
justice. To be cured of this illusion and deception of Mâyâ, and to do
works of love, are one and the same. But the latter is the necessary and
inevitable symptom of that knowledge.

The opposite of the sting of conscience, the origin and significance of
which is explained above, is the _good conscience_, the satisfaction which
we experience after every disinterested deed. It arises from the fact that
such a deed, as it proceeds from the direct recognition of our own inner
being in the phenomenon of another, affords us also the verification of
this knowledge, the knowledge that our true self exists not only in our
own person, this particular manifestation, but in everything that lives.
By this the heart feels itself enlarged, as by egoism it is contracted.
For as the latter concentrates our interest upon the particular
manifestation of our own individuality, upon which knowledge always
presents to us the innumerable dangers which constantly threaten this
manifestation, and anxiety and care becomes the key-note of our
disposition; the knowledge that everything living is just as much our own
inner nature, as is our own person, extends our interest to everything
living; and in this way the heart is enlarged. Thus through the diminished
interest in our own self, the anxious care for the self is attacked at its
very root and limited; hence the peace, the unbroken serenity, which a
virtuous disposition and a good conscience affords, and the more distinct
appearance of this with every good deed, for it proves to ourselves the
depth of that disposition. The egoist feels himself surrounded by strange
and hostile individuals, and all his hope is centred in his own good. The
good man lives in a world of friendly individuals, the well-being of any
of whom he regards as his own. Therefore, although the knowledge of the
lot of mankind generally does not make his disposition a joyful one, yet
the permanent knowledge of his own nature in all living beings, gives him
a certain evenness, and even serenity of disposition. For the interest
which is extended to innumerable manifestations cannot cause such anxiety
as that which is concentrated upon one. The accidents which concern
individuals collectively, equalise themselves, while those which happen to
the particular individual constitute good or bad fortune.

Thus, though others have set up moral principles which they give out as
prescriptions for virtue, and laws which it was necessary to follow, I, as
has already been said, cannot do this because I have no “ought” or law to
prescribe to the eternally free-will. Yet on the other hand, in the
connection of my system, what to a certain extent corresponds and is
analogous to that undertaking is the purely theoretical truth, of which my
whole exposition may be regarded as merely an elaboration, that the will
is the in-itself of every phenomenon but itself, as such, is free from the
forms of the phenomenal, and consequently from multiplicity; a truth,
which, with reference to action, I do not know how to express better than
by the formula of the Vedas already quoted: “Tat twam asi!” (This thou
art!) Whoever is able to say this to himself, with regard to every being
with whom he comes in contact, with clear knowledge and firm inward
conviction, is certain of all virtue and blessedness, and is on the direct
road to salvation.

But before I go further, and, as the conclusion of my exposition, show how
love, the origin and nature of which we recognised as the penetration of
the _principium individuationis_, leads to salvation, to the entire
surrender of the will to live, _i.e._, of all volition, and also how
another path, less soft but more frequented, leads men to the same goal, a
paradoxical proposition must first be stated and explained; not because it
is paradoxical, but because it is true, and is necessary to the
completeness of the thought I have present. It is this: “All love (αγαπη,
_caritas_) is sympathy.”

§ 67. We have seen how justice proceeds from the penetration of the
_principium individuationis_ in a less degree, and how from its
penetration in a higher degree there arises goodness of disposition
proper, which shows itself as pure, _i.e._, disinterested love towards
others. When now the latter becomes perfect, it places other individuals
and their fate completely on a level with itself and its own fate. Further
than this it cannot go, for there exists no reason for preferring the
individuality of another to its own. Yet the number of other individuals
whose whole happiness or life is in danger may outweigh the regard for
one’s own particular well-being. In such a case, the character that has
attained to the highest goodness and perfect nobility will entirely
sacrifice its own well-being, and even its life, for the well-being of
many others. So died Codrus, and Leonidas, and Regulus, and Decius Mus,
and Arnold von Winkelried; so dies every one who voluntarily and
consciously faces certain death for his friends or his country. And they
also stand on the same level who voluntarily submit to suffering and death
for maintaining what conduces and rightly belongs to the welfare of all
mankind; that is, for maintaining universal and important truths and
destroying great errors. So died Socrates and Giordano Bruno, and so many
a hero of the truth suffered death at the stake at the hands of the
priests.

Now, however, I must remind the reader, with reference to the paradox
stated above, that we found before that suffering is essential to life as
a whole, and inseparable from it. And that we saw that every wish proceeds
from a need, from a want, from suffering, and that therefore every
satisfaction is only the removal of a pain, and brings no positive
happiness; that the joys certainly lie to the wish, presenting themselves
as a positive good, but in truth they have only a negative nature, and are
only the end of an evil. Therefore what goodness, love, and nobleness do
for others, is always merely an alleviation of their suffering, and
consequently all that can influence them to good deeds and works of love,
is simply the _knowledge of the suffering of others_, which is directly
understood from their own suffering and placed on a level with it. But it
follows from this that pure love (αγαπη, _caritas_) is in its nature
sympathy; whether the suffering it mitigates, to which every unsatisfied
wish belongs, be great or small. Therefore we shall have no hesitation, in
direct contradiction to Kant, who will only recognise all true goodness
and all virtue to be such, if it has proceeded from abstract reflection,
and indeed from the conception of duty and of the categorical imperative,
and explains felt sympathy as weakness, and by no means virtue, we shall
have no hesitation, I say, in direct contradiction to Kant, in saying: the
mere concept is for genuine virtue just as unfruitful as it is for genuine
art: all true and pure love is sympathy, and all love which is not
sympathy is selfishness. Ερος is selfishness, αγαπη is sympathy.
Combinations of the two frequently occur. Indeed genuine friendship is
always a mixture of selfishness and sympathy; the former lies in the
pleasure experienced in the presence of the friend, whose individuality
corresponds to our own, and this almost always constitutes the greatest
part; sympathy shows itself in the sincere participation in his joy and
grief, and the disinterested sacrifices made in respect of the latter.
Thus Spinoza says: _Benevolentia nihil aliud est, quam cupiditas ex
commiseratione orta_ (Eth. iii. pr. 27, cor. 3, schol.) As a confirmation
of our paradoxical proposition it may be observed that the tone and words
of the language and caresses of pure love, entirely coincide with the
tones of sympathy; and we may also remark in passing that in Italian
sympathy and true love are denoted by the same word _pietà_.

This is also the place to explain one of the most striking peculiarities
of human nature, _weeping_, which, like laughter, belongs to those
qualities which distinguish man from the brutes. Weeping is by no means a
direct expression of pain, for it occurs where there is very little pain.
In my opinion, indeed, we never weep directly on account of the pain we
experience, but always merely on account of its repetition in reflection.
We pass from the felt pain, even when it is physical, to a mere idea of
it, and then find our own state so deserving of sympathy that we are
firmly and sincerely convinced that if another were the sufferer, we would
be full of sympathy, and love to relieve him. But now we ourselves are the
object of our own sympathy; with the most benevolent disposition we are
ourselves most in need of help; we feel that we suffer more than we could
see another suffer; and in this very complex frame of mind, in which the
directly felt suffering only comes to perception by a doubly circuitous
route, imagined as the suffering of another, sympathised with as such, and
then suddenly perceived again as directly our own,—in this complex frame
of mind, I say, Nature relieves itself through that remarkable physical
conflict. _Weeping_ is accordingly _sympathy with our own selves_, or
sympathy directed back on its source. It is therefore conditional upon the
capacity for love and sympathy, and also upon imagination. Therefore men
who are either hard-hearted or unimaginative do not weep easily, and
weeping is even always regarded as a sign of a certain degree of goodness
of character, and disarms anger, because it is felt that whoever can still
weep, must necessarily always be capable of love, _i.e._, sympathy towards
others, for this enters in the manner described into the disposition that
leads to weeping. The description which Petrarch gives of the rising of
his own tears, naïvely and truly expressing his feeling, entirely agrees
with the explanation we have given—


    “I vo pensando: e nel pensar m’ assale
    _Una pietà si forte di me stesso_,
    Che mi conduce spesso,
    Ad alto lagrimar, ch’i non soleva.”(82)


What has been said is also confirmed by the fact that children who have
been hurt generally do not cry till some one commiserates them; thus not
on account of the pain, but on account of the idea of it. When we are
moved to tears, not through our own suffering but through that of another,
this happens as follows. Either we vividly put ourselves in the place of
the sufferer by imagination, or see in his fate the lot of humanity as a
whole, and consequently, first of all, our own lot; and thus, in a very
roundabout way, it is yet always about ourselves that we weep, sympathy
with ourselves which we feel. This seems to be the principal reason of the
universal, and thus natural, weeping in the case of death. The mourner
does not weep for his loss; he would be ashamed of such egotistical tears,
instead of which he is sometimes ashamed of not weeping. First of all he
certainly weeps for the fate of the dead, but he also weeps when, after
long, heavy, and incurable suffering, death was to this man a wished-for
deliverance. Thus, principally, he is seized with sympathy for the lot of
all mankind, which is necessarily finite, so that every life, however
aspiring, and often rich in deeds, must be extinguished and become
nothing. But in this lot of mankind the mourner sees first of all his own,
and this all the more, the more closely he is related to him who has died,
thus most of all if it is his father. Although to his father his life was
misery through age and sickness, and though his helplessness was a heavy
burden to his son, yet that son weeps bitterly over the death of his
father for the reason which has been given.(83)

§ 68. After this digression about the identity of pure love and sympathy,
the final return of which upon our own individuality has, as its symptom,
the phenomenon of weeping, I now take up the thread of our discussion of
the ethical significance of action, in order to show how, from the same
source from which all goodness, love, virtue, and nobility of character
spring, there finally arises that which I call the denial of the will to
live.

We saw before that hatred and wickedness are conditioned by egoism, and
egoism rests on the entanglement of knowledge in the _principium
individuationis_. Thus we found that the penetration of that _principium
individuationis_ is the source and the nature of justice, and when it is
carried further, even to its fullest extent, it is the source and nature
of love and nobility of character. For this penetration alone, by
abolishing the distinction between our own individuality and that of
others, renders possible and explains perfect goodness of disposition,
extending to disinterested love and the most generous self-sacrifice for
others.

If, however, this penetration of the _principium individuationis_, this
direct knowledge of the identity of will in all its manifestations, is
present in a high degree of distinctness, it will at once show an
influence upon the will which extends still further. If that veil of Mâyâ,
the _principium individuationis_, is lifted from the eyes of a man to such
an extent that he no longer makes the egotistical distinction between his
person and that of others, but takes as much interest in the sufferings of
other individuals as in his own, and therefore is not only benevolent in
the highest degree, but even ready to sacrifice his own individuality
whenever such a sacrifice will save a number of other persons, then it
clearly follows that such a man, who recognises in all beings his own
inmost and true self, must also regard the infinite suffering of all
suffering beings as his own, and take on himself the pain of the whole
world. No suffering is any longer strange to him. All the miseries of
others which he sees and is so seldom able to alleviate, all the miseries
he knows directly, and even those which he only knows as possible, work
upon his mind like his own. It is no longer the changing joy and sorrow of
his own person that he has in view, as is the case with him who is still
involved in egoism; but, since he sees through the _principium
individuationis_, all lies equally near him. He knows the whole,
comprehends its nature, and finds that it consists in a constant passing
away, vain striving, inward conflict, and continual suffering. He sees
wherever he looks suffering humanity, the suffering brute creation, and a
world that passes away. But all this now lies as near him as his own
person lies to the egoist. Why should he now, with such knowledge of the
world, assert this very life through constant acts of will, and thereby
bind himself ever more closely to it, press it ever more firmly to
himself? Thus he who is still involved in the _principium
individuationis_, in egoism, only knows particular things and their
relation to his own person, and these constantly become new _motives_ of
his volition. But, on the other hand, that knowledge of the whole, of the
nature of the thing-in-itself which has been described, becomes a
_quieter_ of all and every volition. The will now turns away from life; it
now shudders at the pleasures in which it recognises the assertion of
life. Man now attains to the state of voluntary renunciation, resignation,
true indifference, and perfect will-lessness. If at times, in the hard
experience of our own suffering, or in the vivid recognition of that of
others, the knowledge of the vanity and bitterness of life draws nigh to
us also who are still wrapt in the veil of Mâyâ, and we would like to
destroy the sting of the desires, close the entrance against all
suffering, and purify and sanctify ourselves by complete and final
renunciation; yet the illusion of the phenomenon soon entangles us again,
and its motives influence the will anew; we cannot tear ourselves free.
The allurement of hope, the flattery of the present, the sweetness of
pleasure, the well-being which falls to our lot, amid the lamentations of
a suffering world governed by chance and error, draws us back to it and
rivets our bonds anew. Therefore Jesus says: “It is easier for a camel to
go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the
kingdom of God.”

If we compare life to a course or path through which we must unceasingly
run—a path of red-hot coals, with a few cool places here and there; then
he who is entangled in delusion is consoled by the cool places, on which
he now stands, or which he sees near him, and sets out to run through the
course. But he who sees through the _principium individuationis_, and
recognises the real nature of the thing-in-itself, and thus the whole, is
no longer susceptible of such consolation; he sees himself in all places
at once, and withdraws. His will turns round, no longer asserts its own
nature, which is reflected in the phenomenon, but denies it. The
phenomenon by which this change is marked, is the transition from virtue
to asceticism. That is to say, it no longer suffices for such a man to
love others as himself, and to do as much for them as for himself; but
there arises within him a horror of the nature of which his own phenomenal
existence is an expression, the will to live, the kernel and inner nature
of that world which is recognised as full of misery. He therefore disowns
this nature which appears in him, and is already expressed through his
body, and his action gives the lie to his phenomenal existence, and
appears in open contradiction to it. Essentially nothing else but a
manifestation of will, he ceases to will anything, guards against
attaching his will to anything, and seeks to confirm in himself the
greatest indifference to everything. His body, healthy and strong,
expresses through the genitals, the sexual impulse; but he denies the will
and gives the lie to the body; he desires no sensual gratification under
any condition. Voluntary and complete chastity is the first step in
asceticism or the denial of the will to live. It thereby denies the
assertion of the will which extends beyond the individual life, and gives
the assurance that with the life of this body, the will, whose
manifestation it is, ceases. Nature, always true and naïve, declares that
if this maxim became universal, the human race would die out; and I think
I may assume, in accordance with what was said in the Second Book about
the connection of all manifestations of will, that with its highest
manifestation, the weaker reflection of it would also pass away, as the
twilight vanishes along with the full light. With the entire abolition of
knowledge, the rest of the world would of itself vanish into nothing; for
without a subject there is no object. I should like here to refer to a
passage in the Vedas, where it is said: “As in this world hungry infants
press round their mother; so do all beings await the holy oblation.”
(Asiatic Researches, vol. viii.; Colebrooke, On the Vedas, Abstract of the
Sama-Veda; also in Colebrooke’s Miscellaneous Essays, vol. i. p. 79.)
Sacrifice means resignation generally, and the rest of nature must look
for its salvation to man who is at once the priest and the sacrifice.
Indeed it deserves to be noticed as very remarkable, that this thought has
also been expressed by the admirable and unfathomably profound Angelus
Silesius, in the little poem entitled, “Man brings all to God;” it runs,
“Man! all loves thee; around thee great is the throng. All things flee to
thee that they may attain to God.” But a yet greater mystic, Meister
Eckhard, whose wonderful writings are at last accessible (1857) through
the edition of Franz Pfeiffer, says the same thing (p. 459) quite in the
sense explained here: “I bear witness to the saying of Christ. I, if I be
lifted up from the earth, will draw all things unto me (John xii. 32). So
shall the good man draw all things up to God, to the source whence they
first came. The Masters certify to us that all creatures are made for the
sake of man. This is proved in all created things, by the fact that the
one makes the use of the other; the ox makes use of the grass, the fish of
the water, the bird of the air, the wild beast of the forest. Thus, all
created things become of use to the good man. A good man brings to God the
one created thing in the other.” He means to say, that man makes use of
the brutes in this life because, in and with himself, he saves them also.
It also seems to me that that difficult passage in the Bible, Rom. viii.
21-24, must be interpreted in this sense.

In Buddhism also, there is no lack of expressions of this truth. For
example, when Buddha, still as Bodisatwa, has his horse saddled for the
last time, for his flight into the wilderness from his father’s house, he
says these lines to the horse: “Long hast thou existed in life and in
death, but now thou shalt cease from carrying and drawing. Bear me but
this once more, O Kantakana, away from here, and when I have attained to
the Law (have become Buddha) I will not forget thee” (Foe Koue Ki, trad.
p. Abel Rémusat, p. 233).

Asceticism then shows itself further in voluntary and intentional poverty,
which not only arises _per accidens_, because the possessions are given
away to mitigate the sufferings of others, but is here an end in itself,
is meant to serve as a constant mortification of will, so that the
satisfaction of the wishes, the sweet of life, shall not again arouse the
will, against which self-knowledge has conceived a horror. He who has
attained to this point, still always feels, as a living body, as concrete
manifestation of will, the natural disposition for every kind of volition;
but he intentionally suppresses it, for he compels himself to refrain from
doing all that he would like to do, and to do all that he would like not
to do, even if this has no further end than that of serving as a
mortification of will. Since he himself denies the will which appears in
his own person, he will not resist if another does the same, _i.e._,
inflicts wrongs upon him. Therefore every suffering coming to him from
without, through chance or the wickedness of others, is welcome to him,
every injury, ignominy, and insult; he receives them gladly as the
opportunity of learning with certainty that he no longer asserts the will,
but gladly sides with every enemy of the manifestation of will which is
his own person. Therefore he bears such ignominy and suffering with
inexhaustible patience and meekness, returns good for evil without
ostentation, and allows the fire of anger to rise within him just as
little as that of the desires. And he mortifies not only the will itself,
but also its visible form, its objectivity, the body. He nourishes it
sparingly, lest its excessive vigour and prosperity should animate and
excite more strongly the will, of which it is merely the expression and
the mirror. So he practises fasting, and even resorts to chastisement and
self-inflicted torture, in order that, by constant privation and
suffering, he may more and more break down and destroy the will, which he
recognises and abhors as the source of his own suffering existence and
that of the world. If at last death comes, which puts an end to this
manifestation of that will, whose existence here has long since perished
through free-denial of itself, with the exception of the weak residue of
it which appears as the life of this body; it is most welcome, and is
gladly received as a longed-for deliverance. Here it is not, as in the
case of others, merely the manifestation which ends with death; but the
inner nature itself is abolished, which here existed only in the
manifestation, and that in a very weak degree;(84) this last slight bond
is now broken. For him who thus ends, the world has ended also.

And what I have here described with feeble tongue and only in general
terms, is no philosophical fable, invented by myself, and only of to-day;
no, it was the enviable life of so many saints and beautiful souls among
Christians, and still more among Hindus and Buddhists, and also among the
believers of other religions. However different were the dogmas impressed
on their reason, the same inward, direct, intuitive knowledge, from which
alone all virtue and holiness proceed, expressed itself in precisely the
same way in the conduct of life. For here also the great distinction
between intuitive and abstract knowledge shows itself; a distinction which
is of such importance and universal application in our whole
investigation, and which has hitherto been too little attended to. There
is a wide gulf between the two, which can only be crossed by the aid of
philosophy, as regards the knowledge of the nature of the world.
Intuitively or _in concreto_, every man is really conscious of all
philosophical truths, but to bring them to abstract knowledge, to
reflection, is the work of philosophy, which neither ought nor is able to
do more than this.

Thus it may be that the inner nature of holiness, self-renunciation,
mortification of our own will, asceticism, is here for the first time
expressed abstractly, and free from all mythical elements, as _denial of
the will to live_, appearing after the complete knowledge of its own
nature has become a quieter of all volition. On the other hand, it has
been known directly and realised in practice by saints and ascetics, who
had all the same inward knowledge, though they used very different
language with regard to it, according to the dogmas which their reason had
accepted, and in consequence of which an Indian, a Christian, or a Lama
saint must each give a very different account of his conduct, which is,
however, of no importance as regards the fact. A saint may be full of the
absurdest superstition, or, on the contrary, he may be a philosopher, it
is all the same. His conduct alone certifies that he is a saint, for, in a
moral regard, it proceeds from knowledge of the world and its nature,
which is not abstractly but intuitively and directly apprehended, and is
only expressed by him in any dogma for the satisfaction of his reason. It
is therefore just as little needful that a saint should be a philosopher
as that a philosopher should be a saint; just as it is not necessary that
a perfectly beautiful man should be a great sculptor, or that a great
sculptor should himself be a beautiful man. In general, it is a strange
demand upon a moralist that he should teach no other virtue than that
which he himself possesses. To repeat the whole nature of the world
abstractly, universally, and distinctly in concepts, and thus to store up,
as it were, a reflected image of it in permanent concepts always at the
command of the reason; this and nothing else is philosophy. I refer the
reader to the passage quoted from Bacon in the First Book.

But the description I have given above of the denial of the will to live,
of the conduct of a beautiful soul, of a resigned and voluntarily
expiating saint, is merely abstract and general, and therefore cold. As
the knowledge from which the denial of the will proceeds is intuitive and
not abstract, it finds its most perfect expression, not in abstract
conceptions, but in deeds and conduct. Therefore, in order to understand
fully what we philosophically express as denial of the will to live, one
must come to know examples of it in experience and actual life. Certainly
they are not to be met with in daily experience: _Nam omnia præclara tam
difficilia quam rara sunt_, Spinoza admirably says. Therefore, unless by a
specially happy fate we are made eye-witnesses, we have to content
ourselves with descriptions of the lives of such men. Indian literature,
as we see from the little that we as yet know through translations, is
very rich in descriptions of the lives of saints, penitents, Samanas or
ascetics, Sannyâsis or mendicants, and whatever else they may be called.
Even the well-known “Mythologie des Indous, par Mad. de Polier,” though by
no means to be commended in every respect, contains many excellent
examples of this kind (especially in ch. 13, vol. ii.) Among Christians
also there is no lack of examples which afford us the illustrations we
desire. See the biographies, for the most part badly written, of those
persons who are sometimes called saintly souls, sometimes pietists,
quietists, devout enthusiasts, and so forth. Collections of such
biographies have been made at various times, such as Tersteegen’s “Leben
heiliger Seelen,” Reiz’s “Geschichte der Wiedergeborennen,” in our own
day, a collection by Kanne, which, with much that is bad, yet contains
some good, and especially the “Leben der Beata Sturmin.” To this category
very properly belongs the life of St. Francis of Assisi, that true
personification of the ascetic, and prototype of all mendicant friars. His
life, described by his younger contemporary, St. Bonaventura, also famous
as a scholastic, has recently been republished. “Vita S. Francisci a S.
Bonaventura concinnata” (Soest, 1847), though shortly before a painstaking
and detailed biography, making use of all sources of information, appeared
in France, “Histoire de S. François d’Assise, par Chavin de Mallan”
(1845). As an Oriental parallel of these monastic writings we have the
very valuable work of Spence Hardy, “Eastern Monachism; an Account of the
Order of Mendicants founded by Gotama Budha” (1850). It shows us the same
thing in another dress. We also see what a matter of indifference it is
whether it proceeds from a theistical or an atheistical religion. But as a
special and exceedingly full example and practical illustration of the
conceptions I have established, I can thoroughly recommend the
“Autobiography of Madame de Guion.” To become acquainted with this great
and beautiful soul, the very thought of whom always fills me with
reverence, and to do justice to the excellence of her disposition while
making allowance for the superstition of her reason, must be just as
delightful to every man of the better sort as with vulgar thinkers,
_i.e._, the majority, that book will always stand in bad repute. For it is
the case with regard to everything, that each man can only prize that
which to a certain extent is analogous to him and for which he has at
least a slight inclination. This holds good of ethical concerns as well as
of intellectual. We might to a certain extent regard the well-known French
biography of Spinoza as a case in point, if we used as a key to it that
noble introduction to his very insufficient essay, “De Emendatione
Intellectus,” a passage which I can also recommend as the most effectual
means I know of stilling the storm of the passions. Finally, even the
great Goethe, Greek as he is, did not think it below his dignity to show
us this most beautiful side of humanity in the magic mirror of poetic art,
for he represented the life of Fräulein Klettenberg in an idealised form
in his “Confessions of a Beautiful Soul,” and later, in his own biography,
gave us also an historical account of it. Besides this, he twice told the
story of the life of St. Philippo Neri. The history of the world, will,
and indeed must, keep silence about the men whose conduct is the best and
only adequate illustration of this important point of our investigation,
for the material of the history of the world is quite different, and
indeed opposed to this. It is not the denial of the will to live, but its
assertion and its manifestation in innumerable individuals in which its
conflict with itself at the highest grade of its objectification appears
with perfect distinctness, and brings before our eyes, now the ascendancy
of the individual through prudence, now the might of the many through
their mass, now the might of chance personified as fate, always the vanity
and emptiness of the whole effort. We, however, do not follow here the
course of phenomena in time, but, as philosophers, we seek to investigate
the ethical significance of action, and take this as the only criterion of
what for us is significant and important. Thus we will not be withheld by
any fear of the constant numerical superiority of vulgarity and dulness
from acknowledging that the greatest, most important, and most significant
phenomenon that the world can show is not the conqueror of the world, but
the subduer of it; is nothing but the quiet, unobserved life of a man who
has attained to the knowledge in consequence of which he surrenders and
denies that will to live which fills everything and strives and strains in
all, and which first gains freedom here in him alone, so that his conduct
becomes the exact opposite of that of other men. In this respect,
therefore, for the philosopher, these accounts of the lives of holy,
self-denying men, badly as they are generally written, and mixed as they
are with superstition and nonsense, are, because of the significance of
the material, immeasurably more instructive and important than even
Plutarch and Livy.

It will further assist us much in obtaining a more definite and full
knowledge of what we have expressed abstractly and generally, according to
our method of exposition, as the denial of the will to live, if we
consider the moral teaching that has been imparted with this intention,
and by men who were full of this spirit; and this will also show how old
our view is, though the pure philosophical expression of it may be quite
new. The teaching of this kind which lies nearest to hand is Christianity,
the ethics of which are entirely in the spirit indicated, and lead not
only to the highest degrees of human love, but also to renunciation. The
germ of this last side of it is certainly distinctly present in the
writings of the Apostles, but it was only fully developed and expressed
later. We find the Apostles enjoining the love of our neighbour as
ourselves, benevolence, the requital of hatred with love and well-doing,
patience, meekness, the endurance of all possible injuries without
resistance, abstemiousness in nourishment to keep down lust, resistance to
sensual desire, if possible, altogether. We already see here the first
degrees of asceticism, or denial of the will proper. This last expression
denotes that which in the Gospels is called denying ourselves and taking
up the cross (Matt. xvi. 24, 25; Mark viii. 34, 35; Luke ix. 23, 24, xiv.
26, 27, 33). This tendency soon developed itself more and more, and was
the origin of hermits, anchorites, and monasticism—an origin which in
itself was pure and holy, but for that very reason unsuitable for the
great majority of men; therefore what developed out of it could only be
hypocrisy and wickedness, for _abusus optimi pessimus_. In more developed
Christianity, we see that seed of asceticism unfold into the full flower
in the writings of the Christian saints and mystics. These preach, besides
the purest love, complete resignation, voluntary and absolute poverty,
genuine calmness, perfect indifference to all worldly things, dying to our
own will and being born again in God, entire forgetting of our own person,
and sinking ourselves in the contemplation of God. A full exposition of
this will be found in Fénélon’s “Explication des Maximes des Saints sur la
Vie Interieure.” But the spirit of this development of Christianity is
certainly nowhere so fully and powerfully expressed as in the writings of
the German mystics, in the works of Meister Eckhard, and in that justly
famous book “Die Deutsche Theologie,” of which Luther says in the
introduction to it which he wrote, that with the exception of the Bible
and St. Augustine, he had learnt more from it of what God, Christ, and man
are than from any other book. Yet we only got the genuine and correct text
of it in the year 1851, in the Stuttgart edition by Pfeiffer. The precepts
and doctrines which are laid down there are the most perfect exposition,
sprung from deep inward conviction of what I have presented as the denial
of the will. It should therefore be studied more closely in that form
before it is dogmatised about with Jewish-Protestant assurance. Tauler’s
“Nachfolgung des armen Leben Christi,” and also his “Medulla Animæ,” are
written in the same admirable spirit, though not quite equal in value to
that work. In my opinion the teaching of these genuine Christian mystics,
when compared with the teaching of the New Testament, is as alcohol to
wine, or what becomes visible in the New Testament as through a veil and
mist appears to us in the works of the mystics without cloak or disguise,
in full clearness and distinctness. Finally, the New Testament might be
regarded as the first initiation, the mystics as the second,—σμικρα και
μεγαλα μυστηρια.

We find, however, that which we have called the denial of the will to live
more fully developed, more variously expressed, and more vividly
represented in the ancient Sanscrit writings than could be the case in the
Christian Church and the Western world. That this important ethical view
of life could here attain to a fuller development and a more distinct
expression is perhaps principally to be ascribed to the fact that it was
not confined by an element quite foreign to it, as Christianity is by the
Jewish theology, to which its sublime author had necessarily to adopt and
accommodate it, partly consciously, partly, it may be, unconsciously. Thus
Christianity is made up of two very different constituent parts, and I
should like to call the purely ethical part especially and indeed
exclusively Christian, and distinguish it from the Jewish dogmatism with
which it is combined. If, as has often been feared, and especially at the
present time, that excellent and salutary religion should altogether
decline, I should look for the reason of this simply in the fact that it
does not consist of one single element, but of two originally different
elements, which have only been combined through the accident of history.
In such a case dissolution had to follow through the separation of these
elements, arising from their different relationship to and reaction
against the progressive spirit of the age. But even after this dissolution
the purely ethical part must always remain uninjured, because it is
indestructible. Our knowledge of Hindu literature is still very imperfect.
Yet, as we find their ethical teaching variously and powerfully expressed
in the Vedas, Puranas, poems, myths, legends of their saints, maxims and
precepts,(85) we see that it inculcates love of our neighbour with
complete renunciation of self-love; love generally, not confined to
mankind, but including all living creatures; benevolence, even to the
giving away of the hard-won wages of daily toil; unlimited patience
towards all who injure us; the requital of all wickedness, however base,
with goodness and love; voluntary and glad endurance of all ignominy;
abstinence from all animal food; perfect chastity and renunciation of all
sensual pleasure for him who strives after true holiness; the surrender of
all possessions, the forsaking of every dwelling-place and of all
relatives; deep unbroken solitude, spent in silent contemplation, with
voluntary penance and terrible slow self-torture for the absolute
mortification of the will, torture which extends to voluntary death by
starvation, or by men giving themselves up to crocodiles, or flinging
themselves over the sacred precipice in the Himalayas, or being buried
alive, or, finally, by flinging themselves under the wheels of the huge
car of an idol drawn along amid the singing, shouting, and dancing of
bayaderes. And even yet these precepts, whose origin reaches back more
than four thousand years, are carried out in practice, in some cases even
to the utmost extreme,(86) and this notwithstanding the fact that the
Hindu nation has been broken up into so many parts. A religion which
demands the greatest sacrifices, and which has yet remained so long in
practice in a nation that embraces so many millions of persons, cannot be
an arbitrarily invented superstition, but must have its foundation in the
nature of man. But besides this, if we read the life of a Christian
penitent or saint, and also that of a Hindu saint, we cannot sufficiently
wonder at the harmony we find between them. In the case of such radically
different dogmas, customs, and circumstances, the inward life and effort
of both is the same. And the same harmony prevails in the maxims
prescribed for both of them. For example, Tauler speaks of the absolute
poverty which one ought to seek, and which consists in giving away and
divesting oneself completely of everything from which one might draw
comfort or worldly pleasure, clearly because all this constantly affords
new nourishment to the will, which it is intended to destroy entirely. And
as an Indian counterpart of this, we find in the precepts of Fo that the
Saniassi, who ought to be without a dwelling and entirely without
property, is further finally enjoined not to lay himself down often under
the same tree, lest he should acquire a preference or inclination for it
above other trees. The Christian mystic and the teacher of the Vedanta
philosophy agree in this respect also, they both regard all outward works
and religious exercises as superfluous for him who has attained to
perfection. So much agreement in the case of such different ages and
nations is a practical proof that what is expressed here is not, as
optimistic dulness likes to assert, an eccentricity and perversity of the
mind, but an essential side of human nature, which only appears so rarely
because of its excellence.

I have now indicated the sources from which there may be obtained a direct
knowledge, drawn from life itself, of the phenomena in which the denial of
the will to live exhibits itself. In some respects this is the most
important point of our whole work; yet I have only explained it quite
generally, for it is better to refer to those who speak from direct
experience, than to increase the size of this book unduly by weak
repetitions of what is said by them.

I only wish to add a little to the general indication of the nature of
this state. We saw above that the wicked man, by the vehemence of his
volition, suffers constant, consuming, inward pain, and finally, if all
objects of volition are exhausted, quenches the fiery thirst of his
self-will by the sight of the suffering of others. He, on the contrary,
who has attained to the denial of the will to live, however poor, joyless,
and full of privation his condition may appear when looked at externally,
is yet filled with inward joy and the true peace of heaven. It is not the
restless strain of life, the jubilant delight which has keen suffering as
its preceding or succeeding condition, in the experience of the man who
loves life; but it is a peace that cannot be shaken, a deep rest and
inward serenity, a state which we cannot behold without the greatest
longing when it is brought before our eyes or our imagination, because we
at once recognise it as that which alone is right, infinitely surpassing
everything else, upon which our better self cries within us the great
_sapere aude_. Then we feel that every gratification of our wishes won
from the world is merely like the alms which the beggar receives from life
to-day that he may hunger again on the morrow; resignation, on the
contrary, is like an inherited estate, it frees the owner for ever from
all care.

It will be remembered from the Third Book that the æsthetic pleasure in
the beautiful consists in great measure in the fact that in entering the
state of pure contemplation we are lifted for the moment above all
willing, _i.e._, all wishes and cares; we become, as it were, freed from
ourselves. We are no longer the individual whose knowledge is subordinated
to the service of its constant willing, the correlative of the particular
thing to which objects are motives, but the eternal subject of knowing
purified from will, the correlative of the Platonic Idea. And we know that
these moments in which, delivered from the ardent strain of will, we seem
to rise out of the heavy atmosphere of earth, are the happiest which we
experience. From this we can understand how blessed the life of a man must
be whose will is silenced, not merely for a moment, as in the enjoyment of
the beautiful, but for ever, indeed altogether extinguished, except as
regards the last glimmering spark that retains the body in life, and will
be extinguished with its death. Such a man, who, after many bitter
struggles with his own nature, has finally conquered entirely, continues
to exist only as a pure, knowing being, the undimmed mirror of the world.
Nothing can trouble him more, nothing can move him, for he has cut all the
thousand cords of will which hold us bound to the world, and, as desire,
fear, envy, anger, drag us hither and thither in constant pain. He now
looks back smiling and at rest on the delusions of this world, which once
were able to move and agonise his spirit also, but which now stand before
him as utterly indifferent to him, as the chess-men when the game is
ended, or as, in the morning, the cast-off masquerading dress which
worried and disquieted us in a night in Carnival. Life and its forms now
pass before him as a fleeting illusion, as a light morning dream before
half-waking eyes, the real world already shining through it so that it can
no longer deceive; and like this morning dream, they finally vanish
altogether without any violent transition. From this we can understand the
meaning of Madame Guion when towards the end of her autobiography she
often expresses herself thus: “Everything is alike to me; I _cannot_ will
anything more: often I know not whether I exist or not.” In order to
express how, after the extinction of the will, the death of the body
(which is indeed only the manifestation of the will, and therefore loses
all significance when the will is abolished) can no longer have any
bitterness, but is very welcome, I may be allowed to quote the words of
that holy penitent, although they are not very elegantly turned: “_Midi de
la gloire; jour où il n’y a plus de nuit; vie qui ne craint plus la mort,
dans la mort même: parceque la mort a vaincu la mort, et que celui qui a
souffert la première mort, ne goutera plus la seconde mort_” (Vie de Mad.
de Guion, vol. ii. p. 13).

We must not, however, suppose that when, by means of the knowledge which
acts as a quieter of will, the denial of the will to live has once
appeared, it never wavers or vacillates, and that we can rest upon it as
on an assured possession. Rather, it must ever anew be attained by a
constant battle. For since the body is the will itself only in the form of
objectivity or as manifestation in the world as idea, so long as the body
lives, the whole will to live exists potentially, and constantly strives
to become actual, and to burn again with all its ardour. Therefore that
peace and blessedness in the life of holy men which we have described is
only found as the flower which proceeds from the constant victory over the
will, and the ground in which it grows is the constant battle with the
will to live, for no one can have lasting peace upon earth. We therefore
see the histories of the inner life of saints full of spiritual conflicts,
temptations, and absence of grace, _i.e._, the kind of knowledge which
makes all motives ineffectual, and as an universal quieter silences all
volition, gives the deepest peace and opens the door of freedom. Therefore
also we see those who have once attained to the denial of the will to live
strive with all their might to keep upon this path, by enforced
renunciation of every kind, by penance and severity of life, and by
selecting whatever is disagreeable to them, all in order to suppress the
will, which is constantly springing up anew. Hence, finally, because they
already know the value of salvation, their anxious carefulness to retain
the hard-won blessing, their scruples of conscience about every innocent
pleasure, or about every little excitement of their vanity, which here
also dies last, the most immovable, the most active, and the most foolish
of all the inclinations of man. By the term _asceticism_, which I have
used so often, I mean in its narrower sense this _intentional_ breaking of
the will by the refusal of what is agreeable and the selection of what is
disagreeable, the voluntarily chosen life of penance and self-chastisement
for the continual mortification of the will.

We see this practised by him who has attained to the denial of the will in
order to enable him to persist in it; but suffering in general, as it is
inflicted by fate, is a second way (δευτερος πλους(87)) of attaining to
that denial. Indeed, we may assume that most men only attain to it in this
way, and that it is the suffering which is personally experienced, not
that which is merely known, which most frequently produces complete
resignation, often only at the approach of death. For only in the case of
a few is the mere knowledge which, seeing through the _principium
individuationis_, first produces perfect goodness of disposition and
universal love of humanity, and finally enables them to regard all the
suffering of the world as their own; only in the case of a few, I say, is
this knowledge sufficient to bring about the denial of the will. Even with
him who approaches this point, it is almost invariably the case that the
tolerable condition of his own body, the flattery of the moment, the
delusion of hope, and the satisfaction of the will, which is ever
presenting itself anew, _i.e._, lust, is a constant hindrance to the
denial of the will, and a constant temptation to the renewed assertion of
it. Therefore in this respect all these illusions have been personified as
the devil. Thus in most cases the will must be broken by great personal
suffering before its self-conquest appears. Then we see the man who has
passed through all the increasing degrees of affliction with the most
vehement resistance, and is finally brought to the verge of despair,
suddenly retire into himself, know himself and the world, change his whole
nature, rise above himself and all suffering, as if purified and
sanctified by it, in inviolable peace, blessedness, and sublimity,
willingly renounce everything he previously desired with all his might,
and joyfully embrace death. It is the refined silver of the denial of the
will to live that suddenly comes forth from the purifying flame of
suffering. It is salvation. Sometimes we see even those who were very
wicked purified to this degree by great grief; they have become new beings
and are completely changed. Therefore their former misdeeds trouble their
consciences no more, yet they willingly atone for them by death, and
gladly see the end of the manifestation of that will which is now foreign
to them and abhorred by them. The great Goethe has given us a distinct and
visible representation of this denial of the will, brought about by great
misfortunes and despair of all deliverance, in his immortal masterpiece
“Faust,” in the story of the sufferings of Gretchen. I know no parallel to
this in poetry. It is a perfect example of the second path that leads to
the denial of the will, not, as the first, through the mere knowledge of
the sufferings of a whole world which one has voluntarily acquired, but
through excessive suffering experienced in one’s own person. Many
tragedies certainly end by conducting their strong-willed heroes to the
point of entire resignation, and then generally the will to live and its
manifestation end together, but no representation that is known to me
brings what is essential to that change so distinctly before us, free from
all that is extraneous, as the part of “Faust” I have referred to.

In actual life we see that those unfortunate persons who have to drink to
the dregs the greatest cup of suffering, since when all hope is taken from
them they have to face with full consciousness a shameful, violent, and
often painful death on the scaffold, are very frequently changed in this
way. We must not indeed assume that there is so great a difference between
their character and that of most men as their fate would seem to indicate,
but must attribute the latter for the most part to circumstances; yet they
are guilty and to a considerable degree bad. We see, however, many of
them, when they have entirely lost hope, changed in the way referred to.
They now show actual goodness and purity of disposition, true abhorrence
of doing any act in the least degree bad or unkind. They forgive their
enemies, even if it is through them that they innocently suffer; and not
with words merely and a sort of hypocritical fear of the judges of the
lower world, but in reality and with inward earnestness and no desire for
revenge. Indeed, their sufferings and death at last becomes dear to them,
for the denial of the will to live has appeared; they often decline the
deliverance when it is offered, and die gladly, peacefully, and happily.
To them the last secret of life has revealed itself in their excessive
pain; the secret that misery and wickedness, sorrow and hate, the sufferer
and the inflicter of suffering, however different they may appear to the
knowledge which follows the principle of sufficient reason, are in
themselves one, the manifestation of that one will to live which
objectifies its conflict with itself by means of the _principium
individuationis_. They have learned to know both sides in full measure,
the badness and the misery; and since at last they see the identity of the
two, they reject them both at once; they deny the will to live. In what
myths and dogmas they account to their reason for this intuitive and
direct knowledge and for their own change is, as has been said, a matter
of no importance.

Matthias Claudius must without doubt have witnessed a change of mind of
this description when he wrote the remarkable essay in the “Wandsbecker
Boten” (pt. i. p. 115) with the title “Bekehrungsgeschichte des ***”
(“History of the Conversion of ***”), which concludes thus: “Man’s way of
thinking may pass from one point of the periphery to the opposite point,
and again back to the former point, if circumstances mark out for him the
path. And these changes in a man are really nothing great or interesting,
but that _remarkable, catholic, transcendental change_ in which the whole
circle is irreparably broken up and all the laws of psychology become vain
and empty when the coat is stripped from the shoulders, or at least turned
outside in, and as it were scales fall from a man’s eyes, is such that
every one who has breath in his nostrils forsakes father and mother if he
can hear or experience something certain about it.”

The approach of death and hopelessness are in other respects not
absolutely necessary for such a purification through suffering. Even
without them the knowledge of the contradiction of the will to live with
itself can, through great misfortune and pain, force an entrance, and the
vanity of all striving become recognised. Hence it has often happened that
men who have led a very restless life in the full strain of the passions,
kings, heroes, and adventurers, suddenly change, betake themselves to
resignation and penance, become hermits or monks. To this class belong all
true accounts of conversions; for example, that of Raymond Lully, who had
long wooed a fair lady, and was at last admitted to her chamber,
anticipating the fulfilment of all his wishes, when she, opening her
bodice, showed him her bosom frightfully eaten with cancer. From that
moment, as if he had looked into hell, he was changed; he forsook the
court of the king of Majorca, and went into the desert to do penance.(88)
This conversion is very like that of the Abbé Rancé, which I have briefly
related in the 48th chapter of the Supplement. If we consider how in both
cases the transition from the pleasure to the horror of life was the
occasion of it, this throws some light upon the remarkable fact that it is
among the French, the most cheerful, gay, sensuous, and frivolous nation
in Europe, that by far the strictest of all monastic orders, the
Trappists, arose, was re-established by Rancé after its fall, and has
maintained itself to the present day in all its purity and strictness, in
spite of revolutions, Church reformations, and encroachments of
infidelity.

But a knowledge such as that referred to above of the nature of this
existence may leave us again along with the occasion of it and the will to
live, and with it the previous character may reappear. Thus we see that
the passionate Benvenuto Cellini was changed in this way, once when he was
in prison, and again when very ill; but when the suffering passed over, he
fell back again into his old state. In general, the denial of the will to
live by no means proceeds from suffering with the necessity of an effect
from its cause, but the will remains free; for this is indeed the one
point at which its freedom appears directly in the phenomenon; hence the
astonishment which Asmus expresses so strongly at the “transcendental
change.” In the case of every suffering, it is always possible to conceive
a will which exceeds it in intensity and is therefore unconquered by it.
Thus Plato speaks in the “Phædon” of men who up to the moment of their
execution feast, drink, and indulge in sensuous pleasure, asserting life
even to the death. Shakespeare shows us in Cardinal Beaufort the fearful
end of a profligate, who dies full of despair, for no suffering or death
can break his will, which is vehement to the extreme of wickedness.(89)

The more intense the will is, the more glaring is the conflict of its
manifestation, and thus the greater is the suffering. A world which was
the manifestation of a far more intense will to live than this world
manifests would produce so much the greater suffering; would thus be a
hell.

All suffering, since it is a mortification and a call to resignation, has
potentially a sanctifying power. This is the explanation of the fact that
every great misfortune or deep pain inspires a certain awe. But the
sufferer only really becomes an object of reverence when, surveying the
course of his life as a chain of sorrows, or mourning some great and
incurable misfortune, he does not really look at the special combination
of circumstances which has plunged his own life into suffering, nor stops
at the single great misfortune that has befallen him; for in so doing his
knowledge still follows the principle of sufficient reason, and clings to
the particular phenomenon; he still wills life only not under the
conditions which have happened to him; but only then, I say, he is truly
worthy of reverence when he raises his glance from the particular to the
universal, when he regards his suffering as merely an example of the
whole, and for him, since in a moral regard he partakes of genius, one
case stands for a thousand, so that the whole of life conceived as
essentially suffering brings him to resignation. Therefore it inspires
reverence when in Goethe’s “Torquato Tasso” the princess speaks of how her
own life and that of her relations has always been sad and joyless, and
yet regards the matter from an entirely universal point of view.

A very noble character we always imagine with a certain trace of quiet
sadness, which is anything but a constant fretfulness at daily annoyances
(this would be an ignoble trait, and lead us to fear a bad disposition),
but is a consciousness derived from knowledge of the vanity of all
possessions, of the suffering of all life, not merely of his own. But such
knowledge may primarily be awakened by the personal experience of
suffering, especially some one great sorrow, as a single unfulfilled wish
brought Petrarch to that state of resigned sadness concerning the whole of
life which appeals to us so pathetically in his works; for the Daphne he
pursued had to flee from his hands in order to leave him, instead of
herself, the immortal laurel. When through some such great and irrevocable
denial of fate the will is to some extent broken, almost nothing else is
desired, and the character shows itself mild, just, noble, and resigned.
When, finally, grief has no definite object, but extends itself over the
whole of life, then it is to a certain extent a going into itself, a
withdrawal, a gradual disappearance of the will, whose visible
manifestation, the body, it imperceptibly but surely undermines, so that a
man feels a certain loosening of his bonds, a mild foretaste of that death
which promises to be the abolition at once of the body and of the will.
Therefore a secret pleasure accompanies this grief, and it is this, as I
believe, which the most melancholy of all nations has called “the joy of
grief.” But here also lies the danger of _sentimentality_, both in life
itself and in the representation of it in poetry; when a man is always
mourning and lamenting without courageously rising to resignation. In this
way we lose both earth and heaven, and retain merely a watery
sentimentality. Only if suffering assumes the form of pure knowledge, and
this, acting as a _quieter of the will_, brings about resignation, is it
worthy of reverence. In this regard, however, we feel a certain respect at
the sight of every great sufferer which is akin to the feeling excited by
virtue and nobility of character, and also seems like a reproach of our
own happy condition. We cannot help regarding every sorrow, both our own
and those of others, as at least a potential advance towards virtue and
holiness, and, on the contrary, pleasures and worldly satisfactions as a
retrogression from them. This goes so far, that every man who endures a
great bodily or mental suffering, indeed every one who merely performs
some physical labour which demands the greatest exertion, in the sweat of
his brow and with evident exhaustion, yet with patience and without
murmuring, every such man, I say, if we consider him with close attention,
appears to us like a sick man who tries a painful cure, and who willingly,
and even with satisfaction, endures the suffering it causes him, because
he knows that the more he suffers the more the cause of his disease is
affected, and that therefore the present suffering is the measure of his
cure.

According to what has been said, the denial of the will to live, which is
just what is called absolute, entire resignation, or holiness, always
proceeds from that quieter of the will which the knowledge of its inner
conflict and essential vanity, expressing themselves in the suffering of
all living things, becomes. The difference, which we have represented as
two paths, consists in whether that knowledge is called up by suffering
which is merely and purely _known_, and is freely appropriated by means of
the penetration of the _principium individuationis_, or by suffering which
is directly _felt_ by a man himself. True salvation, deliverance from life
and suffering, cannot even be imagined without complete denial of the
will. Till then, every one is simply this will itself, whose manifestation
is an ephemeral existence, a constantly vain and empty striving, and the
world full of suffering we have represented, to which all irrevocably and
in like manner belong. For we found above that life is always assured to
the will to live, and its one real form is the present, from which they
can never escape, since birth and death reign in the phenomenal world. The
Indian mythus expresses this by saying “they are born again.” The great
ethical difference of character means this, that the bad man is infinitely
far from the attainment of the knowledge from which the denial of the will
proceeds, and therefore he is in truth _actually_ exposed to all the
miseries which appear in life as _possible_; for even the present
fortunate condition of his personality is merely a phenomenon produced by
the _principium individuationis_, and a delusion of Mâyâ, the happy dream
of a beggar. The sufferings which in the vehemence and ardour of his will
he inflicts upon others are the measure of the suffering, the experience
of which in his own person cannot break his will, and plainly lead it to
the denial of itself. All true and pure love, on the other hand, and even
all free justice, proceed from the penetration of the _principium
individuationis_, which, if it appears with its full power, results in
perfect sanctification and salvation, the phenomenon of which is the state
of resignation described above, the unbroken peace which accompanies it,
and the greatest delight in death.(90)

§ 69. Suicide, the actual doing away with the individual manifestation of
will, differs most widely from the denial of the will to live, which is
the single outstanding act of free-will in the manifestation, and is
therefore, as Asmus calls it, the transcendental change. This last has
been fully considered in the course of our work. Far from being denial of
the will, suicide is a phenomenon of strong assertion of will; for the
essence of negation lies in this, that the joys of life are shunned, not
its sorrows. The suicide wills life, and is only dissatisfied with the
conditions under which it has presented itself to him. He therefore by no
means surrenders the will to live, but only life, in that he destroys the
individual manifestation. He wills life—wills the unrestricted existence
and assertion of the body; but the complication of circumstances does not
allow this, and there results for him great suffering. The very will to
live finds itself so much hampered in this particular manifestation that
it cannot put forth its energies. It therefore comes to such a
determination as is in conformity with its own nature, which lies outside
the conditions of the principle of sufficient reason, and to which,
therefore, all particular manifestations are alike indifferent, inasmuch
as it itself remains unaffected by all appearing and passing away, and is
the inner life of all things; for that firm inward assurance by reason of
which we all live free from the constant dread of death, the assurance
that a phenomenal existence can never be wanting to the will, supports our
action even in the case of suicide. Thus the will to live appears just as
much in suicide (Siva) as in the satisfaction of self-preservation
(Vishnu) and in the sensual pleasure of procreation (Brahma). This is the
inner meaning of the unity of the Trimurtis, which is embodied in its
entirety in every human being, though in time it raises now one, now
another, of its three heads. Suicide stands in the same relation to the
denial of the will as the individual thing does to the Idea. The suicide
denies only the individual, not the species. We have already seen that as
life is always assured to the will to live, and as sorrow is inseparable
from life, suicide, the wilful destruction of the single phenomenal
existence, is a vain and foolish act; for the thing-in-itself remains
unaffected by it, even as the rainbow endures however fast the drops which
support it for the moment may change. But, more than this, it is also the
masterpiece of Mâyâ, as the most flagrant example of the contradiction of
the will to live with itself. As we found this contradiction in the case
of the lowest manifestations of will, in the permanent struggle of all the
forces of nature, and of all organic individuals for matter and time and
space; and as we saw this antagonism come ever more to the front with
terrible distinctness in the ascending grades of the objectification of
the will, so at last in the highest grade, the Idea of man, it reaches the
point at which, not only the individuals which express the same Idea
extirpate each other, but even the same individual declares war against
itself. The vehemence with which it wills life, and revolts against what
hinders it, namely, suffering, brings it to the point of destroying
itself; so that the individual will, by its own act, puts an end to that
body which is merely its particular visible expression, rather than permit
suffering to break the will. Just because the suicide cannot give up
willing, he gives up living. The will asserts itself here even in putting
an end to its own manifestation, because it can no longer assert itself
otherwise. As, however, it was just the suffering which it so shuns that
was able, as mortification of the will, to bring it to the denial of
itself, and hence to freedom, so in this respect the suicide is like a
sick man, who, after a painful operation which would entirely cure him has
been begun, will not allow it to be completed, but prefers to retain his
disease. Suffering approaches and reveals itself as the possibility of the
denial of will; but the will rejects it, in that it destroys the body, the
manifestation of itself, in order that it may remain unbroken. This is the
reason why almost all ethical teachers, whether philosophical or
religious, condemn suicide, although they themselves can only give
far-fetched sophistical reasons for their opinion. But if a human being
was ever restrained from committing suicide by purely moral motives, the
inmost meaning of this self-conquest (in whatever ideas his reason may
have clothed it) was this: “I will not shun suffering, in order that it
may help to put an end to the will to live, whose manifestation is so
wretched, by so strengthening the knowledge of the real nature of the
world which is already beginning to dawn upon me, that it may become the
final quieter of my will, and may free me for ever.”

It is well known that from time to time cases occur in which the act of
suicide extends to the children. The father first kills the children he
loves, and then himself. Now, if we consider that conscience, religion,
and all influencing ideas teach him to look upon murder as the greatest of
crimes, and that, in spite of this, he yet commits it, in the hour of his
own death, and when he is altogether uninfluenced by any egotistical
motive, such a deed can only be explained in the following manner: in this
case, the will of the individual, the father, recognises itself
immediately in the children, though involved in the delusion of mistaking
the appearance for the true nature; and as he is at the same time deeply
impressed with the knowledge of the misery of all life, he now thinks to
put an end to the inner nature itself, along with the appearance, and thus
seeks to deliver from existence and its misery both himself and his
children, in whom he discerns himself as living again. It would be an
error precisely analogous to this to suppose that one may reach the same
end as is attained through voluntary chastity by frustrating the aim of
nature in fecundation; or indeed if, in consideration of the unendurable
suffering of life, parents were to use means for the destruction of their
new-born children, instead of doing everything possible to ensure life to
that which is struggling into it. For if the will to live is there, as it
is the only metaphysical reality, or the thing-in-itself, no physical
force can break it, but can only destroy its manifestation at this place
and time. It itself can never be transcended except through knowledge.
Thus the only way of salvation is, that the will shall manifest itself
unrestrictedly, in order that in this individual manifestation it may come
to apprehend its own nature. Only as the result of this knowledge can the
will transcend itself, and thereby end the suffering which is inseparable
from its manifestation. It is quite impossible to accomplish this end by
physical force, as by destroying the germ, or by killing the new-born
child, or by committing suicide. Nature guides the will to the light, just
because it is only in the light that it can work out its salvation.
Therefore the aims of Nature are to be promoted in every way as soon as
the will to live, which is its inner being, has determined itself.

There is a species of suicide which seems to be quite distinct from the
common kind, though its occurrence has perhaps not yet been fully
established. It is starvation, voluntarily chosen on the ground of extreme
asceticism. All instances of it, however, have been accompanied and
obscured by much religious fanaticism, and even superstition. Yet it seems
that the absolute denial of will may reach the point at which the will
shall be wanting to take the necessary nourishment for the support of the
natural life. This kind of suicide is so far from being the result of the
will to live, that such a completely resigned ascetic only ceases to live
because he has already altogether ceased to will. No other death than that
by starvation is in this case conceivable (unless it were the result of
some special superstition); for the intention to cut short the torment
would itself be a stage in the assertion of will. The dogmas which satisfy
the reason of such a penitent delude him with the idea that a being of a
higher nature has inculcated the fasting to which his own inner tendency
drives him. Old examples of this may be found in the “Breslauer Sammlung
von Natur- und Medicin-Geschichten,” September 1799, p. 363; in Bayle’s
“Nouvelles de la République des Lettres,” February 1685, p. 189; in
Zimmermann, “Ueber die Einsamkeit,” vol. i. p. 182; in the “Histoire de
l’Académie des Sciences” for 1764, an account by Houttuyn, which is quoted
in the “Sammlung für praktische Aerzte,” vol. i. p. 69. More recent
accounts may be found in Hufeland’s “Journal für praktische Heilkunde,”
vol. x. p. 181, and vol. xlviii. p. 95; also in Nasse’s “Zeitschrift für
psychische Aerzte,” 1819, part iii. p. 460; and in the “Edinburgh Medical
and Surgical Journal,” 1809, vol. v. p. 319. In the year 1833 all the
papers announced that the English historian, Dr. Lingard, had died in
January at Dover of voluntary starvation; according to later accounts, it
was not he himself, but a relation of his who died. Still in these
accounts the persons were generally described as insane, and it is no
longer possible to find out how far this was the case. But I will give
here a more recent case of this kind, if it were only to ensure the
preservation of one of the rare instances of this striking and
extraordinary phenomenon of human nature, which, to all appearance at any
rate, belongs to the category to which I wish to assign it and could
hardly be explained in any other way. This case is reported in the
“Nürnberger Correspondenten” of the 29th July 1813, in these words:—“We
hear from Bern that in a thick wood near Thurnen a hut has been discovered
in which was lying the body of a man who had been dead about a month. His
clothes gave little or no clue to his social position. Two very fine
shirts lay beside him. The most important article, however, was a Bible
interleaved with white paper, part of which had been written upon by the
deceased. In this writing he gives the date of his departure from home
(but does not mention where his home was). He then says that he was driven
by the Spirit of God into the wilderness to pray and fast. During his
journey he had fasted seven days and then he had again taken food. After
this he had begun again to fast, and continued to do so for the same
number of days as before. From this point we find each day marked with a
stroke, and of these there are five, at the expiration of which the
pilgrim presumably died. There was further found a letter to a clergyman
about a sermon which the deceased heard him preach, but the letter was not
addressed.” Between this voluntary death arising from extreme asceticism
and the common suicide resulting from despair there may be various
intermediate species and combinations, though this is hard to find out.
But human nature has depths, obscurities, and perplexities, the analysis
and elucidation of which is a matter of the very greatest difficulty.

§ 70. It might be supposed that the entire exposition (now terminated) of
that which I call the denial of the will is irreconcilable with the
earlier explanation of necessity, which belongs just as much to motivation
as to every other form of the principle of sufficient reason, and
according to which, motives, like all causes, are only occasional causes,
upon which the character unfolds its nature and reveals it with the
necessity of a natural law, on account of which we absolutely denied
freedom as _liberum arbitrium indifferentiæ_. But far from suppressing
this here, I would call it to mind. In truth, real freedom, _i.e._,
independence of the principle of sufficient reason, belongs to the will
only as a thing-in-itself, not to its manifestation, whose essential form
is everywhere the principle of sufficient reason, the element or sphere of
necessity. But the one case in which that freedom can become directly
visible in the manifestation is that in which it makes an end of what
manifests itself, and because the mere manifestation, as a link in the
chain of causes, the living body in time, which contains only phenomena,
still continues to exist, the will which manifests itself through this
phenomenon then stands in contradiction to it, for it denies what the
phenomenon expresses. In such a case the organs of generation, for
example, as the visible form of the sexual impulse, are there and in
health; but yet, in the inmost consciousness, no sensual gratification is
desired; and although the whole body is only the visible expression of the
will to live, yet the motives which correspond to this will no longer act;
indeed, the dissolution of the body, the end of the individual, and in
this way the greatest check to the natural will, is welcome and desired.
Now, the contradiction between our assertions of the necessity of the
determination of the will by motives, in accordance with the character, on
the one hand, and of the possibility of the entire suppression of the will
whereby the motives become powerless, on the other hand, is only the
repetition in the reflection of philosophy of this _real_ contradiction
which arises from the direct encroachment of the freedom of the
will-in-itself, which knows no necessity, into the sphere of the necessity
of its manifestation. But the key to the solution of these contradictions
lies in the fact that the state in which the character is withdrawn from
the power of motives does not proceed directly from the will, but from a
changed form of knowledge. So long as the knowledge is merely that which
is involved in the _principium individuationis_ and exclusively follows
the principle of sufficient reason, the strength of the motives is
irresistible. But when the _principium individuationis_ is seen through,
when the Ideas, and indeed the inner nature of the thing-in-itself, as the
same will in all, are directly recognised, and from this knowledge an
universal quieter of volition arises, then the particular motives become
ineffective, because the kind of knowledge which corresponds to them is
obscured and thrown into the background by quite another kind. Therefore
the character can never partially change, but must, with the consistency
of a law of Nature, carry out in the particular the will which it
manifests as a whole. But this whole, the character itself, may be
completely suppressed or abolished through the change of knowledge
referred to above. It is this suppression or abolition which Asmus, as
quoted above, marvels at and denotes the “catholic, transcendental
change;” and in the Christian Church it has very aptly been called the
_new birth_, and the knowledge from which it springs, the _work of grace_.
Therefore it is not a question of a change, but of an entire suppression
of the character; and hence it arises that, however different the
characters which experience the suppression may have been before it, after
it they show a great similarity in their conduct, though every one still
speaks very differently according to his conceptions and dogmas.

In this sense, then, the old philosophical doctrine of the freedom of the
will, which has constantly been contested and constantly maintained, is
not without ground, and the dogma of the Church of the work of grace and
the new birth is not without meaning and significance. But we now
unexpectedly see both united in one, and we can also now understand in
what sense the excellent Malebranche could say, “_La liberté est un
mystère_,” and was right. For precisely what the Christian mystics call
_the work of grace_ and _the new birth_, is for us the single direct
expression of _the freedom of the will_. It only appears if the will,
having attained to a knowledge of its own real nature, receives from this
a _quieter_, by means of which the motives are deprived of their effect,
which belongs to the province of another kind of knowledge, the objects of
which are merely phenomena. The possibility of the freedom which thus
expresses itself is the greatest prerogative of man, which is for ever
wanting to the brute, because the condition of it is the deliberation of
reason, which enables him to survey the whole of life independent of the
impression of the present. The brute is entirely without the possibility
of freedom, as, indeed, it is without the possibility of a proper or
deliberate choice following upon a completed conflict of motives, which
for this purpose would have to be abstract ideas. Therefore with the same
necessity with which the stone falls to the earth, the hungry wolf buries
its fangs in the flesh of its prey, without the possibility of the
knowledge that it is itself the destroyed as well as the destroyer.
_Necessity is the kingdom of nature; freedom is the kingdom of grace._

Now because, as we have seen, that _self-suppression of the will_ proceeds
from knowledge, and all knowledge is involuntary, that denial of will
also, that entrance into freedom, cannot be forcibly attained to by
intention or design, but proceeds from the inmost relation of knowing and
volition in the man, and therefore comes suddenly, as if spontaneously
from without. This is why the Church has called it _the work of grace_;
and that it still regards it as independent of the acceptance of grace
corresponds to the fact that the effect of the quieter is finally a free
act of will. And because, in consequence of such a work of grace, the
whole nature of man is changed and reversed from its foundation, so that
he no longer wills anything of all that he previously willed so intensely,
so that it is as if a new man actually took the place of the old, the
Church has called this consequence of the work of grace the _new birth_.
For what it calls the _natural man_, to which it denies all capacity for
good, is just the will to live, which must be denied if deliverance from
an existence such as ours is to be attained. Behind our existence lies
something else, which is only accessible to us if we have shaken off this
world.

Having regard, not to the individuals according to the principle of
sufficient reason, but to the Idea of man in its unity, Christian theology
symbolises _nature_, the _assertion of the will to live_ in Adam, whose
sin, inherited by us, _i.e._, our unity with him in the Idea, which is
represented in time by the bond of procreation, makes us all partakers of
suffering and eternal death. On the other hand, it symbolises _grace_, the
_denial of the will_, _salvation_, in the incarnate God, who, as free from
all sin, that is, from all willing of life, cannot, like us, have
proceeded from the most pronounced assertion of the will, nor can he, like
us, have a body which is through and through simply concrete will,
manifestation of the will; but born of a pure virgin, he has only a
phantom body. This last is the doctrine of the Docetæ, _i.e._, certain
Church Fathers, who in this respect are very consistent. It is especially
taught by Apelles, against whom and his followers Tertullian wrote. But
even Augustine comments thus on the passage, Rom. viii. 3, “God sent his
Son in the likeness of sinful flesh:” “_Non enim caro peccati erat, quæ
non de carnali delectatione nata erat: sed tamen inerat ei similitudo
carnis peccati, quia mortalis caro erat_” (Liber 83, _quæst. qu._ 66). He
also teaches in his work entitled “_Opus Imperfectum_,” i. 47, that
inherited sin is both sin and punishment at once. It is already present in
new-born children, but only shows itself if they grow up. Yet the origin
of this sin is to be referred to the will of the sinner. This sinner was
Adam, but we all existed in him; Adam became miserable, and in him we have
all become miserable. Certainly the doctrine of original sin (assertion of
the will) and of salvation (denial of the will) is the great truth which
constitutes the essence of Christianity, while most of what remains is
only the clothing of it, the husk or accessories. Therefore Jesus Christ
ought always to be conceived in the universal, as the symbol or
personification of the denial of the will to live, but never as an
individual, whether according to his mythical history given in the
Gospels, or according to the probably true history which lies at the
foundation of this. For neither the one nor the other will easily satisfy
us entirely. It is merely the vehicle of that conception for the people,
who always demand something actual. That in recent times Christianity has
forgotten its true significance, and degenerated into dull optimism, does
not concern us here.

It is further an original and evangelical doctrine of Christianity—which
Augustine, with the consent of the leaders of the Church, defended against
the platitudes of the Pelagians, and which it was the principal aim of
Luther’s endeavour to purify from error and re-establish, as he expressly
declares in his book, “_De Servo Arbitrio_,”—the doctrine that _the will
is not free_, but originally subject to the inclination to evil. Therefore
according to this doctrine the deeds of the will are always sinful and
imperfect, and can never fully satisfy justice; and, finally, these works
can never save us, but faith alone, a faith which itself does not spring
from resolution and free will, but from the work of grace, without our
co-operation, comes to us as from without.

Not only the dogmas referred to before, but also this last genuine
evangelical dogma belongs to those which at the present day an ignorant
and dull opinion rejects as absurd or hides. For, in spite of Augustine
and Luther, it adheres to the vulgar Pelagianism, which the rationalism of
the day really is, and treats as antiquated those deeply significant
dogmas which are peculiar and essential to Christianity in the strictest
sense; while, on the other hand, it holds fast and regards as the
principal matter only the dogma that originates in Judaism, and has been
retained from it, and is merely historically connected with
Christianity.(91) We, however, recognise in the doctrine referred to above
the truth completely agreeing with the result of our own investigations.
We see that true virtue and holiness of disposition have their origin not
in deliberate choice (works), but in knowledge (faith); just as we have in
like manner developed it from our leading thought. If it were works, which
spring from motives and deliberate intention, that led to salvation, then,
however one may turn it, virtue would always be a prudent, methodical,
far-seeing egoism. But the faith to which the Christian Church promises
salvation is this: that as through the fall of the first man we are all
partakers of sin and subject to death and perdition, through the divine
substitute, through grace and the taking upon himself of our fearful
guilt, we are all saved, without any merit of our own (of the person);
since that which can proceed from the intentional (determined by motives)
action of the person, works, can never justify us, from its very nature,
just because it is _intentional_, action induced by motives, _opus
operatum_. Thus in this faith there is implied, first of all, that our
condition is originally and essentially an incurable one, from which we
need _salvation_; then, that we ourselves essentially belong to evil, and
are so firmly bound to it that our works according to law and precept,
_i.e._, according to motives, can never satisfy justice nor save us; but
salvation is only obtained through faith, _i.e._, through a changed mode
of knowing, and this faith can only come through grace, thus as from
without. This means that the salvation is one which is quite foreign to
our person, and points to a denial and surrender of this person necessary
to salvation. Works, the result of the law as such, can never justify,
because they are always action following upon motives. Luther demands (in
his book “_De Libertate Christiana_”) that after the entrance of faith the
good works shall proceed from it entirely of themselves, as symptoms, as
fruits of it; yet by no means as constituting in themselves a claim to
merit, justification, or reward, but taking place quite voluntarily and
gratuitously. So we also hold that from the ever-clearer penetration of
the _principium individuationis_ proceeds, first, merely free justice,
then love, extending to the complete abolition of egoism, and finally
resignation or denial of the will.

I have here introduced these dogmas of Christian theology, which in
themselves are foreign to philosophy, merely for the purpose of showing
that the ethical doctrine which proceeds from our whole investigation, and
is in complete agreement and connection with all its parts, although new
and unprecedented in its expression, is by no means so in its real nature,
but fully agrees with the Christian dogmas properly so called, and indeed,
as regards its essence, was contained and present in them. It also agrees
quite as accurately with the doctrines and ethical teachings of the sacred
books of India, which in their turn are presented in quite different
forms. At the same time the calling to mind of the dogmas of the Christian
Church serves to explain and illustrate the apparent contradiction between
the necessity of all expressions of character when motives are presented
(the kingdom of Nature) on the one hand, and the freedom of the will in
itself, to deny itself, and abolish the character with all the necessity
of the motives based upon it (the kingdom of grace) on the other hand.

§ 71. I now end the general account of ethics, and with it the whole
development of that one thought which it has been my object to impart; and
I by no means desire to conceal here an objection which concerns this last
part of my exposition, but rather to point out that it lies in the nature
of the question, and that it is quite impossible to remove it. It is this,
that after our investigation has brought us to the point at which we have
before our eyes perfect holiness, the denial and surrender of all
volition, and thus the deliverance from a world whose whole existence we
have found to be suffering, this appears to us as a passing away into
empty nothingness.

On this I must first remark, that the conception of nothing is essentially
relative, and always refers to a definite something which it negatives.
This quality has been attributed (by Kant) merely to the _nihil
privativum_, which is indicated by - as opposed to +, which -, from an
opposite point of view, might become +, and in opposition to this _nihil
privativum_ the _nihil negativum_ has been set up, which would in every
reference be nothing, and as an example of this the logical contradiction
which does away with itself has been given. But more closely considered,
no absolute nothing, no proper _nihil negativum_ is even thinkable; but
everything of this kind, when considered from a higher standpoint or
subsumed under a wider concept, is always merely a _nihil privativum_.
Every nothing is thought as such only in relation to something, and
presupposes this relation, and thus also this something. Even a logical
contradiction is only a relative nothing. It is no thought of the reason,
but it is not on that account an absolute nothing; for it is a combination
of words; it is an example of the unthinkable, which is necessary in logic
in order to prove the laws of thought. Therefore if for this end such an
example is sought, we will stick to the nonsense as the positive which we
are in search of, and pass over the sense as the negative. Thus every
_nihil negativum_, if subordinated to a higher concept, will appear as a
mere _nihil privativum_ or relative nothing, which can, moreover, always
exchange signs with what it negatives, so that that would then be thought
as negation, and it itself as assertion. This also agrees with the result
of the difficult dialectical investigation of the meaning of nothing which
Plato gives in the “Sophist” (pp. 277-287): Την του ἑτερου φυσιν
αποδειξαντες ουσαν τε, και κατακεκερματισμενην επι παντα τα οντα προς
αλληλα, το προς το ον ἑκαστου μοριου αυτης αντιτιθεμενον, ετολμησαμεν
ειπειν, ὡς αυτο τουτο εστιν οντως το μη ον (_Cum enim ostenderemus,
alterius ipsius naturam esse perque omnia entia divisam atque dispersam in
vicem; tunc partem ejus oppositam ei, quod cujusque ens est, esse ipsum
revera non ens asseruimus_).

That which is generally received as positive, which we call the real, and
the negation of which the concept nothing in its most general significance
expresses, is just the world as idea, which I have shown to be the
objectivity and mirror of the will. Moreover, we ourselves are just this
will and this world, and to them belongs the idea in general, as one
aspect of them. The form of the idea is space and time, therefore for this
point of view all that is real must be in some place and at some time.
Denial, abolition, conversion of the will, is also the abolition and the
vanishing of the world, its mirror. If we no longer perceive it in this
mirror, we ask in vain where it has gone, and then, because it has no
longer any where and when, complain that it has vanished into nothing.

A reversed point of view, if it were possible for us, would reverse the
signs and show the real for us as nothing, and that nothing as the real.
But as long as we ourselves are the will to live, this last—nothing as the
real—can only be known and signified by us negatively, because the old
saying of Empedocles, that like can only be known by like, deprives us
here of all knowledge, as, conversely, upon it finally rests the
possibility of all our actual knowledge, _i.e._, the world as idea; for
the world is the self-knowledge of the will.

If, however, it should be absolutely insisted upon that in some way or
other a positive knowledge should be attained of that which philosophy can
only express negatively as the denial of the will, there would be nothing
for it but to refer to that state which all those who have attained to
complete denial of the will have experienced, and which has been variously
denoted by the names ecstasy, rapture, illumination, union with God, and
so forth; a state, however, which cannot properly be called knowledge,
because it has not the form of subject and object, and is, moreover, only
attainable in one’s own experience and cannot be further communicated.

We, however, who consistently occupy the standpoint of philosophy, must be
satisfied here with negative knowledge, content to have reached the utmost
limit of the positive. We have recognised the inmost nature of the world
as will, and all its phenomena as only the objectivity of will; and we
have followed this objectivity from the unconscious working of obscure
forces of Nature up to the completely conscious action of man. Therefore
we shall by no means evade the consequence, that with the free denial, the
surrender of the will, all those phenomena are also abolished; that
constant strain and effort without end and without rest at all the grades
of objectivity, in which and through which the world consists; the
multifarious forms succeeding each other in gradation; the whole
manifestation of the will; and, finally, also the universal forms of this
manifestation, time and space, and also its last fundamental form, subject
and object; all are abolished. No will: no idea, no world.

Before us there is certainly only nothingness. But that which resists this
passing into nothing, our nature, is indeed just the will to live, which
we ourselves are as it is our world. That we abhor annihilation so
greatly, is simply another expression of the fact that we so strenuously
will life, and are nothing but this will, and know nothing besides it. But
if we turn our glance from our own needy and embarrassed condition to
those who have overcome the world, in whom the will, having attained to
perfect self-knowledge, found itself again in all, and then freely denied
itself, and who then merely wait to see the last trace of it vanish with
the body which it animates; then, instead of the restless striving and
effort, instead of the constant transition from wish to fruition, and from
joy to sorrow, instead of the never-satisfied and never-dying hope which
constitutes the life of the man who wills, we shall see that peace which
is above all reason, that perfect calm of the spirit, that deep rest, that
inviolable confidence and serenity, the mere reflection of which in the
countenance, as Raphael and Correggio have represented it, is an entire
and certain gospel; only knowledge remains, the will has vanished. We look
with deep and painful longing upon this state, beside which the misery and
wretchedness of our own is brought out clearly by the contrast. Yet this
is the only consideration which can afford us lasting consolation, when,
on the one hand, we have recognised incurable suffering and endless misery
as essential to the manifestation of will, the world; and, on the other
hand, see the world pass away with the abolition of will, and retain
before us only empty nothingness. Thus, in this way, by contemplation of
the life and conduct of saints, whom it is certainly rarely granted us to
meet with in our own experience, but who are brought before our eyes by
their written history, and, with the stamp of inner truth, by art, we must
banish the dark impression of that nothingness which we discern behind all
virtue and holiness as their final goal, and which we fear as children
fear the dark; we must not even evade it like the Indians, through myths
and meaningless words, such as reabsorption in Brahma or the Nirvana of
the Buddhists. Rather do we freely acknowledge that what remains after the
entire abolition of will is for all those who are still full of will
certainly nothing; but, conversely, to those in whom the will has turned
and has denied itself, this our world, which is so real, with all its suns
and milky-ways—is nothing.(92)






FOOTNOTES


    1 F. H. Jacobi.

    2 The Hegelian Philosophy.

    3 Fichte and Schelling.

    4 Hegel.

    5 Kant is the only writer who has confused this idea of reason, and in
      this connection I refer the reader to the Appendix, and also to my
      “Grundprobleme der Ethik”: Grundl. dd. Moral. § 6, pp. 148-154,
      first and second editions.

    6 Mira in quibusdam rebus verborum proprietas est, et consuetudo
      sermonis antiqui quædam efficacissimis notis signat. _Seneca_,
      epist. 81.

    7 It is shown in the Appendix that matter and substance are one.

    8 This shows the ground of the Kantian explanation of matter, that it
      is “that which is movable in space,” for motion consists simply in
      the union of space and time.

    9 Not, as Kant holds, from the knowledge of time, as will be explained
      in the Appendix.

   10 On this see “The Fourfold Root of the Principle of Sufficient
      Reason,” § 49.

   11 The first four chapters of the first of the supplementary books
      belong to these seven paragraphs.

   12 Compare with this paragraph §§ 26 and 27 of the third edition of the
      essay on the principle of sufficient reason.

   13 Cf. Ch. 5 and 6 of the Supplement.

   14 Cf. Ch. 9 and 10 of the Supplement.

   15 Cf. Ch. 11 of Supplement.

   16 I am therefore of opinion that a science of physiognomy cannot, with
      certainty, go further than to lay down a few quite general rules.
      For example, the intellectual qualities are to be read in the
      forehead and the eyes; the moral qualities, the expression of will,
      in the mouth and lower part of the face. The forehead and the eyes
      interpret each other; either of them seen alone can only be half
      understood. Genius is never without a high, broad, finely-arched
      brow; but such a brow often occurs where there is no genius. A
      clever-looking person may the more certainly be judged to be so the
      uglier the face is; and a stupid-looking person may the more
      certainly be judged to be stupid the more beautiful the face is; for
      beauty, as the approximation to the type of humanity, carries in and
      for itself the expression of mental clearness; the opposite is the
      case with ugliness, and so forth.

   17 Cf. Ch. 7 of the Supplement.

   18 Cf. Ch. 8 of Supplement.

   19 Suarez, Disput. Metaphysicæ, disp. iii. sect. 3, tit. 3.

   20 Cf. Ch. 12 of Supplement.

   21 The reader must not think here of Kant’s misuse of these Greek
      terms, which is condemned in the Appendix.

   22 Spinoza, who always boasts that he proceeds _more geometrico_, has
      actually done so more than he himself was aware. For what he knew
      with certainty and decision from the immediate, perceptive
      apprehension of the nature of the world, he seeks to demonstrate
      logically without reference to this knowledge. He only arrives at
      the intended and predetermined result by starting from arbitrary
      concepts framed by himself (_substantia causa sui_, &c.), and in the
      demonstrations he allows himself all the freedom of choice for which
      the nature of the wide concept-spheres afford such convenient
      opportunity. That his doctrine is true and excellent is therefore in
      his case, as in that of geometry, quite independent of the
      demonstrations of it. Cf. ch. 13 of supplementary volume.

   23 Cf. Ch. 17 of Supplement.

   24 Omnes perturbationes judicio censent fieri et opinione. Cic. Tusc.,
      4, 6. Ταρασσει τους ανθρωπους ου τα πραγματα, αλλα τα περι των
      πραγματων δογματα (Perturbant homines non res ipsæ, sed de rebus
      opiniones). Epictet., c. v.

   25 Τουτο γαρ εστι το αιτιον τοις ανθρωποις παντων των κακων, το τας
      προληψεις τας κοινας μη δυνασθαι εφαρμοξειν ταις επι μερους (Hæc est
      causa mortalibus omnium malorum, non posse communes notiones aptare
      singularibus). Epict. dissert., ii., 26.

   26 Cf. Ch. 16 of Supplement.

   27 Cf. Ch. xviii. of the Supplement.

   28 We can thus by no means agree with Bacon if he (De Augm. Scient., L.
      iv. in fine.) thinks that all mechanical and physical movement of
      bodies has always been preceded by perception in these bodies;
      though a glimmering of truth lies at the bottom of this false
      proposition. This is also the case with Kepler’s opinion, expressed
      in his essay _De Planeta Martis_, that the planets must have
      knowledge in order to keep their elliptical courses so correctly,
      and to regulate the velocity of their motion so that the triangle of
      the plane of their course always remains proportional to the time in
      which they pass through its base.

   29 Cf. Ch. xix. of the Supplement.

   30 Cf. Ch. xx. of the Supplement, and also in my work, “_Ueber den
      Willen in der Natur_,” the chapters on Physiology and Comparative
      Anatomy, where the subject I have only touched upon here is fully
      discussed.

   31 This is specially treated in the 27th Ch. of the Supplement.

   32 This subject is fully worked out in my prize essay on the freedom of
      the will, in which therefore (pp. 29-44 of the “Grundprobleme der
      Ethik”) the relation of _cause_, _stimulus_, and _motive_ has also
      been fully explained.

   33 Cf. Ch. xxiii. of the Supplement, and also the Ch. on the physiology
      of plants in my work “Ueber den Willen in der Natur,” and the Ch. on
      physical astronomy, which is of great importance with regard to the
      kernel of my metaphysic.

   34 Wenzel, De Structura Cerebri Hominis et Brutorum, 1812, ch. iii.;
      Cuvier, Leçons d’Anat., comp. leçon 9, arts. 4 and 5; Vic. d’Azyr,
      Hist. de l’Acad. de Sc. de Paris, 1783, pp. 470 and 483.

   35 On the 16th of September 1840, at a lecture upon Egyptian Archæology
      delivered by Mr. Pettigrew at the Literary and Scientific Institute
      of London, he showed some corns of wheat which Sir G. Wilkinson had
      found in a grave at Thebes, in which they must have lain for three
      thousand years. They were found in an hermetically sealed vase. Mr.
      Pettigrew had sowed twelve grains, and obtained a plant which grew
      five feet high, and the seeds of which were now quite ripe.—_Times_,
      21st September 1840. In the same way in 1830 Mr. Haulton produced in
      the Medical Botanical Society of London a bulbous root which was
      found in the hand of an Egyptian mummy, in which it was probably put
      in observance of some religious rite, and which must have been at
      least two thousand years old. He had planted it in a flower-pot, in
      which it grew up and flourished. This is quoted from the Medical
      Journal of 1830 in the Journal of the Royal Institute of Great
      Britain, October 1830, p. 196.—“In the garden of Mr. Grimstone of
      the Herbarium, Highgate, London, is a pea in full fruit, which has
      sprung from a pea that Mr. Pettigrew and the officials of the
      British Museum took out of a vase which had been found in an
      Egyptian sarcophagus, where it must have lain 2844 years.”—_Times_,
      16th August 1844. Indeed, the living toads found in limestone lead
      to the conclusion that even animal life is capable of such a
      suspension for thousands of years, if this is begun in the dormant
      period and maintained by special circumstances.

   36 Cf. Chap. xxii. of the Supplement, and also my work “Ueber den
      Willen in der Natur,” p. 54 _et seq._, and pp. 70-79 of the first
      edition, or p. 46 _et seq._, and pp. 63-72 of the second, or p. 48
      _et seq._, and pp. 69-77 of the third edition.

   37 The Scholastics therefore said very truly: _Causa finalis movet non
      secundum suum esse reale, sed secundum esse cognitum._ Cf. Suarez,
      Disp. Metaph. disp. xxiii., sec. 7 and 8.

   38 Cf. “Critique of Pure Reason. Solution of the Cosmological Ideas of
      the Totality of the Deduction of the Events in the Universe,” pp.
      560-586 of the fifth, and p. 532 and following of first edition; and
      “Critique of Practical Reason,” fourth edition, pp. 169-179;
      Rosenkranz’ edition, p. 224 and following. Cf. my Essay on the
      Principle of Sufficient Reason, § 43.

   39 Cf. “Ueber den Willen in der Natur,” at the end of the section on
      Comparative Anatomy.

   40 Cf. “Ueber den Willen in der Natur,” the section on Comparative
      Anatomy.

   41 Chatin, Sur la Valisneria Spiralis, in the Comptes Rendus de l’Acad.
      de Sc., No. 13, 1855.

   42 Cf. Chaps. xxvi. and xxvii. of the Supplement.

   43 Cf. Chap. xxviii. of the Supplement.

   44 F. H. Jacobi.

   45 See for example, “Immanuel Kant, a Reminiscence, by Fr. Bouterweck,”
      pg. 49, and Buhle’s “History of Philosophy,” vol. vi. pp. 802-815
      and 823.

   46 Cf. Chap. xxix. of Supplement.

   47 I also recommend the perusal of what Spinoza says in his Ethics
      (Book II., Prop. 40, Schol. 2, and Book V., Props. 25-38),
      concerning the _cognitio tertii generis, sive intuitiva_, in
      illustration of the kind of knowledge we are considering, and very
      specially Prop. 29, Schol.; prop. 36, Schol., and Prop. 38, Demonst.
      et Schol.

   48 Cf. Chap. xxx. of the Supplement.

   49 This last sentence cannot be understood without some acquaintance
      with the next book.

   50 Cf. Chap. xxxi. of the Supplement.

   51 I am all the more delighted and astonished, forty years after I so
      timidly and hesitatingly advanced this thought, to discover that it
      has already been expressed by St. Augustine: _Arbusta formas suas
      varias, quibus mundi hujus visibilis structura formosa est,
      sentiendas sensibus praebent; ut, pro eo quod_ NOSSE _non possunt,
      quasi_ INNOTESCERE _velle videantur_.—_De civ. Dei, xi._ 27.

   52 Cf. Chap. 35 of Supplement.

   53 Jakob Böhm in his book, “de Signatura Rerum,” ch. i., § 13-15, says,
      “There is nothing in nature that does not manifest its internal form
      externally; for the internal continually labours to manifest
      itself.... Everything has its language by which to reveal itself....
      And this is the language of nature when everything speaks out of its
      own property, and continually manifests and declares itself, ... for
      each thing reveals its mother, which thus gives _the essence and the
      will_ to the form.”

   54 The last sentence is the German of the _il n’y a que l’esprit qui
      sente l’esprit_, of Helvetius. In the first edition there was no
      occasion to point this out, but since then the age has become so
      degraded and ignorant through the stupefying influence of the
      Hegelian sophistry, that some might quite likely say that an
      antithesis was intended here between “spirit and nature.” I am
      therefore obliged to guard myself in express terms against the
      suspicion of such vulgar sophisms.

   55 This digression is worked out more fully in the 36th Chapter of the
      Supplement.

   56 In order to understand this passage it is necessary to have read the
      whole of the next book.

_   57 Apparent rari, nantes in gurgite vasto._

   58 Cf. Ch. xxxiv. of Supplement.

   59 It is scarcely necessary to say that wherever I speak of poets I
      refer exclusively to that rare phenomenon the great true poet. I
      mean no one else; least of all that dull insipid tribe, the mediocre
      poets, rhymsters, and inventors of fables, that flourishes so
      luxuriantly at the present day in Germany. They ought rather to have
      the words shouted in their ears unceasingly from all sides—

      _Mediocribus esse poëtis_
      _ Non homines, non Dî, non concessere columnæ._

      It is worthy of serious consideration what an amount of time—both
      their own and other people’s—and paper is lost by this swarm of
      mediocre poets, and how injurious is their influence. For the public
      always seizes on what is new, and has naturally a greater proneness
      to what is perverse and dull as akin to itself. Therefore these
      works of the mediocre poets draw it away and hold it back from the
      true masterpieces and the education they afford, and thus working in
      direct antagonism to the benign influence of genius, they ruin taste
      more and more, and retard the progress of the age. Such poets should
      therefore be scourged with criticism and satire without indulgence
      or sympathy till they are induced, for their own good, to apply
      their muse rather to reading what is good than to writing what is
      bad. For if the bungling of the incompetent so raised the wrath of
      the gentle Apollo that he could flay Marsyas, I do not see on what
      the mediocre poets will base their claim to tolerance.

   60 Cf. Ch. xxxviii. of Supplement.

   61 Cf. Ch. xxxvii. of the Supplement.

   62 Leibnitii epistolæ, collectio Kortholti, ep. 154.

   63 Cf. Ch. xxxix. of Supplement.

   64 The following remark may assist those for whom it is not too subtle
      to understand clearly that the individual is only the phenomenon,
      not the thing in itself. Every individual is, on the one hand, the
      subject of knowing, _i.e._, the complemental condition of the
      possibility of the whole objective world, and, on the other hand, a
      particular phenomenon of will, the same will which objectifies
      itself in everything. But this double nature of our being does not
      rest upon a self-existing unity, otherwise it would be possible for
      us to be conscious of ourselves _in ourselves, and independent of
      the objects of knowledge and will_. Now this is by no means
      possible, for as soon as we turn into ourselves to make the attempt,
      and seek for once to know ourselves fully by means of introspective
      reflection, we are lost in a bottomless void; we find ourselves like
      the hollow glass globe, from out of which a voice speaks whose cause
      is not to be found in it, and whereas we desired to comprehend
      ourselves, we find, with a shudder, nothing but a vanishing spectre.

   65 “Scholastici docuerunt, quod æternitas non sit temporis sine fine
      aut principio successio; sed _Nunc stans_, _i.e._, idem nobis _Nunc
      esse_, quod erat _Nunc Adamo_, _i.e._, inter _nunc_ et _tunc_ nullam
      esse differentiam.”—Hobbes, Leviathan, c. 46.

   66 In Eckermann’s “Conversations of Goethe” (vol. i. p. 161), Goethe
      says: “Our spirit is a being of a nature quite indestructible, and
      its activity continues from eternity to eternity. It is like the
      sun, which seems to set only to our earthly eyes, but which, in
      reality, never sets, but shines on unceasingly.” Goethe has taken
      the simile from me; not I from him. Without doubt he used it in this
      conversation, which was held in 1824, in consequence of a (possibly
      unconscious) reminiscence of the above passage, for it occurs in the
      first edition, p. 401, in exactly the same words, and it is also
      repeated at p. 528 of that edition, as at the close of § 65 of the
      present work. The first edition was sent to him in December 1818,
      and in March 1819, when I was at Naples, he sent me his
      congratulations by letter, through my sister, and enclosed a piece
      of paper upon which he had noted the places of certain passages
      which had specially pleased him. Thus he had read my book.

   67 This is expressed in the Veda by saying, that when a man dies his
      sight becomes one with the sun, his smell with the earth, his taste
      with water, his hearing with the air, his speech with fire, &c., &c.
      (Oupnek’hat, vol. i. p. 249 _et seq._) And also by the fact that, in
      a special ceremony, the dying man gives over his senses and all his
      faculties singly to his son, in whom they are now supposed to live
      on (Oupnek’hat, vol. ii. p. 82 _et seq._)

   68 Cf. Chap. xli.-xliv. of Supplement.

   69 “Critique of Pure Reason,” first edition, pp. 532-558; fifth
      edition, pp. 560-586; and “Critique of Practical Reason,” fourth
      edition, pp. 169-179; Rosenkranz’s edition, pp. 224-231.

   70 Cart. Medit. 4.—Spin. Eth., pt. ii. prop. 48 et 49, cæt.

   71 Herodot. vii. 46.

   72 Cf. Ch. xlvi. of Supplement.

   73 Cf. Ch. xlv. of the Supplement.

   74 Thus the basis of natural right of property does not require the
      assumption of two grounds of right beside each other, that based on
      _detention_ and that based on _formation_; but the latter is itself
      sufficient. Only the name _formation_ is not very suitable, for the
      spending of any labour upon a thing does not need to be a forming or
      fashioning of it.

   75 The further exposition of the philosophy of law here laid down will
      be found in my prize-essay, “Ueber das Fundament der Moral,” § 17,
      pp. 221-230 of 1st ed., pp. 216-226 of 2d ed.

   76 Cf. Ch. xlvii. of Supplement.

   77 Oupnek’hat, vol. i. p. 60 et seq.

   78 That Spanish bishop who, in the last war, poisoned both himself and
      the French generals at his own table, is an instance of this; and
      also various incidents in that war. Examples are also to be found in
      Montaigne, Bk. ii. ch. 12.

   79 Observe, in passing, that what gives every positive system of
      religion its great strength, the point of contact through which it
      takes possession of the soul, is entirely its ethical side. Not,
      however, the ethical side directly as such, but as it appears firmly
      united and interwoven with the element of mythical dogma which is
      present in every system of religion, and as intelligible only by
      means of this. So much is this the case, that although the ethical
      significance of action cannot be explained in accordance with the
      principle of sufficient reason, yet since every mythus follows this
      principle, believers regard the ethical significance of action as
      quite inseparable, and indeed as absolutely identical, and regard
      every attack upon the mythus as an attack upon right and virtue.
      This goes so far that among monotheistic nations atheism or
      godlessness has become synonymous with the absence of all morality.
      To the priests such confusions of conceptions are welcome, and only
      in consequence of them could that horrible monstrosity fanaticism
      arise and govern, not merely single individuals who happen to be
      specially perverse and bad, but whole nations, and finally embody
      itself in the Western world as the Inquisition (to the honour of
      mankind be it said that this only happened once in their history),
      which, according to the latest and most authentic accounts, in
      Madrid alone (in the rest of Spain there were many more such
      ecclesiastical dens of murderers) in 300 years put 300,000 human
      beings to a painful death at the stake on theological grounds—a fact
      of which every zealot ought to be reminded whenever he begins to
      make himself heard.

   80 The Church would say that these are merely _opera operata_, which do
      not avail unless grace gives the faith which leads to the new birth.
      But of this farther on.

   81 The right of man over the life and powers of the brutes rests on the
      fact that, because with the growing clearness of consciousness
      suffering increases in like measure; the pain which the brute
      suffers through death or work is not so great as man would suffer by
      merely denying himself the flesh, or the powers of the brutes.
      Therefore man may carry the assertion of his existence to the extent
      of denying the existence of the brute, and the will to live as a
      whole endures less suffering in this way than if the opposite course
      were adopted. This at once determines the extent of the use man may
      make of the powers of the brutes without wrong; a limit, however,
      which is often transgressed, especially in the case of beasts of
      burden and dogs used in the chase; to which the activity of
      societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals is principally
      devoted. In my opinion, that right does not extend to vivisection,
      particularly of the higher animals. On the other hand, the insect
      does not suffer so much through its death as a man suffers from its
      sting. The Hindus do not understand this.

   82 As I wander sunk in thought, so strong a sympathy with myself comes
      over me that I must often weep aloud, which otherwise I am not wont
      to do.

   83 Cf. Ch. xlvii. of Supplement. It is scarcely necessary to remind the
      reader that the whole ethical doctrine given in outline in §§ 61-67
      has been explained fully and in detail in my prize-essay on the
      foundation of morals.

   84 This thought is expressed by a beautiful simile in the ancient
      philosophical Sanscrit writing, “Sankhya Karica:” “Yet the soul
      remains a while invested with body; as the potter’s wheel continues
      whirling after the pot has been fashioned, by force of the impulse
      previously given to it. When separation of the informed soul from
      its corporeal frame at length takes place and nature in respect of
      it ceases, then is absolute and final deliverance accomplished.”
      Colebrooke, “On the Philosophy of the Hindus: Miscellaneous Essays,”
      vol i. p. 271. Also in the “Sankhya Karica by Horace Wilson,” § 67,
      p. 184.

   85 See, for example, “Oupnek’hat, studio Anquetil du Perron,” vol. ii.,
      Nos. 138, 144, 145, 146. “Mythologie des Indous,” par Mad. de
      Polier, vol. ii., ch. 13, 14, 15, 16, 17. “Asiatisches Magazin,” by
      Klaproth: in the first volume, “Ueber die Fo-Religion,” also
      “Baghnat Geeta” or “Gespräche zwischen Krishna und Arjoon;” in the
      second volume, “Moha-Mudgava.” Also, “Institutes of Hindu Law, or
      the Ordinances of Manu,” from the Sanscrit, by Sir William Jones
      (German by Hüttner, 1797), especially the sixth and twelfth
      chapters. Finally, many passages in the “Asiatic Researches.” (In
      the last forty years Indian literature has grown so much in Europe,
      that if I were now to complete this note to the first edition, it
      would occupy several pages.)

   86 At the procession of Jagganath in June 1840, eleven Hindus threw
      themselves under the wheels, and were instantly killed. (Letter of
      an East Indian proprietor in the _Times_ of 30th December 1840.)

   87 On δευτερος πλους cf. Stob. Floril., vol. ii. p. 374.

   88 Bruckeri Hist. Philos., tomi iv. pars. i. p. 10.

   89 Henry VI., Part ii. act 3, sc. 3.

   90 Cf. Ch. xlviii. of the Supplement.

   91 How truly this is the case may be seen from the fact that all the
      contradictions and inconceivabilities contained in the Christian
      dogmatics, consistently systematised by Augustine, which have led to
      the Pelagian insipidity which is opposed to them, vanish as soon as
      we abstract from the fundamental Jewish dogma, and recognize that
      man is not the work of another, but of his own will. Then all is at
      once clear and correct: then there is no need of freedom in the
      _operari_, for it lies in the _esse_; and there also lies the sin as
      original sin. The work of grace is, however, our own. To the
      rationalistic point of view of the day, on the contrary, many
      doctrines of the Augustinian dogmatics, founded on the New
      Testament, appear quite untenable, and indeed revolting; for
      example, predestination. Accordingly Christianity proper is
      rejected, and a return is made to crude Judaism. But the
      miscalculation or the original weakness of Christian dogmatics
      lies—where it is never sought—precisely in that which is withdrawn
      from all investigation as established and certain. Take this away
      and the whole of dogmatics is rational; for this dogma destroys
      theology as it does all other sciences. If any one studies the
      Augustinian theology in the books “_De Civitate Dei_” (especially in
      the Fourteenth Book), he experiences something analogous to the
      feeling of one who tries to make a body stand whose centre of
      gravity falls outside it; however he may turn it and place it, it
      always tumbles over again. So here, in spite of all the efforts and
      sophisms of Augustine, the guilt and misery of the world always
      falls back on God, who made everything and everything that is in
      everything, and also knew how all things would go. That Augustine
      himself was conscious of the difficulty, and puzzled by it, I have
      already shown in my prize-essay on the Freedom of the Will (ch. iv.
      pp. 66-68 of the first and second editions). In the same way, the
      contradiction between the goodness of God and the misery of the
      world, and also between the freedom of the will and the
      foreknowledge of God, is the inexhaustible theme of a controversy
      which lasted nearly a hundred years between the Cartesians,
      Malebranche, Leibnitz, Bayle, Clarke, Arnauld, and many others. The
      only dogma which was regarded as fixed by all parties was the
      existence and attributes of God, and they all unceasingly move in a
      circle, because they seek to bring these things into harmony,
      _i.e._, to solve a sum that will not come right, but always shows a
      remainder at some new place whenever we have concealed it elsewhere.
      But it does not occur to any one to seek for the source of the
      difficulty in the fundamental assumption, although it palpably
      obtrudes itself. Bayle alone shows that he saw this.

   92 This is also just the Prajna—Paramita of the Buddhists, the “beyond
      all knowledge,” _i.e._, the point at which subject and object are no
      more. (Cf. J. J. Schmidt, “Ueber das Mahajana und
      Pratschna-Paramita.”)