{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_10714/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_10714","id":"gutenberg_10714","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10714","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Literature -- Philosophy"],"text":"THE ESSAYS\n\nOF\n\nARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER\n\nTRANSLATED BY\n\nT. BAILEY SAUNDERS, M.A.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ART OF LITERATURE.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n  PREFACE\n  ON AUTHORSHIP\n  ON STYLE\n  ON THE STUDY OF LATIN\n  ON MEN OF LEARNING\n  ON THINKING FOR ONESELF\n  ON SOME FORMS OF LITERATURE\n  ON CRITICISM\n  ON REPUTATION\n  ON GENIUS\n\n\n\n\nTRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.\n\n\nThe contents of this, as of the other volumes in the series, have been\ndrawn from Schopenhauer's _Parerga_, and amongst the various subjects\ndealt with in that famous collection of essays, Literature holds an\nimportant place. Nor can Schopenhauer's opinions fail to be of special\nvalue when he treats of literary form and method. For, quite apart\nfrom his philosophical pretensions, he claims recognition as a great\nwriter; he is, indeed, one of the best of the few really excellent\nprose-writers of whom Germany can boast. While he is thus particularly\nqualified to speak of Literature as an Art, he has also something to\nsay upon those influences which, outside of his own merits, contribute\nso much to an author's success, and are so often undervalued when he\nobtains immediate popularity. Schopenhauer's own sore experiences in\nthe matter of reputation lend an interest to his remarks upon that\nsubject, although it is too much to ask of human nature that he should\napproach it in any dispassionate spirit.\n\nIn the following pages we have observations upon style by one who\nwas a stylist in the best sense of the word, not affected, nor yet a\nphrasemonger; on thinking for oneself by a philosopher who never did\nanything else; on criticism by a writer who suffered much from the\ninability of others to understand him; on reputation by a candidate\nwho, during the greater part of his life, deserved without obtaining\nit; and on genius by one who was incontestably of the privileged\norder himself. And whatever may be thought of some of his opinions\non matters of detail--on anonymity, for instance, or on the question\nwhether good work is never done for money--there can be no doubt that\nhis general view of literature, and the conditions under which it\nflourishes, is perfectly sound.\n\nIt might be thought, perhaps, that remarks which were meant to apply\nto the German language would have but little bearing upon one so\ndifferent from it as English. This would be a just objection if\nSchopenhauer treated literature in a petty spirit, and confined\nhimself to pedantic inquiries into matters of grammar and etymology,\nor mere niceties of phrase. But this is not so. He deals with his\nsubject broadly, and takes large and general views; nor can anyone\nwho knows anything of the philosopher suppose this to mean that he is\nvague and feeble. It is true that now and again in the course of these\nessays he makes remarks which are obviously meant to apply to the\nfailings of certain writers of his own age and country; but in such a\ncase I have generally given his sentences a turn, which, while keeping\nthem faithful to the spirit of the original, secures for them a less\nrestricted range, and makes Schopenhauer a critic of similar faults in\nwhatever age or country they may appear. This has been done in spite\nof a sharp word on page seventeen of this volume, addressed to\ntranslators who dare to revise their author; but the change is one\nwith which not even Schopenhauer could quarrel.\n\nIt is thus a significant fact--a testimony to the depth of his\ninsight and, in the main, the justice of his opinions--that views of\nliterature which appealed to his own immediate contemporaries, should\nbe found to hold good elsewhere and at a distance of fifty years.\nIt means that what he had to say was worth saying; and since it is\nadapted thus equally to diverse times and audiences, it is probably of\npermanent interest.\n\nThe intelligent reader will observe that much of the charm of\nSchopenhauer's writing comes from its strongly personal character, and\nthat here he has to do, not with a mere maker of books, but with a\nman who thinks for himself and has no false scruples in putting his\nmeaning plainly upon the page, or in unmasking sham wherever he finds\nit. This is nowhere so true as when he deals with literature; and just\nas in his treatment of life, he is no flatterer to men in general, so\nhere he is free and outspoken on the peculiar failings of authors. At\nthe same time he gives them good advice. He is particularly happy in\nrecommending restraint in regard to reading the works of others, and\nthe cultivation of independent thought; and herein he recalls a saying\nattributed to Hobbes, who was not less distinguished as a writer than\nas a philosopher, to the effect that \"_if he had read as much as other\nmen, he should have been as ignorant as they_.\"\n\nSchopenhauer also utters a warning, which we shall do well to take to\nheart in these days, against mingling the pursuit of literature with\nvulgar aims. If we follow him here, we shall carefully distinguish\nbetween literature as an object of life and literature as a means of\nliving, between the real love of truth and beauty, and that detestable\nfalse love which looks to the price it will fetch in the market. I am\nnot referring to those who, while they follow a useful and honorable\ncalling in bringing literature before the public, are content to be\nknown as men of business. If, by the help of some second witch\nof Endor, we could raise the ghost of Schopenhauer, it would be\ninteresting to hear his opinion of a certain kind of literary\nenterprise which has come into vogue since his day, and now receives\nan amount of attention very much beyond its due. We may hazard a guess\nat the direction his opinion would take. He would doubtless show us\nhow this enterprise, which is carried on by self-styled _literary\nmen_, ends by making literature into a form of merchandise, and\ntreating it as though it were so much goods to be bought and sold at a\nprofit, and most likely to produce quick returns if the maker's name\nis well known. Nor would it be the ghost of the real Schopenhauer\nunless we heard a vigorous denunciation of men who claim a connection\nwith literature by a servile flattery of successful living\nauthors--the dead cannot be made to pay--in the hope of appearing to\nadvantage in their reflected light and turning that advantage into\nmoney.\n\nIn order to present the contents of this book in a convenient form, I\nhave not scrupled to make an arrangement with the chapters somewhat\ndifferent from that which exists in the original; so that two or more\nsubjects which are there dealt with successively in one and the same\nchapter, here stand by themselves. In consequence of this, some of\nthe titles of the sections are not to be found in the original. I may\nstate, however, that the essays on _Authorship_ and _Style_ and the\nlatter part of that on _Criticism_ are taken direct from the chapter\nheaded _Ueber Schriftstellerei und Stil_; and that the remainder of\nthe essay on _Criticism_, with that of _Reputation_, is supplied by\nthe remarks _Ueber Urtheil, Kritik, Beifall und Ruhm_. The essays on\n_The Study of Latin_, on _Men of Learning_, and on _Some Forms\nof Literature_, are taken chiefly from the four sections _Ueber\nGelehrsamkeit und Gelehrte, Ueber Sprache und Worte, Ueber Lesen\nund B\u00fccher: Anhang_, and _Zur Metaphysik des Sch\u00f6nen_. The essay on\n_Thinking for Oneself_ is a rendering of certain remarks under the\nheading _Selbstdenken. Genius_ was a favorite subject of speculation\nwith Schopenhauer, and he often touches upon it in the course of his\nworks; always, however, to put forth the same theory in regard to it\nas may be found in the concluding section of this volume. Though the\nessay has little or nothing to do with literary method, the subject of\nwhich it treats is the most needful element of success in literature;\nand I have introduced it on that ground. It forms part of a chapter in\nthe _Parerga_ entitled _Den Intellekt \u00fcberhaupt und in jeder Beziehung\nbetreffende Gedanken: Anhang verwandter Stellen._\n\nIt has also been part of my duty to invent a title for this volume;\nand I am well aware that objection may be made to the one I have\nchosen, on the ground that in common language it is unusual to speak\nof literature as an art, and that to do so is unduly to narrow its\nmeaning and to leave out of sight its main function as the record of\nthought. But there is no reason why the word _Literature_ should\nnot be employed in that double sense which is allowed to attach to\n_Painting, Music, Sculpture_, as signifying either the objective\noutcome of a certain mental activity, seeking to express itself in\noutward form; or else the particular kind of mental activity in\nquestion, and the methods it follows. And we do, in fact, use it in\nthis latter sense, when we say of a writer that he pursues literature\nas a calling. If, then, literature can be taken to mean a process as\nwell as a result of mental activity, there can be no error in speaking\nof it as Art. I use that term in its broad sense, as meaning skill in\nthe display of thought; or, more fully, a right use of the rules\nof applying to the practical exhibition of thought, with whatever\nmaterial it may deal. In connection with literature, this is a\nsense and an application of the term which have been sufficiently\nestablished by the example of the great writers of antiquity.\n\nIt may be asked, of course, whether the true thinker, who will always\nform the soul of the true author, will not be so much occupied with\nwhat he has to say, that it will appear to him a trivial thing to\nspend great effort on embellishing the form in which he delivers it.\nLiterature, to be worthy of the name, must, it is true, deal with\nnoble matter--the riddle of our existence, the great facts of life,\nthe changing passions of the human heart, the discernment of some deep\nmoral truth. It is easy to lay too much stress upon the mere garment\nof thought; to be too precise; to give to the arrangement of words an\nattention that should rather be paid to the promotion of fresh ideas.\nA writer who makes this mistake is like a fop who spends his little\nmind in adorning his person. In short, it may be charged against the\nview of literature which is taken in calling it an Art, that, instead\nof making truth and insight the author's aim, it favors sciolism and a\nfantastic and affected style. There is, no doubt, some justice in the\nobjection; nor have we in our own day, and especially amongst younger\nmen, any lack of writers who endeavor to win confidence, not by adding\nto the stock of ideas in the world, but by despising the use of plain\nlanguage. Their faults are not new in the history of literature; and\nit is a pleasing sign of Schopenhauer's insight that a merciless\nexposure of them, as they existed half a century ago, is still quite\napplicable to their modern form.\n\nAnd since these writers, who may, in the slang of the hour, be called\n\"impressionists\" in literature, follow their own bad taste in the\nmanufacture of dainty phrases, devoid of all nerve, and generally\nwith some quite commonplace meaning, it is all the more necessary to\ndiscriminate carefully between artifice and art.\n\nBut although they may learn something from Schopenhauer's advice, it\nis not chiefly to them that it is offered. It is to that great mass of\nwriters, whose business is to fill the columns of the newspapers and\nthe pages of the review, and to produce the ton of novels that appear\nevery year. Now that almost everyone who can hold a pen aspires to be\ncalled an author, it is well to emphasize the fact that literature is\nan art in some respects more important than any other. The problem of\nthis art is the discovery of those qualities of style and treatment\nwhich entitled any work to be called good literature.\n\nIt will be safe to warn the reader at the very outset that, if he\nwishes to avoid being led astray, he should in his search for these\nqualities turn to books that have stood the test of time.\n\nFor such an amount of hasty writing is done in these days that it is\nreally difficult for anyone who reads much of it to avoid contracting\nits faults, and thus gradually coming to terms of dangerous\nfamiliarity with bad methods. This advice will be especially needful\nif things that have little or no claim to be called literature at\nall--the newspapers, the monthly magazine, and the last new tale of\nintrigue or adventure--fill a large measure, if not the whole, of the\ntime given to reading. Nor are those who are sincerely anxious to have\nthe best thought in the best language quite free from danger if they\ngive too much attention to the contemporary authors, even though these\nseem to think and write excellently. For one generation alone is\nincompetent to decide upon the merits of any author whatever; and as\nliterature, like all art, is a thing of human invention, so it can be\npronounced good only if it obtains lasting admiration, by establishing\na permanent appeal to mankind's deepest feeling for truth and beauty.\n\nIt is in this sense that Schopenhauer is perfectly right in holding\nthat neglect of the ancient classics, which are the best of all models\nin the art of writing, will infallibly lead to a degeneration of\nliterature.\n\nAnd the method of discovering the best qualities of style, and of\nforming a theory of writing, is not to follow some trick or mannerism\nthat happens to please for the moment, but to study the way in which\ngreat authors have done their best work.\n\nIt will be said that Schopenhauer tells us nothing we did not know\nbefore. Perhaps so; as he himself says, the best things are seldom\nnew. But he puts the old truths in a fresh and forcible way; and no\none who knows anything of good literature will deny that these truths\nare just now of very fit application.\n\nIt was probably to meet a real want that, a year or two ago, an\ningenious person succeeded in drawing a great number of English and\nAmerican writers into a confession of their literary creed and the art\nthey adopted in authorship; and the interesting volume in which he\ngave these confessions to the world contained some very good advice,\nalthough most of it had been said before in different forms. More\nrecently a new departure, of very doubtful use, has taken place; and\ntwo books have been issued, which aim, the one at being an author's\nmanual, the other at giving hints on essays and how to write them.\n\nA glance at these books will probably show that their authors have\nstill something to learn.\n\nBoth of these ventures seem, unhappily, to be popular; and, although\nthey may claim a position next-door to that of the present volume I\nbeg to say that it has no connection with them whatever. Schopenhauer\ndoes not attempt to teach the art of making bricks without straw.\n\nI wish to take this opportunity of tendering my thanks to a large\nnumber of reviewers for the very gratifying reception given to\nthe earlier volumes of this series. And I have great pleasure in\nexpressing my obligations to my friend Mr. W.G. Collingwood, who has\nlooked over most of my proofs and often given me excellent advice in\nmy effort to turn Schopenhauer into readable English.\n\nT.B.S.\n\n\n\n\nON AUTHORSHIP.\n\n\nThere are, first of all, two kinds of authors: those who write for the\nsubject's sake, and those who write for writing's sake. While the\none have had thoughts or experiences which seem to them worth\ncommunicating, the others want money; and so they write, for money.\nTheir thinking is part of the business of writing. They may be\nrecognized by the way in which they spin out their thoughts to the\ngreatest possible length; then, too, by the very nature of their\nthoughts, which are only half-true, perverse, forced, vacillating;\nagain, by the aversion they generally show to saying anything straight\nout, so that they may seem other than they are. Hence their writing\nis deficient in clearness and definiteness, and it is not long before\nthey betray that their only object in writing at all is to cover\npaper. This sometimes happens with the best authors; now and then, for\nexample, with Lessing in his _Dramaturgie_, and even in many of Jean\nPaul's romances. As soon as the reader perceives this, let him throw\nthe book away; for time is precious. The truth is that when an author\nbegins to write for the sake of covering paper, he is cheating the\nreader; because he writes under the pretext that he has something to\nsay.\n\nWriting for money and reservation of copyright are, at bottom, the\nruin of literature. No one writes anything that is worth writing,\nunless he writes entirely for the sake of his subject. What an\ninestimable boon it would be, if in every branch of literature there\nwere only a few books, but those excellent! This can never happen, as\nlong as money is to be made by writing. It seems as though the money\nlay under a curse; for every author degenerates as soon as he begins\nto put pen to paper in any way for the sake of gain. The best works\nof the greatest men all come from the time when they had to write for\nnothing or for very little. And here, too, that Spanish proverb holds\ngood, which declares that honor and money are not to be found in the\nsame purse--_honora y provecho no caben en un saco_. The reason why\nLiterature is in such a bad plight nowadays is simply and solely that\npeople write books to make money. A man who is in want sits down\nand writes a book, and the public is stupid enough to buy it. The\nsecondary effect of this is the ruin of language.\n\nA great many bad writers make their whole living by that foolish\nmania of the public for reading nothing but what has just been\nprinted,--journalists, I mean. Truly, a most appropriate name. In\nplain language it is _journeymen, day-laborers_!\n\nAgain, it may be said that there are three kinds of authors. First\ncome those who write without thinking. They write from a full memory,\nfrom reminiscences; it may be, even straight out of other people's\nbooks. This class is the most numerous. Then come those who do their\nthinking whilst they are writing. They think in order to write; and\nthere is no lack of them. Last of all come those authors who think\nbefore they begin to write. They are rare.\n\nAuthors of the second class, who put off their thinking until they\ncome to write, are like a sportsman who goes forth at random and is\nnot likely to bring very much home. On the other hand, when an author\nof the third or rare class writes, it is like a _battue_. Here the\ngame has been previously captured and shut up within a very small\nspace; from which it is afterwards let out, so many at a time, into\nanother space, also confined. The game cannot possibly escape the\nsportsman; he has nothing to do but aim and fire--in other words,\nwrite down his thoughts. This is a kind of sport from which a man has\nsomething to show.\n\nBut even though the number of those who really think seriously before\nthey begin to write is small, extremely few of them think about _the\nsubject itself_: the remainder think only about the books that have\nbeen written on the subject, and what has been said by others. In\norder to think at all, such writers need the more direct and powerful\nstimulus of having other people's thoughts before them. These become\ntheir immediate theme; and the result is that they are always under\ntheir influence, and so never, in any real sense of the word, are\noriginal. But the former are roused to thought by the subject itself,\nto which their thinking is thus immediately directed. This is the only\nclass that produces writers of abiding fame.\n\nIt must, of course, be understood that I am speaking here of writers\nwho treat of great subjects; not of writers on the art of making\nbrandy.\n\nUnless an author takes the material on which he writes out of his\nown head, that is to say, from his own observation, he is not\nworth reading. Book-manufacturers, compilers, the common run of\nhistory-writers, and many others of the same class, take their\nmaterial immediately out of books; and the material goes straight\nto their finger-tips without even paying freight or undergoing\nexamination as it passes through their heads, to say nothing of\nelaboration or revision. How very learned many a man would be if he\nknew everything that was in his own books! The consequence of this is\nthat these writers talk in such a loose and vague manner, that the\nreader puzzles his brain in vain to understand what it is of which\nthey are really thinking. They are thinking of nothing. It may now and\nthen be the case that the book from which they copy has been composed\nexactly in the same way: so that writing of this sort is like a\nplaster cast of a cast; and in the end, the bare outline of the face,\nand that, too, hardly recognizable, is all that is left to your\nAntinous. Let compilations be read as seldom as possible. It is\ndifficult to avoid them altogether; since compilations also include\nthose text-books which contain in a small space the accumulated\nknowledge of centuries.\n\nThere is no greater mistake than to suppose that the last work is\nalways the more correct; that what is written later on is in every\ncase an improvement on what was written before; and that change always\nmeans progress. Real thinkers, men of right judgment, people who are\nin earnest with their subject,--these are all exceptions only. Vermin\nis the rule everywhere in the world: it is always on the alert, taking\nthe mature opinions of the thinkers, and industriously seeking to\nimprove upon them (save the mark!) in its own peculiar way.\n\nIf the reader wishes to study any subject, let him beware of rushing\nto the newest books upon it, and confining his attention to them\nalone, under the notion that science is always advancing, and that the\nold books have been drawn upon in the writing of the new. They have\nbeen drawn upon, it is true; but how? The writer of the new book often\ndoes not understand the old books thoroughly, and yet he is unwilling\nto take their exact words; so he bungles them, and says in his own bad\nway that which has been said very much better and more clearly by the\nold writers, who wrote from their own lively knowledge of the subject.\nThe new writer frequently omits the best things they say, their most\nstriking illustrations, their happiest remarks; because he does not\nsee their value or feel how pregnant they are. The only thing that\nappeals to him is what is shallow and insipid.\n\nIt often happens that an old and excellent book is ousted by new\nand bad ones, which, written for money, appear with an air of great\npretension and much puffing on the part of friends. In science a man\ntries to make his mark by bringing out something fresh. This often\nmeans nothing more than that he attacks some received theory which\nis quite correct, in order to make room for his own false notions.\nSometimes the effort is successful for a time; and then a return is\nmade to the old and true theory. These innovators are serious about\nnothing but their own precious self: it is this that they want to put\nforward, and the quick way of doing so, as they think, is to start a\nparadox. Their sterile heads take naturally to the path of negation;\nso they begin to deny truths that have long been admitted--the vital\npower, for example, the sympathetic nervous system, _generatio\nequivoca_, Bichat's distinction between the working of the passions\nand the working of intelligence; or else they want us to return to\ncrass atomism, and the like. Hence it frequently happens that _the\ncourse of science is retrogressive._\n\nTo this class of writers belong those translators who not only\ntranslate their author but also correct and revise him; a proceeding\nwhich always seems to me impertinent. To such writers I say: Write\nbooks yourself which are worth translating, and leave other people's\nworks as they are!\n\nThe reader should study, if he can, the real authors, the men who\nhave founded and discovered things; or, at any rate, those who are\nrecognized as the great masters in every branch of knowledge. Let him\nbuy second-hand books rather than read their contents in new ones. To\nbe sure, it is easy to add to any new discovery--_inventis aliquid\naddere facile est_; and, therefore, the student, after well mastering\nthe rudiments of his subject, will have to make himself acquainted\nwith the more recent additions to the knowledge of it. And, in\ngeneral, the following rule may be laid down here as elsewhere: if a\nthing is new, it is seldom good; because if it is good, it is only for\na short time new.\n\nWhat the address is to a letter, the title should be to a book; in\nother words, its main object should be to bring the book to those\namongst the public who will take an interest in its contents. It\nshould, therefore, be expressive; and since by its very nature it must\nbe short, it should be concise, laconic, pregnant, and if possible\ngive the contents in one word. A prolix title is bad; and so is one\nthat says nothing, or is obscure and ambiguous, or even, it may be,\nfalse and misleading; this last may possibly involve the book in the\nsame fate as overtakes a wrongly addressed letter. The worst titles\nof all are those which have been stolen, those, I mean, which have\nalready been borne by other books; for they are in the first place a\nplagiarism, and secondly the most convincing proof of a total lack of\noriginality in the author. A man who has not enough originality to\ninvent a new title for his book, will be still less able to give it\nnew contents. Akin to these stolen titles are those which have been\nimitated, that is to say, stolen to the extent of one half; for\ninstance, long after I had produced my treatise _On Will in Nature_,\nOersted wrote a book entitled _On Mind in Nature_.\n\nA book can never be anything more than the impress of its author's\nthoughts; and the value of these will lie either in _the matter about\nwhich he has thought_, or in the _form_ which his thoughts take, in\nother words, _what it is that he has thought about it._\n\nThe matter of books is most various; and various also are the several\nexcellences attaching to books on the score of their matter. By matter\nI mean everything that comes within the domain of actual experience;\nthat is to say, the facts of history and the facts of nature, taken in\nand by themselves and in their widest sense. Here it is the _thing_\ntreated of, which gives its peculiar character to the book; so that a\nbook can be important, whoever it was that wrote it.\n\nBut in regard to the form, the peculiar character of a book depends\nupon the _person_ who wrote it. It may treat of matters which are\naccessible to everyone and well known; but it is the way in which they\nare treated, what it is that is thought about them, that gives the\nbook its value; and this comes from its author. If, then, from this\npoint of view a book is excellent and beyond comparison, so is its\nauthor. It follows that if a writer is worth reading, his merit rises\njust in proportion as he owes little to his matter; therefore, the\nbetter known and the more hackneyed this is, the greater he will be.\nThe three great tragedians of Greece, for example, all worked at the\nsame subject-matter.\n\nSo when a book is celebrated, care should be taken to note whether it\nis so on account of its matter or its form; and a distinction should\nbe made accordingly.\n\nBooks of great importance on account of their matter may proceed from\nvery ordinary and shallow people, by the fact that they alone have had\naccess to this matter; books, for instance, which describe journeys in\ndistant lands, rare natural phenomena, or experiments; or historical\noccurrences of which the writers were witnesses, or in connection\nwith which they have spent much time and trouble in the research and\nspecial study of original documents.\n\nOn the other hand, where the matter is accessible to everyone or very\nwell known, everything will depend upon the form; and what it is\nthat is thought about the matter will give the book all the value\nit possesses. Here only a really distinguished man will be able to\nproduce anything worth reading; for the others will think nothing but\nwhat anyone else can think. They will just produce an impress of\ntheir own minds; but this is a print of which everyone possesses the\noriginal.\n\nHowever, the public is very much more concerned to have matter than\nform; and for this very reason it is deficient in any high degree of\nculture. The public shows its preference in this respect in the most\nlaughable way when it comes to deal with poetry; for there it devotes\nmuch trouble to the task of tracking out the actual events or personal\ncircumstances in the life of the poet which served as the occasion of\nhis various works; nay, these events and circumstances come in the end\nto be of greater importance than the works themselves; and rather than\nread Goethe himself, people prefer to read what has been written about\nhim, and to study the legend of Faust more industriously than the\ndrama of that name. And when B\u00fcrger declared that \"people would write\nlearned disquisitions on the question, Who Leonora really was,\" we\nfind this literally fulfilled in Goethe's case; for we now possess a\ngreat many learned disquisitions on Faust and the legend attaching to\nhim. Study of this kind is, and remains, devoted to the material of\nthe drama alone. To give such preference to the matter over the form,\nis as though a man were to take a fine Etruscan vase, not to admire\nits shape or coloring, but to make a chemical analysis of the clay and\npaint of which it is composed.\n\nThe attempt to produce an effect by means of the material employed--an\nattempt which panders to this evil tendency of the public--is most to\nbe condemned in branches of literature where any merit there may be\nlies expressly in the form; I mean, in poetical work. For all that, it\nis not rare to find bad dramatists trying to fill the house by means\nof the matter about which they write. For example, authors of this\nkind do not shrink from putting on the stage any man who is in any way\ncelebrated, no matter whether his life may have been entirely devoid\nof dramatic incident; and sometimes, even, they do not wait until the\npersons immediately connected with him are dead.\n\nThe distinction between matter and form to which I am here alluding\nalso holds good of conversation. The chief qualities which enable a\nman to converse well are intelligence, discernment, wit and vivacity:\nthese supply the form of conversation. But it is not long before\nattention has to be paid to the matter of which he speaks; in other\nwords, the subjects about which it is possible to converse with\nhim--his knowledge. If this is very small, his conversation will\nnot be worth anything, unless he possesses the above-named formal\nqualities in a very exceptional degree; for he will have nothing to\ntalk about but those facts of life and nature which everybody knows.\nIt will be just the opposite, however, if a man is deficient in these\nformal qualities, but has an amount of knowledge which lends value to\nwhat he says. This value will then depend entirely upon the matter of\nhis conversation; for, as the Spanish proverb has it, _mas sabe el\nnecio en su casa, que el sabio en la agena_--a fool knows more of his\nown business than a wise man does of others.\n\n\n\n\nON STYLE.\n\n\nStyle is the physiognomy of the mind, and a safer index to character\nthan the face. To imitate another man's style is like wearing a mask,\nwhich, be it never so fine, is not long in arousing disgust and\nabhorrence, because it is lifeless; so that even the ugliest living\nface is better. Hence those who write in Latin and copy the manner of\nancient authors, may be said to speak through a mask; the reader, it\nis true, hears what they say, but he cannot observe their physiognomy\ntoo; he cannot see their _style_. With the Latin works of writers\nwho think for themselves, the case is different, and their style is\nvisible; writers, I mean, who have not condescended to any sort\nof imitation, such as Scotus Erigena, Petrarch, Bacon, Descartes,\nSpinoza, and many others. An affectation in style is like making\ngrimaces. Further, the language in which a man writes is the\nphysiognomy of the nation to which he belongs; and here there are many\nhard and fast differences, beginning from the language of the Greeks,\ndown to that of the Caribbean islanders.\n\nTo form a provincial estimate of the value of a writer's productions,\nit is not directly necessary to know the subject on which he has\nthought, or what it is that he has said about it; that would imply\na perusal of all his works. It will be enough, in the main, to know\n_how_ he has thought. This, which means the essential temper or\ngeneral quality of his mind, may be precisely determined by his style.\nA man's style shows the _formal_ nature of all his thoughts--the\nformal nature which can never change, be the subject or the character\nof his thoughts what it may: it is, as it were, the dough out of which\nall the contents of his mind are kneaded. When Eulenspiegel was asked\nhow long it would take to walk to the next village, he gave the\nseemingly incongruous answer: _Walk_. He wanted to find out by the\nman's pace the distance he would cover in a given time. In the same\nway, when I have read a few pages of an author, I know fairly well how\nfar he can bring me.\n\nEvery mediocre writer tries to mask his own natural style, because in\nhis heart he knows the truth of what I am saying. He is thus forced,\nat the outset, to give up any attempt at being frank or na\u00efve--a\nprivilege which is thereby reserved for superior minds, conscious of\ntheir own worth, and therefore sure of themselves. What I mean is that\nthese everyday writers are absolutely unable to resolve upon writing\njust as they think; because they have a notion that, were they to do\nso, their work might possibly look very childish and simple. For\nall that, it would not be without its value. If they would only go\nhonestly to work, and say, quite simply, the things they have really\nthought, and just as they have thought them, these writers would be\nreadable and, within their own proper sphere, even instructive.\n\nBut instead of that, they try to make the reader believe that their\nthoughts have gone much further and deeper than is really the case.\nThey say what they have to say in long sentences that wind about in a\nforced and unnatural way; they coin new words and write prolix periods\nwhich go round and round the thought and wrap it up in a sort of\ndisguise. They tremble between the two separate aims of communicating\nwhat they want to say and of concealing it. Their object is to dress\nit up so that it may look learned or deep, in order to give people\nthe impression that there is very much more in it than for the moment\nmeets the eye. They either jot down their thoughts bit by bit, in\nshort, ambiguous, and paradoxical sentences, which apparently mean\nmuch more than they say,--of this kind of writing Schelling's\ntreatises on natural philosophy are a splendid instance; or else\nthey hold forth with a deluge of words and the most intolerable\ndiffusiveness, as though no end of fuss were necessary to make the\nreader understand the deep meaning of their sentences, whereas it is\nsome quite simple if not actually trivial idea,--examples of which\nmay be found in plenty in the popular works of Fichte, and the\nphilosophical manuals of a hundred other miserable dunces not worth\nmentioning; or, again, they try to write in some particular style\nwhich they have been pleased to take up and think very grand, a style,\nfor example, _par excellence_ profound and scientific, where the\nreader is tormented to death by the narcotic effect of longspun\nperiods without a single idea in them,--such as are furnished in\na special measure by those most impudent of all mortals, the\nHegelians[1]; or it may be that it is an intellectual style they have\nstriven after, where it seems as though their object were to go crazy\naltogether; and so on in many other cases. All these endeavors to put\noff the _nascetur ridiculus mus_--to avoid showing the funny little\ncreature that is born after such mighty throes--often make it\ndifficult to know what it is that they really mean. And then, too,\nthey write down words, nay, even whole sentences, without attaching\nany meaning to them themselves, but in the hope that someone else will\nget sense out of them.\n\n[Footnote 1: In their Hegel-gazette, commonly known as _Jahrb\u00fccher der\nwissenschaftlichen Literatur_.]\n\nAnd what is at the bottom of all this? Nothing but the untiring effort\nto sell words for thoughts; a mode of merchandise that is always\ntrying to make fresh openings for itself, and by means of odd\nexpressions, turns of phrase, and combinations of every sort, whether\nnew or used in a new sense, to produce the appearence of intellect in\norder to make up for the very painfully felt lack of it.\n\nIt is amusing to see how writers with this object in view will attempt\nfirst one mannerism and then another, as though they were putting\non the mask of intellect! This mask may possibly deceive the\ninexperienced for a while, until it is seen to be a dead thing, with\nno life in it at all; it is then laughed at and exchanged for another.\nSuch an author will at one moment write in a dithyrambic vein, as\nthough he were tipsy; at another, nay, on the very next page, he will\nbe pompous, severe, profoundly learned and prolix, stumbling on in the\nmost cumbrous way and chopping up everything very small; like the late\nChristian Wolf, only in a modern dress. Longest of all lasts the mask\nof unintelligibility; but this is only in Germany, whither it was\nintroduced by Fichte, perfected by Schelling, and carried to its\nhighest pitch in Hegel--always with the best results.\n\nAnd yet nothing is easier than to write so that no one can understand;\njust as contrarily, nothing is more difficult than to express deep\nthings in such a way that every one must necessarily grasp them. All\nthe arts and tricks I have been mentioning are rendered superfluous if\nthe author really has any brains; for that allows him to show himself\nas he is, and confirms to all time Horace's maxim that good sense is\nthe source and origin of good style:\n\n  _Scribendi recte sapere est et principium et fons_.\n\nBut those authors I have named are like certain workers in metal, who\ntry a hundred different compounds to take the place of gold--the only\nmetal which can never have any substitute. Rather than do that, there\nis nothing against which a writer should be more upon his guard than\nthe manifest endeavor to exhibit more intellect than he really has;\nbecause this makes the reader suspect that he possesses very little;\nsince it is always the case that if a man affects anything, whatever\nit may be, it is just there that he is deficient.\n\nThat is why it is praise to an author to say that he is _na\u00efve_; it\nmeans that he need not shrink from showing himself as he is. Generally\nspeaking, to be _na\u00efve_ is to be attractive; while lack of naturalness\nis everywhere repulsive. As a matter of fact we find that every\nreally great writer tries to express his thoughts as purely, clearly,\ndefinitely and shortly as possible. Simplicity has always been held to\nbe a mark of truth; it is also a mark of genius. Style receives its\nbeauty from the thought it expresses; but with sham-thinkers the\nthoughts are supposed to be fine because of the style. Style is\nnothing but the mere silhouette of thought; and an obscure or bad\nstyle means a dull or confused brain.\n\nThe first rule, then, for a good style is that _the author should\nhave something to say_; nay, this is in itself almost all that is\nnecessary. Ah, how much it means! The neglect of this rule is a\nfundamental trait in the philosophical writing, and, in fact, in\nall the reflective literature, of my country, more especially since\nFichte. These writers all let it be seen that they want to appear as\nthough they had something to say; whereas they have nothing to say.\nWriting of this kind was brought in by the pseudo-philosophers at the\nUniversities, and now it is current everywhere, even among the first\nliterary notabilities of the age. It is the mother of that strained\nand vague style, where there seem to be two or even more meanings in\nthe sentence; also of that prolix and cumbrous manner of expression,\ncalled _le stile empes\u00e9_; again, of that mere waste of words which\nconsists in pouring them out like a flood; finally, of that trick\nof concealing the direst poverty of thought under a farrago of\nnever-ending chatter, which clacks away like a windmill and quite\nstupefies one--stuff which a man may read for hours together without\ngetting hold of a single clearly expressed and definite idea.[1]\nHowever, people are easy-going, and they have formed the habit of\nreading page upon page of all sorts of such verbiage, without having\nany particular idea of what the author really means. They fancy it is\nall as it should be, and fail to discover that he is writing simply\nfor writing's sake.\n\n[Footnote 1: Select examples of the art of writing in this style are\nto be found almost _passim_ in the _Jahrb\u00fccher_ published at Halle,\nafterwards called the _Deutschen Jahrb\u00fccher_.]\n\nOn the other hand, a good author, fertile in ideas, soon wins his\nreader's confidence that, when he writes, he has really and truly\n_something to say_; and this gives the intelligent reader patience to\nfollow him with attention. Such an author, just because he really has\nsomething to say, will never fail to express himself in the simplest\nand most straightforward manner; because his object is to awake the\nvery same thought in the reader that he has in himself, and no other.\nSo he will be able to affirm with Boileau that his thoughts are\neverywhere open to the light of the day, and that his verse always\nsays something, whether it says it well or ill:\n\n  _Ma pens\u00e9e au grand jour partout s'offre et s'expose,\n  Et mon vers, bien ou mal, dit toujours quelque chose_:\n\nwhile of the writers previously described it may be asserted, in the\nwords of the same poet, that they talk much and never say anything at\nall--_quiparlant beaucoup ne disent jamais rien_.\n\nAnother characteristic of such writers is that they always avoid a\npositive assertion wherever they can possibly do so, in order to leave\na loophole for escape in case of need. Hence they never fail to choose\nthe more _abstract_ way of expressing themselves; whereas intelligent\npeople use the more _concrete_; because the latter brings things more\nwithin the range of actual demonstration, which is the source of all\nevidence.\n\nThere are many examples proving this preference for abstract\nexpression; and a particularly ridiculous one is afforded by the use\nof the verb _to condition_ in the sense of _to cause_ or _to produce_.\nPeople say _to condition something_ instead of _to cause it_, because\nbeing abstract and indefinite it says less; it affirms that _A_ cannot\nhappen without _B_, instead of that _A_ is caused by _B_. A back door\nis always left open; and this suits people whose secret knowledge of\ntheir own incapacity inspires them with a perpetual terror of all\npositive assertion; while with other people it is merely the effect of\nthat tendency by which everything that is stupid in literature or bad\nin life is immediately imitated--a fact proved in either case by the\nrapid way in which it spreads. The Englishman uses his own judgment in\nwhat he writes as well as in what he does; but there is no nation of\nwhich this eulogy is less true than of the Germans. The consequence\nof this state of things is that the word _cause_ has of late almost\ndisappeared from the language of literature, and people talk only\nof _condition_. The fact is worth mentioning because it is so\ncharacteristically ridiculous.\n\nThe very fact that these commonplace authors are never more than\nhalf-conscious when they write, would be enough to account for their\ndullness of mind and the tedious things they produce. I say they are\nonly half-conscious, because they really do not themselves understand\nthe meaning of the words they use: they take words ready-made and\ncommit them to memory. Hence when they write, it is not so much words\nas whole phrases that they put together--_phrases banales_. This is\nthe explanation of that palpable lack of clearly-expressed thought in\nwhat they say. The fact is that they do not possess the die to give\nthis stamp to their writing; clear thought of their own is just\nwhat they have not got. And what do we find in its place?--a vague,\nenigmatical intermixture of words, current phrases, hackneyed terms,\nand fashionable expressions. The result is that the foggy stuff they\nwrite is like a page printed with very old type.\n\nOn the other hand, an intelligent author really speaks to us when he\nwrites, and that is why he is able to rouse our interest and commune\nwith us. It is the intelligent author alone who puts individual words\ntogether with a full consciousness of their meaning, and chooses them\nwith deliberate design. Consequently, his discourse stands to that of\nthe writer described above, much as a picture that has been really\npainted, to one that has been produced by the use of a stencil. In the\none case, every word, every touch of the brush, has a special purpose;\nin the other, all is done mechanically. The same distinction may be\nobserved in music. For just as Lichtenberg says that Garrick's soul\nseemed to be in every muscle in his body, so it is the omnipresence of\nintellect that always and everywhere characterizes the work of genius.\n\nI have alluded to the tediousness which marks the works of these\nwriters; and in this connection it is to be observed, generally, that\ntediousness is of two kinds; objective and subjective. A work is\nobjectively tedious when it contains the defect in question; that is\nto say, when its author has no perfectly clear thought or knowledge to\ncommunicate. For if a man has any clear thought or knowledge in him,\nhis aim will be to communicate it, and he will direct his energies\nto this end; so that the ideas he furnishes are everywhere clearly\nexpressed. The result is that he is neither diffuse, nor unmeaning,\nnor confused, and consequently not tedious. In such a case, even\nthough the author is at bottom in error, the error is at any rate\nclearly worked out and well thought over, so that it is at least\nformally correct; and thus some value always attaches to the work. But\nfor the same reason a work that is objectively tedious is at all times\ndevoid of any value whatever.\n\nThe other kind of tediousness is only relative: a reader may find a\nwork dull because he has no interest in the question treated of in it,\nand this means that his intellect is restricted. The best work may,\ntherefore, be tedious subjectively, tedious, I mean, to this or\nthat particular person; just as, contrarity, the worst work may be\nsubjectively engrossing to this or that particular person who has an\ninterest in the question treated of, or in the writer of the book.\n\nIt would generally serve writers in good stead if they would see that,\nwhilst a man should, if possible, think like a great genius, he should\ntalk the same language as everyone else. Authors should use common\nwords to say uncommon things. But they do just the opposite. We find\nthem trying to wrap up trivial ideas in grand words, and to clothe\ntheir very ordinary thoughts in the most extraordinary phrases, the\nmost far-fetched, unnatural, and out-of-the-way expressions. Their\nsentences perpetually stalk about on stilts. They take so much\npleasure in bombast, and write in such a high-flown, bloated,\naffected, hyperbolical and acrobatic style that their prototype is\nAncient Pistol, whom his friend Falstaff once impatiently told to say\nwhat he had to say _like a man of this world._[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _King Henry IV_., Part II. Act v. Sc. 3.]\n\nThere is no expression in any other language exactly answering to the\nFrench _stile empes\u00e9_; but the thing itself exists all the more often.\nWhen associated with affectation, it is in literature what assumption\nof dignity, grand airs and primeness are in society; and equally\nintolerable. Dullness of mind is fond of donning this dress; just as\nan ordinary life it is stupid people who like being demure and formal.\n\nAn author who writes in the prim style resembles a man who dresses\nhimself up in order to avoid being confounded or put on the same level\nwith a mob--a risk never run by the _gentleman_, even in his worst\nclothes. The plebeian may be known by a certain showiness of attire\nand a wish to have everything spick and span; and in the same way, the\ncommonplace person is betrayed by his style.\n\nNevertheless, an author follows a false aim if he tries to write\nexactly as he speaks. There is no style of writing but should have a\ncertain trace of kinship with the _epigraphic_ or _monumental_ style,\nwhich is, indeed, the ancestor of all styles. For an author to write\nas he speaks is just as reprehensible as the opposite fault, to speak\nas he writes; for this gives a pedantic effect to what he says, and at\nthe same time makes him hardly intelligible.\n\nAn obscure and vague manner of expression is always and everywhere a\nvery bad sign. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred it comes from\nvagueness of thought; and this again almost always means that there is\nsomething radically wrong and incongruous about the thought itself--in\na word, that it is incorrect. When a right thought springs up in the\nmind, it strives after expression and is not long in reaching it; for\nclear thought easily finds words to fit it. If a man is capable of\nthinking anything at all, he is also always able to express it\nin clear, intelligible, and unambiguous terms. Those writers who\nconstruct difficult, obscure, involved, and equivocal sentences, most\ncertainly do not know aright what it is that they want to say: they\nhave only a dull consciousness of it, which is still in the stage of\nstruggle to shape itself as thought. Often, indeed, their desire is to\nconceal from themselves and others that they really have nothing at\nall to say. They wish to appear to know what they do not know, to\nthink what they do not think, to say what they do not say. If a\nman has some real communication to make, which will he choose--an\nindistinct or a clear way of expressing himself? Even Quintilian\nremarks that things which are said by a highly educated man are often\neasier to understand and much clearer; and that the less educated\na man is, the more obscurely he will write--_plerumque accidit ut\nfaciliora sint ad intelligendum et lucidiora multo que a doctissimo\nquoque dicuntur_.... _Erit ergo etiam obscurior quo quisque deterior_.\n\nAn author should avoid enigmatical phrases; he should know whether he\nwants to say a thing or does not want to say it. It is this indecision\nof style that makes so many writers insipid. The only case that offers\nan exception to this rule arises when it is necessary to make a remark\nthat is in some way improper.\n\nAs exaggeration generally produces an effect the opposite of\nthat aimed at; so words, it is true, serve to make thought\nintelligible--but only up to a certain point. If words are heaped up\nbeyond it, the thought becomes more and more obscure again. To find\nwhere the point lies is the problem of style, and the business of the\ncritical faculty; for a word too much always defeats its purpose. This\nis what Voltaire means when he says that _the adjective is the enemy\nof the substantive_. But, as we have seen, many people try to conceal\ntheir poverty of thought under a flood of verbiage.\n\nAccordingly let all redundancy be avoided, all stringing together of\nremarks which have no meaning and are not worth perusal. A writer must\nmake a sparing use of the reader's time, patience and attention; so as\nto lead him to believe that his author writes what is worth careful\nstudy, and will reward the time spent upon it. It is always better to\nomit something good than to add that which is not worth saying at all.\nThis is the right application of Hesiod's maxim, [Greek: pleon aemisu\npantos][1]--the half is more than the whole. _Le secret pour\n\u00eatre ennuyeux, c'est de tout dire_. Therefore, if possible, the\nquintessence only! mere leading thoughts! nothing that the reader\nwould think for himself. To use many words to communicate few thoughts\nis everywhere the unmistakable sign of mediocrity. To gather much\nthought into few words stamps the man of genius.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Works and Days_, 40.]\n\nTruth is most beautiful undraped; and the impression it makes is deep\nin proportion as its expression has been simple. This is so, partly\nbecause it then takes unobstructed possession of the hearer's whole\nsoul, and leaves him no by-thought to distract him; partly, also,\nbecause he feels that here he is not being corrupted or cheated by the\narts of rhetoric, but that all the effect of what is said comes from\nthe thing itself. For instance, what declamation on the vanity of\nhuman existence could ever be more telling than the words of Job? _Man\nthat is born of a woman hath but a short time to live and is full of\nmisery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it\nwere a shadow, and never continueth in one stay_.\n\nFor the same reason Goethe's na\u00efve poetry is incomparably greater than\nSchiller's rhetoric. It is this, again, that makes many popular songs\nso affecting. As in architecture an excess of decoration is to be\navoided, so in the art of literature a writer must guard against all\nrhetorical finery, all useless amplification, and all superfluity of\nexpression in general; in a word, he must strive after _chastity_ of\nstyle. Every word that can be spared is hurtful if it remains. The law\nof simplicity and na\u00efvet\u00e9 holds good of all fine art; for it is quite\npossible to be at once simple and sublime.\n\nTrue brevity of expression consists in everywhere saying only what\nis worth saying, and in avoiding tedious detail about things which\neveryone can supply for himself. This involves correct discrimination\nbetween what it necessary and what is superfluous. A writer should\nnever be brief at the expense of being clear, to say nothing of being\ngrammatical. It shows lamentable want of judgment to weaken the\nexpression of a thought, or to stunt the meaning of a period for the\nsake of using a few words less. But this is the precise endeavor\nof that false brevity nowadays so much in vogue, which proceeds by\nleaving out useful words and even by sacrificing grammar and logic. It\nis not only that such writers spare a word by making a single verb or\nadjective do duty for several different periods, so that the reader,\nas it were, has to grope his way through them in the dark; they also\npractice, in many other respects, an unseemingly economy of speech,\nin the effort to effect what they foolishly take to be brevity of\nexpression and conciseness of style. By omitting something that might\nhave thrown a light over the whole sentence, they turn it into a\nconundrum, which the reader tries to solve by going over it again and\nagain.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note._--In the original, Schopenhauer here\nenters upon a lengthy examination of certain common errors in the\nwriting and speaking of German. His remarks are addressed to his own\ncountrymen, and would lose all point, even if they were intelligible,\nin an English translation. But for those who practice their German by\nconversing or corresponding with Germans, let me recommend what he\nthere says as a useful corrective to a slipshod style, such as can\neasily be contracted if it is assumed that the natives of a country\nalways know their own language perfectly.]\n\nIt is wealth and weight of thought, and nothing else, that gives\nbrevity to style, and makes it concise and pregnant. If a writer's\nideas are important, luminous, and generally worth communicating, they\nwill necessarily furnish matter and substance enough to fill out the\nperiods which give them expression, and make these in all their parts\nboth grammatically and verbally complete; and so much will this be\nthe case that no one will ever find them hollow, empty or feeble. The\ndiction will everywhere be brief and pregnant, and allow the thought\nto find intelligible and easy expression, and even unfold and move\nabout with grace.\n\nTherefore instead of contracting his words and forms of speech, let a\nwriter enlarge his thoughts. If a man has been thinned by illness and\nfinds his clothes too big, it is not by cutting them down, but by\nrecovering his usual bodily condition, that he ought to make them fit\nhim again.\n\nLet me here mention an error of style, very prevalent nowadays,\nand, in the degraded state of literature and the neglect of ancient\nlanguages, always on the increase; I mean _subjectivity_. A writer\ncommits this error when he thinks it enough if he himself knows what\nhe means and wants to say, and takes no thought for the reader, who is\nleft to get at the bottom of it as best he can. This is as though the\nauthor were holding a monologue; whereas, it ought to be a dialogue;\nand a dialogue, too, in which he must express himself all the more\nclearly inasmuch as he cannot hear the questions of his interlocutor.\n\nStyle should for this very reason never be subjective, but\n_objective_; and it will not be objective unless the words are so set\ndown that they directly force the reader to think precisely the same\nthing as the author thought when he wrote them. Nor will this result\nbe obtained unless the author has always been careful to remember that\nthought so far follows the law of gravity that it travels from head to\npaper much more easily than from paper to head; so that he must assist\nthe latter passage by every means in his power. If he does this, a\nwriter's words will have a purely objective effect, like that of a\nfinished picture in oils; whilst the subjective style is not much more\ncertain in its working than spots on the wall, which look like figures\nonly to one whose phantasy has been accidentally aroused by them;\nother people see nothing but spots and blurs. The difference in\nquestion applies to literary method as a whole; but it is often\nestablished also in particular instances. For example, in a recently\npublished work I found the following sentence: _I have not written in\norder to increase the number of existing books._ This means just the\nopposite of what the writer wanted to say, and is nonsense as well.\n\nHe who writes carelessly confesses thereby at the very outset that he\ndoes not attach much importance to his own thoughts. For it is only\nwhere a man is convinced of the truth and importance of his thoughts,\nthat he feels the enthusiasm necessary for an untiring and assiduous\neffort to find the clearest, finest, and strongest expression for\nthem,--just as for sacred relics or priceless works of art there are\nprovided silvern or golden receptacles. It was this feeling that led\nancient authors, whose thoughts, expressed in their own words, have\nlived thousands of years, and therefore bear the honored title of\n_classics_, always to write with care. Plato, indeed, is said to\nhave written the introduction to his _Republic_ seven times over in\ndifferent ways.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note._--It is a fact worth mentioning that\nthe first twelve words of the _Republic_ are placed in the exact order\nwhich would be natural in English.]\n\nAs neglect of dress betrays want of respect for the company a man\nmeets, so a hasty, careless, bad style shows an outrageous lack of\nregard for the reader, who then rightly punishes it by refusing to\nread the book. It is especially amusing to see reviewers criticising\nthe works of others in their own most careless style--the style of\na hireling. It is as though a judge were to come into court in\ndressing-gown and slippers! If I see a man badly and dirtily dressed,\nI feel some hesitation, at first, in entering into conversation\nwith him: and when, on taking up a book, I am struck at once by the\nnegligence of its style, I put it away.\n\nGood writing should be governed by the rule that a man can think only\none thing clearly at a time; and, therefore, that he should not be\nexpected to think two or even more things in one and the same moment.\nBut this is what is done when a writer breaks up his principal\nsentence into little pieces, for the purpose of pushing into the gaps\nthus made two or three other thoughts by way of parenthesis; thereby\nunnecessarily and wantonly confusing the reader. And here it is again\nmy own countrymen who are chiefly in fault. That German lends itself\nto this way of writing, makes the thing possible, but does not justify\nit. No prose reads more easily or pleasantly than French, because, as\na rule, it is free from the error in question. The Frenchman strings\nhis thoughts together, as far as he can, in the most logical and\nnatural order, and so lays them before his reader one after the other\nfor convenient deliberation, so that every one of them may receive\nundivided attention. The German, on the other hand, weaves them\ntogether into a sentence which he twists and crosses, and crosses and\ntwists again; because he wants to say six things all at once, instead\nof advancing them one by one. His aim should be to attract and hold\nthe reader's attention; but, above and beyond neglect of this aim, he\ndemands from the reader that he shall set the above mentioned rule at\ndefiance, and think three or four different thoughts at one and the\nsame time; or since that is impossible, that his thoughts shall\nsucceed each other as quickly as the vibrations of a cord. In this way\nan author lays the foundation of his _stile empes\u00e9_, which is then\ncarried to perfection by the use of high-flown, pompous expressions to\ncommunicate the simplest things, and other artifices of the same kind.\n\nIn those long sentences rich in involved parenthesis, like a box of\nboxes one within another, and padded out like roast geese stuffed with\napples, it is really the _memory_ that is chiefly taxed; while it is\nthe understanding and the judgment which should be called into play,\ninstead of having their activity thereby actually hindered and\nweakened.[1] This kind of sentence furnishes the reader with mere\nhalf-phrases, which he is then called upon to collect carefully and\nstore up in his memory, as though they were the pieces of a torn\nletter, afterwards to be completed and made sense of by the other\nhalves to which they respectively belong. He is expected to go on\nreading for a little without exercising any thought, nay, exerting\nonly his memory, in the hope that, when he comes to the end of the\nsentence, he may see its meaning and so receive something to think\nabout; and he is thus given a great deal to learn by heart before\nobtaining anything to understand. This is manifestly wrong and an\nabuse of the reader's patience.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note._--This sentence in the original is\nobviously meant to illustrate the fault of which it speaks. It does\nso by the use of a construction very common in German, but happily\nunknown in English; where, however, the fault itself exists none the\nless, though in different form.]\n\nThe ordinary writer has an unmistakable preference for this\nstyle, because it causes the reader to spend time and trouble in\nunderstanding that which he would have understood in a moment without\nit; and this makes it look as though the writer had more depth and\nintelligence than the reader. This is, indeed, one of those artifices\nreferred to above, by means of which mediocre authors unconsciously,\nand as it were by instinct, strive to conceal their poverty of thought\nand give an appearance of the opposite. Their ingenuity in this\nrespect is really astounding.\n\nIt is manifestly against all sound reason to put one thought obliquely\non top of another, as though both together formed a wooden cross. But\nthis is what is done where a writer interrupts what he has begun\nto say, for the purpose of inserting some quite alien matter; thus\ndepositing with the reader a meaningless half-sentence, and bidding\nhim keep it until the completion comes. It is much as though a man\nwere to treat his guests by handing them an empty plate, in the hope\nof something appearing upon it. And commas used for a similar purpose\nbelong to the same family as notes at the foot of the page and\nparenthesis in the middle of the text; nay, all three differ only in\ndegree. If Demosthenes and Cicero occasionally inserted words by ways\nof parenthesis, they would have done better to have refrained.\n\nBut this style of writing becomes the height of absurdity when the\nparenthesis are not even fitted into the frame of the sentence, but\nwedged in so as directly to shatter it. If, for instance, it is an\nimpertinent thing to interrupt another person when he is speaking, it\nis no less impertinent to interrupt oneself. But all bad, careless,\nand hasty authors, who scribble with the bread actually before their\neyes, use this style of writing six times on a page, and rejoice in\nit. It consists in--it is advisable to give rule and example together,\nwherever it is possible--breaking up one phrase in order to glue in\nanother. Nor is it merely out of laziness that they write thus. They\ndo it out of stupidity; they think there is a charming _l\u00e9g\u00e8ret\u00e9_\nabout it; that it gives life to what they say. No doubt there are a\nfew rare cases where such a form of sentence may be pardonable.\n\nFew write in the way in which an architect builds; who, before he\nsets to work, sketches out his plan, and thinks it over down to its\nsmallest details. Nay, most people write only as though they were\nplaying dominoes; and, as in this game, the pieces are arranged half\nby design, half by chance, so it is with the sequence and connection\nof their sentences. They only have an idea of what the general shape\nof their work will be, and of the aim they set before themselves.\nMany are ignorant even of this, and write as the coral-insects build;\nperiod joins to period, and the Lord only knows what the author means.\n\nLife now-a-days goes at a gallop; and the way in which this affects\nliterature is to make it extremely superficial and slovenly.\n\n\n\n\nON THE STUDY OF LATIN.\n\n\nThe abolition of Latin as the universal language of learned men,\ntogether with the rise of that provincialism which attaches to\nnational literatures, has been a real misfortune for the cause of\nknowledge in Europe. For it was chiefly through the medium of the\nLatin language that a learned public existed in Europe at all--a\npublic to which every book as it came out directly appealed. The\nnumber of minds in the whole of Europe that are capable of thinking\nand judging is small, as it is; but when the audience is broken up and\nsevered by differences of language, the good these minds can do is\nvery much weakened. This is a great disadvantage; but a second and\nworse one will follow, namely, that the ancient languages will cease\nto be taught at all. The neglect of them is rapidly gaining ground\nboth in France and Germany.\n\nIf it should really come to this, then farewell, humanity! farewell,\nnoble taste and high thinking! The age of barbarism will return, in\nspite of railways, telegraphs and balloons. We shall thus in the end\nlose one more advantage possessed by all our ancestors. For Latin is\nnot only a key to the knowledge of Roman antiquity; its also directly\nopens up to us the Middle Age in every country in Europe, and modern\ntimes as well, down to about the year 1750. Erigena, for example, in\nthe ninth century, John of Salisbury in the twelfth, Raimond Lully in\nthe thirteenth, with a hundred others, speak straight to us in the\nvery language that they naturally adopted in thinking of learned\nmatters.\n\nThey thus come quite close to us even at this distance of time: we are\nin direct contact with them, and really come to know them. How would\nit have been if every one of them spoke in the language that was\npeculiar to his time and country? We should not understand even the\nhalf of what they said. A real intellectual contact with them would be\nimpossible. We should see them like shadows on the farthest horizon,\nor, may be, through the translator's telescope.\n\nIt was with an eye to the advantage of writing in Latin that Bacon, as\nhe himself expressly states, proceeded to translate his _Essays_ into\nthat language, under the title _Sermones fideles_; at which work\nHobbes assisted him.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: Cf. Thomae Hobbes vita: _Carolopoli apud Eleutherium\nAnglicum_, 1681, p. 22.]\n\nHere let me observe, by way of parenthesis, that when patriotism tries\nto urge its claims in the domain of knowledge, it commits an offence\nwhich should not be tolerated. For in those purely human questions\nwhich interest all men alike, where truth, insight, beauty, should be\nof sole account, what can be more impertinent than to let preference\nfor the nation to which a man's precious self happens to belong,\naffect the balance of judgment, and thus supply a reason for doing\nviolence to truth and being unjust to the great minds of a foreign\ncountry in order to make much of the smaller minds of one's own!\nStill, there are writers in every nation in Europe, who afford\nexamples of this vulgar feeling. It is this which led Yriarte to\ncaricature them in the thirty-third of his charming _Literary\nFables_.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note._--Tomas de Yriarte (1750-91), a\nSpanish poet, and keeper of archives in the War Office at Madrid. His\ntwo best known works are a didactic poem, entitled _La Musica_, and\nthe _Fables_ here quoted, which satirize the peculiar foibles of\nliterary men. They have been translated into many languages; into\nEnglish by Rockliffe (3rd edition, 1866). The fable in question\ndescribes how, at a picnic of the animals, a discussion arose as to\nwhich of them carried off the palm for superiority of talent. The\npraises of the ant, the dog, the bee, and the parrot were sung in\nturn; but at last the ostrich stood up and declared for the dromedary.\nWhereupon the dromedary stood up and declared for the ostrich. No one\ncould discover the reason for this mutual compliment. Was it because\nboth were such uncouth beasts, or had such long necks, or were neither\nof them particularly clever or beautiful? or was it because each had a\nhump? _No_! said the fox, _you are all wrong. Don't you see they are\nboth foreigners_? Cannot the same be said of many men of learning?]\n\nIn learning a language, the chief difficulty consists in making\nacquaintance with every idea which it expresses, even though it should\nuse words for which there is no exact equivalent in the mother tongue;\nand this often happens. In learning a new language a man has, as it\nwere, to mark out in his mind the boundaries of quite new spheres of\nideas, with the result that spheres of ideas arise where none were\nbefore. Thus he not only learns words, he gains ideas too.\n\nThis is nowhere so much the case as in learning ancient languages, for\nthe differences they present in their mode of expression as compared\nwith modern languages is greater than can be found amongst modern\nlanguages as compared with one another. This is shown by the fact that\nin translating into Latin, recourse must be had to quite other turns\nof phrase than are used in the original. The thought that is to be\ntranslated has to be melted down and recast; in other words, it must\nbe analyzed and then recomposed. It is just this process which makes\nthe study of the ancient languages contribute so much to the education\nof the mind.\n\nIt follows from this that a man's thought varies according to the\nlanguage in which he speaks. His ideas undergo a fresh modification,\na different shading, as it were, in the study of every new language.\nHence an acquaintance with many languages is not only of much indirect\nadvantage, but it is also a direct means of mental culture, in that it\ncorrects and matures ideas by giving prominence to their many-sided\nnature and their different varieties of meaning, as also that it\nincreases dexterity of thought; for in the process of learning many\nlanguages, ideas become more and more independent of words. The\nancient languages effect this to a greater degree than the modern, in\nvirtue of the difference to which I have alluded.\n\nFrom what I have said, it is obvious that to imitate the style of the\nancients in their own language, which is so very much superior to ours\nin point of grammatical perfection, is the best way of preparing for a\nskillful and finished expression of thought in the mother-tongue. Nay,\nif a man wants to be a great writer, he must not omit to do this: just\nas, in the case of sculpture or painting, the student must educate\nhimself by copying the great masterpieces of the past, before\nproceeding to original work. It is only by learning to write Latin\nthat a man comes to treat diction as an art. The material in this art\nis language, which must therefore be handled with the greatest care\nand delicacy.\n\nThe result of such study is that a writer will pay keen attention to\nthe meaning and value of words, their order and connection, their\ngrammatical forms. He will learn how to weigh them with precision, and\nso become an expert in the use of that precious instrument which is\nmeant not only to express valuable thought, but to preserve it as\nwell. Further, he will learn to feel respect for the language in\nwhich he writes and thus be saved from any attempt to remodel it by\narbitrary and capricious treatment. Without this schooling, a man's\nwriting may easily degenerate into mere chatter.\n\nTo be entirely ignorant of the Latin language is like being in a fine\ncountry on a misty day. The horizon is extremely limited. Nothing can\nbe seen clearly except that which is quite close; a few steps beyond,\neverything is buried in obscurity. But the Latinist has a wide view,\nembracing modern times, the Middle Age and Antiquity; and his mental\nhorizon is still further enlarged if he studies Greek or even\nSanscrit.\n\nIf a man knows no Latin, he belongs to the vulgar, even though he be\na great virtuoso on the electrical machine and have the base of\nhydrofluoric acid in his crucible.\n\nThere is no better recreation for the mind than the study of the\nancient classics. Take any one of them into your hand, be it only\nfor half an hour, and you will feel yourself refreshed, relieved,\npurified, ennobled, strengthened; just as though you had quenched your\nthirst at some pure spring. Is this the effect of the old language\nand its perfect expression, or is it the greatness of the minds whose\nworks remain unharmed and unweakened by the lapse of a thousand years?\nPerhaps both together. But this I know. If the threatened calamity\nshould ever come, and the ancient languages cease to be taught, a new\nliterature will arise, of such barbarous, shallow and worthless stuff\nas never was seen before.\n\n\n\n\nON MEN OF LEARNING.\n\n\nWhen one sees the number and variety of institutions which exist\nfor the purposes of education, and the vast throng of scholars and\nmasters, one might fancy the human race to be very much concerned\nabout truth and wisdom. But here, too, appearances are deceptive. The\nmasters teach in order to gain money, and strive, not after wisdom,\nbut the outward show and reputation of it; and the scholars learn, not\nfor the sake of knowledge and insight, but to be able to chatter and\ngive themselves airs. Every thirty years a new race comes into the\nworld--a youngster that knows nothing about anything, and after\nsummarily devouring in all haste the results of human knowledge as\nthey have been accumulated for thousands of years, aspires to be\nthought cleverer than the whole of the past. For this purpose he goes\nto the University, and takes to reading books--new books, as being of\nhis own age and standing. Everything he reads must be briefly put,\nmust be new! he is new himself. Then he falls to and criticises. And\nhere I am not taking the slightest account of studies pursued for the\nsole object of making a living.\n\nStudents, and learned persons of all sorts and every age, aim as\na rule at acquiring _information_ rather than insight. They pique\nthemselves upon knowing about everything--stones, plants, battles,\nexperiments, and all the books in existence. It never occurs to them\nthat information is only a means of insight, and in itself of little\nor no value; that it is his way of _thinking_ that makes a man a\nphilosopher. When I hear of these portents of learning and their\nimposing erudition, I sometimes say to myself: Ah, how little they\nmust have had to think about, to have been able to read so much!\nAnd when I actually find it reported of the elder Pliny that he was\ncontinually reading or being read to, at table, on a journey, or in\nhis bath, the question forces itself upon my mind, whether the man\nwas so very lacking in thought of his own that he had to have\nalien thought incessantly instilled into him; as though he were a\nconsumptive patient taking jellies to keep himself alive. And neither\nhis undiscerning credulity nor his inexpressibly repulsive and barely\nintelligible style--which seems like of a man taking notes, and very\neconomical of paper--is of a kind to give me a high opinion of his\npower of independent thought.\n\nWe have seen that much reading and learning is prejudicial to thinking\nfor oneself; and, in the same way, through much writing and teaching,\na man loses the habit of being quite clear, and therefore thorough, in\nregard to the things he knows and understands; simply because he has\nleft himself no time to acquire clearness or thoroughness. And so,\nwhen clear knowledge fails him in his utterances, he is forced to fill\nout the gaps with words and phrases. It is this, and not the dryness\nof the subject-matter, that makes most books such tedious reading.\nThere is a saying that a good cook can make a palatable dish even\nout of an old shoe; and a good writer can make the dryest things\ninteresting.\n\nWith by far the largest number of learned men, knowledge is a means,\nnot an end. That is why they will never achieve any great work;\nbecause, to do that, he who pursues knowledge must pursue it as an\nend, and treat everything else, even existence itself, as only a\nmeans. For everything which a man fails to pursue for its own sake is\nbut half-pursued; and true excellence, no matter in what sphere, can\nbe attained only where the work has been produced for its own sake\nalone, and not as a means to further ends.\n\nAnd so, too, no one will ever succeed in doing anything really great\nand original in the way of thought, who does not seek to acquire\nknowledge for himself, and, making this the immediate object of his\nstudies, decline to trouble himself about the knowledge of others. But\nthe average man of learning studies for the purpose of being able to\nteach and write. His head is like a stomach and intestines which let\nthe food pass through them undigested. That is just why his teaching\nand writing is of so little use. For it is not upon undigested refuse\nthat people can be nourished, but solely upon the milk which secretes\nfrom the very blood itself.\n\nThe wig is the appropriate symbol of the man of learning, pure and\nsimple. It adorns the head with a copious quantity of false hair, in\nlack of one's own: just as erudition means endowing it with a great\nmass of alien thought. This, to be sure, does not clothe the head so\nwell and naturally, nor is it so generally useful, nor so suited for\nall purposes, nor so firmly rooted; nor when alien thought is used up,\ncan it be immediately replaced by more from the same source, as is\nthe case with that which springs from soil of one's own. So we find\nSterne, in his _Tristram Shandy_, boldly asserting that _an ounce of a\nman's own wit is worth a ton of other people's_.\n\nAnd in fact the most profound erudition is no more akin to genius than\na collection of dried plants in like Nature, with its constant flow\nof new life, ever fresh, ever young, ever changing. There are no two\nthings more opposed than the childish na\u00efvet\u00e9 of an ancient author and\nthe learning of his commentator.\n\n_Dilettanti, dilettanti!_ This is the slighting way in which those who\npursue any branch of art or learning for the love and enjoyment of the\nthing,--_per il loro diletto_, are spoken of by those who have taken\nit up for the sake of gain, attracted solely by the prospect of money.\nThis contempt of theirs comes from the base belief that no man will\nseriously devote himself to a subject, unless he is spurred on to it\nby want, hunger, or else some form of greed. The public is of the same\nway of thinking; and hence its general respect for professionals and\nits distrust of _dilettanti_. But the truth is that the _dilettante_\ntreats his subject as an end, whereas the professional, pure and\nsimple, treats it merely as a means. He alone will be really in\nearnest about a matter, who has a direct interest therein, takes to it\nbecause he likes it, and pursues it _con amore_. It is these, and not\nhirelings, that have always done the greatest work.\n\nIn the republic of letters it is as in other republics; favor is shown\nto the plain man--he who goes his way in silence and does not set up\nto be cleverer than others. But the abnormal man is looked upon as\nthreatening danger; people band together against him, and have, oh!\nsuch a majority on their side.\n\nThe condition of this republic is much like that of a small State in\nAmerica, where every man is intent only upon his own advantage, and\nseeks reputation and power for himself, quite heedless of the general\nweal, which then goes to ruin. So it is in the republic of letters;\nit is himself, and himself alone, that a man puts forward, because he\nwants to gain fame. The only thing in which all agree is in trying to\nkeep down a really eminent man, if he should chance to show himself,\nas one who would be a common peril. From this it is easy to see how it\nfares with knowledge as a whole.\n\nBetween professors and independent men of learning there has always\nbeen from of old a certain antagonism, which may perhaps be likened\nto that existing been dogs and wolves. In virtue of their position,\nprofessors enjoy great facilities for becoming known to their\ncontemporaries. Contrarily, independent men of learning enjoy, by\ntheir position, great facilities for becoming known to posterity; to\nwhich it is necessary that, amongst other and much rarer gifts, a man\nshould have a certain leisure and freedom. As mankind takes a long\ntime in finding out on whom to bestow its attention, they may both\nwork together side by side.\n\nHe who holds a professorship may be said to receive his food in the\nstall; and this is the best way with ruminant animals. But he who\nfinds his food for himself at the hands of Nature is better off in the\nopen field.\n\nOf human knowledge as a whole and in every branch of it, by far the\nlargest part exists nowhere but on paper,--I mean, in books, that\npaper memory of mankind. Only a small part of it is at any given\nperiod really active in the minds of particular persons. This is due,\nin the main, to the brevity and uncertainty of life; but it also comes\nfrom the fact that men are lazy and bent on pleasure. Every generation\nattains, on its hasty passage through existence, just so much of human\nknowledge as it needs, and then soon disappears. Most men of learning\nare very superficial. Then follows a new generation, full of hope, but\nignorant, and with everything to learn from the beginning. It seizes,\nin its turn, just so much as it can grasp or find useful on its brief\njourney and then too goes its way. How badly it would fare with human\nknowledge if it were not for the art of writing and printing! This it\nis that makes libraries the only sure and lasting memory of the human\nrace, for its individual members have all of them but a very limited\nand imperfect one. Hence most men of learning as are loth to have\ntheir knowledge examined as merchants to lay bare their books.\n\nHuman knowledge extends on all sides farther than the eye can reach;\nand of that which would be generally worth knowing, no one man can\npossess even the thousandth part.\n\nAll branches of learning have thus been so much enlarged that he\nwho would \"do something\" has to pursue no more than one subject and\ndisregard all others. In his own subject he will then, it is true, be\nsuperior to the vulgar; but in all else he will belong to it. If we\nadd to this that neglect of the ancient languages, which is now-a-days\non the increase and is doing away with all general education in the\nhumanities--for a mere smattering of Latin and Greek is of no use--we\nshall come to have men of learning who outside their own subject\ndisplay an ignorance truly bovine.\n\nAn exclusive specialist of this kind stands on a par with a workman in\na factory, whose whole life is spent in making one particular kind of\nscrew, or catch, or handle, for some particular instrument or machine,\nin which, indeed, he attains incredible dexterity. The specialist may\nalso be likened to a man who lives in his own house and never leaves\nit. There he is perfectly familiar with everything, every little step,\ncorner, or board; much as Quasimodo in Victor Hugo's _N\u00f4tre Dame_\nknows the cathedral; but outside it, all is strange and unknown.\n\nFor true culture in the humanities it is absolutely necessary that\na man should be many-sided and take large views; and for a man of\nlearning in the higher sense of the word, an extensive acquaintance\nwith history is needful. He, however, who wishes to be a complete\nphilosopher, must gather into his head the remotest ends of human\nknowledge: for where else could they ever come together?\n\nIt is precisely minds of the first order that will never be\nspecialists. For their very nature is to make the whole of existence\ntheir problem; and this is a subject upon which they will every one of\nthem in some form provide mankind with a new revelation. For he alone\ncan deserve the name of genius who takes the All, the Essential, the\nUniversal, for the theme of his achievements; not he who spends his\nlife in explaining some special relation of things one to another.\n\n\n\n\nON THINKING FOR ONESELF.\n\n\nA library may be very large; but if it is in disorder, it is not so\nuseful as one that is small but well arranged. In the same way, a man\nmay have a great mass of knowledge, but if he has not worked it up\nby thinking it over for himself, it has much less value than a far\nsmaller amount which he has thoroughly pondered. For it is only when a\nman looks at his knowledge from all sides, and combines the things he\nknows by comparing truth with truth, that he obtains a complete hold\nover it and gets it into his power. A man cannot turn over anything in\nhis mind unless he knows it; he should, therefore, learn something;\nbut it is only when he has turned it over that he can be said to know\nit.\n\nReading and learning are things that anyone can do of his own free\nwill; but not so _thinking_. Thinking must be kindled, like a fire\nby a draught; it must be sustained by some interest in the matter\nin hand. This interest may be of purely objective kind, or merely\nsubjective. The latter comes into play only in things that concern\nus personally. Objective interest is confined to heads that think by\nnature; to whom thinking is as natural as breathing; and they are very\nrare. This is why most men of learning show so little of it.\n\nIt is incredible what a different effect is produced upon the mind\nby thinking for oneself, as compared with reading. It carries on and\nintensifies that original difference in the nature of two minds which\nleads the one to think and the other to read. What I mean is that\nreading forces alien thoughts upon the mind--thoughts which are as\nforeign to the drift and temper in which it may be for the moment, as\nthe seal is to the wax on which it stamps its imprint. The mind is\nthus entirely under compulsion from without; it is driven to think\nthis or that, though for the moment it may not have the slightest\nimpulse or inclination to do so.\n\nBut when a man thinks for himself, he follows the impulse of his\nown mind, which is determined for him at the time, either by his\nenvironment or some particular recollection. The visible world of\na man's surroundings does not, as reading does, impress a _single_\ndefinite thought upon his mind, but merely gives the matter and\noccasion which lead him to think what is appropriate to his nature and\npresent temper. So it is, that much reading deprives the mind of all\nelasticity; it is like keeping a spring continually under pressure.\nThe safest way of having no thoughts of one's own is to take up a book\nevery moment one has nothing else to do. It is this practice which\nexplains why erudition makes most men more stupid and silly than they\nare by nature, and prevents their writings obtaining any measure of\nsuccess. They remain, in Pope's words:\n\n  _For ever reading, never to be read!_[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Dunciad_, iii, 194.]\n\nMen of learning are those who have done their reading in the pages of\na book. Thinkers and men of genius are those who have gone straight\nto the book of Nature; it is they who have enlightened the world and\ncarried humanity further on its way. If a man's thoughts are to have\ntruth and life in them, they must, after all, be his own fundamental\nthoughts; for these are the only ones that he can fully and wholly\nunderstand. To read another's thoughts is like taking the leavings of\na meal to which we have not been invited, or putting on the clothes\nwhich some unknown visitor has laid aside. The thought we read\nis related to the thought which springs up in ourselves, as the\nfossil-impress of some prehistoric plant to a plant as it buds forth\nin spring-time.\n\nReading is nothing more than a substitute for thought of one's own. It\nmeans putting the mind into leading-strings. The multitude of books\nserves only to show how many false paths there are, and how widely\nastray a man may wander if he follows any of them. But he who\nis guided by his genius, he who thinks for himself, who thinks\nspontaneously and exactly, possesses the only compass by which he can\nsteer aright. A man should read only when his own thoughts stagnate\nat their source, which will happen often enough even with the best of\nminds. On the other hand, to take up a book for the purpose of scaring\naway one's own original thoughts is sin against the Holy Spirit. It is\nlike running away from Nature to look at a museum of dried plants or\ngaze at a landscape in copperplate.\n\nA man may have discovered some portion of truth or wisdom, after\nspending a great deal of time and trouble in thinking it over for\nhimself and adding thought to thought; and it may sometimes happen\nthat he could have found it all ready to hand in a book and spared\nhimself the trouble. But even so, it is a hundred times more valuable\nif he has acquired it by thinking it out for himself. For it is only\nwhen we gain our knowledge in this way that it enters as an integral\npart, a living member, into the whole system of our thought; that it\nstands in complete and firm relation with what we know; that it is\nunderstood with all that underlies it and follows from it; that it\nwears the color, the precise shade, the distinguishing mark, of our\nown way of thinking; that it comes exactly at the right time, just\nas we felt the necessity for it; that it stands fast and cannot be\nforgotten. This is the perfect application, nay, the interpretation,\nof Goethe's advice to earn our inheritance for ourselves so that we\nmay really possess it:\n\n  _Was due ererbt von deinen V\u00e4lern hast,\n  Erwirb es, um es zu besitzen._[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Faust_, I. 329.]\n\nThe man who thinks for himself, forms his own opinions and learns the\nauthorities for them only later on, when they serve but to strengthen\nhis belief in them and in himself. But the book-philosopher starts\nfrom the authorities. He reads other people's books, collects their\nopinions, and so forms a whole for himself, which resembles an\nautomaton made up of anything but flesh and blood. Contrarily, he who\nthinks for himself creates a work like a living man as made by Nature.\nFor the work comes into being as a man does; the thinking mind is\nimpregnated from without, and it then forms and bears its child.\n\nTruth that has been merely learned is like an artificial limb, a false\ntooth, a waxen nose; at best, like a nose made out of another's flesh;\nit adheres to us only because it is put on. But truth acquired by\nthinking of our own is like a natural limb; it alone really belongs\nto us. This is the fundamental difference between the thinker and the\nmere man of learning. The intellectual attainments of a man who thinks\nfor himself resemble a fine painting, where the light and shade are\ncorrect, the tone sustained, the color perfectly harmonized; it is\ntrue to life. On the other hand, the intellectual attainments of the\nmere man of learning are like a large palette, full of all sorts of\ncolors, which at most are systematically arranged, but devoid of\nharmony, connection and meaning.\n\nReading is thinking with some one else's head instead of one's own. To\nthink with one's own head is always to aim at developing a coherent\nwhole--a system, even though it be not a strictly complete one; and\nnothing hinders this so much as too strong a current of others'\nthoughts, such as comes of continual reading. These thoughts,\nspringing every one of them from different minds, belonging to\ndifferent systems, and tinged with different colors, never of\nthemselves flow together into an intellectual whole; they never form a\nunity of knowledge, or insight, or conviction; but, rather, fill\nthe head with a Babylonian confusion of tongues. The mind that is\nover-loaded with alien thought is thus deprived of all clear insight,\nand is well-nigh disorganized. This is a state of things observable\nin many men of learning; and it makes them inferior in sound sense,\ncorrect judgment and practical tact, to many illiterate persons,\nwho, after obtaining a little knowledge from without, by means of\nexperience, intercourse with others, and a small amount of reading,\nhave always subordinated it to, and embodied it with, their own\nthought.\n\nThe really scientific _thinker_ does the same thing as these\nilliterate persons, but on a larger scale. Although he has need\nof much knowledge, and so must read a great deal, his mind is\nnevertheless strong enough to master it all, to assimilate and\nincorporate it with the system of his thoughts, and so to make it\nfit in with the organic unity of his insight, which, though vast, is\nalways growing. And in the process, his own thought, like the bass in\nan organ, always dominates everything and is never drowned by other\ntones, as happens with minds which are full of mere antiquarian lore;\nwhere shreds of music, as it were, in every key, mingle confusedly,\nand no fundamental note is heard at all.\n\nThose who have spent their lives in reading, and taken their wisdom\nfrom books, are like people who have obtained precise information\nabout a country from the descriptions of many travellers. Such\npeople can tell a great deal about it; but, after all, they have no\nconnected, clear, and profound knowledge of its real condition. But\nthose who have spent their lives in thinking, resemble the travellers\nthemselves; they alone really know what they are talking about; they\nare acquainted with the actual state of affairs, and are quite at home\nin the subject.\n\nThe thinker stands in the same relation to the ordinary\nbook-philosopher as an eye-witness does to the historian; he speaks\nfrom direct knowledge of his own. That is why all those who think\nfor themselves come, at bottom, to much the same conclusion. The\ndifferences they present are due to their different points of view;\nand when these do not affect the matter, they all speak alike. They\nmerely express the result of their own objective perception of things.\nThere are many passages in my works which I have given to the public\nonly after some hesitation, because of their paradoxical nature; and\nafterwards I have experienced a pleasant surprise in finding the same\nopinion recorded in the works of great men who lived long ago.\n\nThe book-philosopher merely reports what one person has said and\nanother meant, or the objections raised by a third, and so on. He\ncompares different opinions, ponders, criticises, and tries to get at\nthe truth of the matter; herein on a par with the critical historian.\nFor instance, he will set out to inquire whether Leibnitz was not for\nsome time a follower of Spinoza, and questions of a like nature. The\ncurious student of such matters may find conspicuous examples of what\nI mean in Herbart's _Analytical Elucidation of Morality and Natural\nRight_, and in the same author's _Letters on Freedom_. Surprise may\nbe felt that a man of the kind should put himself to so much trouble;\nfor, on the face of it, if he would only examine the matter for\nhimself, he would speedily attain his object by the exercise of a\nlittle thought. But there is a small difficulty in the way. It does\nnot depend upon his own will. A man can always sit down and read, but\nnot--think. It is with thoughts as with men; they cannot always be\nsummoned at pleasure; we must wait for them to come. Thought about a\nsubject must appear of itself, by a happy and harmonious combination\nof external stimulus with mental temper and attention; and it is just\nthat which never seems to come to these people.\n\nThis truth may be illustrated by what happens in the case of matters\naffecting our own personal interest. When it is necessary to come to\nsome resolution in a matter of that kind, we cannot well sit down at\nany given moment and think over the merits of the case and make up our\nmind; for, if we try to do so, we often find ourselves unable, at that\nparticular moment, to keep our mind fixed upon the subject; it wanders\noff to other things. Aversion to the matter in question is sometimes\nto blame for this. In such a case we should not use force, but wait\nfor the proper frame of mind to come of itself. It often comes\nunexpectedly and returns again and again; and the variety of temper in\nwhich we approach it at different moments puts the matter always in a\nfresh light. It is this long process which is understood by the term\n_a ripe resolution._ For the work of coming to a resolution must be\ndistributed; and in the process much that is overlooked at one moment\noccurs to us at another; and the repugnance vanishes when we find, as\nwe usually do, on a closer inspection, that things are not so bad as\nthey seemed.\n\nThis rule applies to the life of the intellect as well as to matters\nof practice. A man must wait for the right moment. Not even the\ngreatest mind is capable of thinking for itself at all times. Hence a\ngreat mind does well to spend its leisure in reading, which, as I have\nsaid, is a substitute for thought; it brings stuff to the mind by\nletting another person do the thinking; although that is always done\nin a manner not our own. Therefore, a man should not read too much, in\norder that his mind may not become accustomed to the substitute and\nthereby forget the reality; that it may not form the habit of walking\nin well-worn paths; nor by following an alien course of thought grow a\nstranger to its own. Least of all should a man quite withdraw his gaze\nfrom the real world for the mere sake of reading; as the impulse and\nthe temper which prompt to thought of one's own come far oftener from\nthe world of reality than from the world of books. The real life that\na man sees before him is the natural subject of thought; and in its\nstrength as the primary element of existence, it can more easily than\nanything else rouse and influence the thinking mind.\n\nAfter these considerations, it will not be matter for surprise that\na man who thinks for himself can easily be distinguished from the\nbook-philosopher by the very way in which he talks, by his marked\nearnestness, and the originality, directness, and personal conviction\nthat stamp all his thoughts and expressions. The book-philosopher, on\nthe other hand, lets it be seen that everything he has is second-hand;\nthat his ideas are like the number and trash of an old furniture-shop,\ncollected together from all quarters. Mentally, he is dull and\npointless--a copy of a copy. His literary style is made up of\nconventional, nay, vulgar phrases, and terms that happen to be\ncurrent; in this respect much like a small State where all the money\nthat circulates is foreign, because it has no coinage of its own.\n\nMere experience can as little as reading supply the place of thought.\nIt stands to thinking in the same relation in which eating stands\nto digestion and assimilation. When experience boasts that to its\ndiscoveries alone is due the advancement of the human race, it is as\nthough the mouth were to claim the whole credit of maintaining the\nbody in health.\n\nThe works of all truly capable minds are distinguished by a character\nof _decision_ and _definiteness_, which means they are clear and free\nfrom obscurity. A truly capable mind always knows definitely and\nclearly what it is that it wants to express, whether its medium is\nprose, verse, or music. Other minds are not decisive and not definite;\nand by this they may be known for what they are.\n\nThe characteristic sign of a mind of the highest order is that it\nalways judges at first hand. Everything it advances is the result of\nthinking for itself; and this is everywhere evident by the way in\nwhich it gives its thoughts utterance. Such a mind is like a Prince.\nIn the realm of intellect its authority is imperial, whereas the\nauthority of minds of a lower order is delegated only; as may be seen\nin their style, which has no independent stamp of its own.\n\nEvery one who really thinks for himself is so far like a monarch.\nHis position is undelegated and supreme. His judgments, like royal\ndecrees, spring from his own sovereign power and proceed directly from\nhimself. He acknowledges authority as little as a monarch admits a\ncommand; he subscribes to nothing but what he has himself authorized.\nThe multitude of common minds, laboring under all sorts of current\nopinions, authorities, prejudices, is like the people, which silently\nobeys the law and accepts orders from above.\n\nThose who are so zealous and eager to settle debated questions by\nciting authorities, are really glad when they are able to put the\nunderstanding and the insight of others into the field in place of\ntheir own, which are wanting. Their number is legion. For, as\nSeneca says, there is no man but prefers belief to the exercise\nof judgment--_unusquisque mavult credere quam judicare_. In their\ncontroversies such people make a promiscuous use of the weapon of\nauthority, and strike out at one another with it. If any one chances\nto become involved in such a contest, he will do well not to try\nreason and argument as a mode of defence; for against a weapon of that\nkind these people are like Siegfrieds, with a skin of horn, and dipped\nin the flood of incapacity for thinking and judging. They will meet\nhis attack by bringing up their authorities as a way of abashing\nhim--_argumentum ad verecundiam_, and then cry out that they have won\nthe battle.\n\nIn the real world, be it never so fair, favorable and pleasant,\nwe always live subject to the law of gravity which we have to\nbe constantly overcoming. But in the world of intellect we are\ndisembodied spirits, held in bondage to no such law, and free from\npenury and distress. Thus it is that there exists no happiness on\nearth like that which, at the auspicious moment, a fine and fruitful\nmind finds in itself.\n\nThe presence of a thought is like the presence of a woman we love. We\nfancy we shall never forget the thought nor become indifferent to the\ndear one. But out of sight, out of mind! The finest thought runs the\nrisk of being irrevocably forgotten if we do not write it down, and\nthe darling of being deserted if we do not marry her.\n\nThere are plenty of thoughts which are valuable to the man who thinks\nthem; but only few of them which have enough strength to produce\nrepercussive or reflect action--I mean, to win the reader's sympathy\nafter they have been put on paper.\n\nBut still it must not be forgotten that a true value attaches only\nto what a man has thought in the first instance _for his own case_.\nThinkers may be classed according as they think chiefly for their own\ncase or for that of others. The former are the genuine independent\nthinkers; they really think and are really independent; they are the\ntrue _philosophers_; they alone are in earnest. The pleasure and the\nhappiness of their existence consists in thinking. The others are the\n_sophists_; they want to seem that which they are not, and seek their\nhappiness in what they hope to get from the world. They are in earnest\nabout nothing else. To which of these two classes a man belongs may be\nseen by his whole style and manner. Lichtenberg is an example for the\nformer class; Herder, there can be no doubt, belongs to the second.\n\nWhen one considers how vast and how close to us is _the problem of\nexistence_--this equivocal, tortured, fleeting, dream-like existence\nof ours--so vast and so close that a man no sooner discovers it than\nit overshadows and obscures all other problems and aims; and when\none sees how all men, with few and rare exceptions, have no clear\nconsciousness of the problem, nay, seem to be quite unaware of its\npresence, but busy themselves with everything rather than with this,\nand live on, taking no thought but for the passing day and the hardly\nlonger span of their own personal future, either expressly discarding\nthe problem or else over-ready to come to terms with it by adopting\nsome system of popular metaphysics and letting it satisfy them; when,\nI say, one takes all this to heart, one may come to the opinion that\nman may be said to be _a thinking being_ only in a very remote\nsense, and henceforth feel no special surprise at any trait of human\nthoughtlessness or folly; but know, rather, that the normal man's\nintellectual range of vision does indeed extend beyond that of the\nbrute, whose whole existence is, as it were, a continual present,\nwith no consciousness of the past or the future, but not such an\nimmeasurable distance as is generally supposed.\n\nThis is, in fact, corroborated by the way in which most men converse;\nwhere their thoughts are found to be chopped up fine, like chaff, so\nthat for them to spin out a discourse of any length is impossible.\n\nIf this world were peopled by really thinking beings, it could not be\nthat noise of every kind would be allowed such generous limits, as is\nthe case with the most horrible and at the same time aimless form of\nit.[1] If Nature had meant man to think, she would not have given him\nears; or, at any rate, she would have furnished them with airtight\nflaps, such as are the enviable possession of the bat. But, in truth,\nman is a poor animal like the rest, and his powers are meant only to\nmaintain him in the struggle for existence; so he must need keep his\nears always open, to announce of themselves, by night as by day, the\napproach of the pursuer.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Schopenhauer refers to the cracking\nof whips. See the Essay _On Noise_ in _Studies in Pessimism_.]\n\nIn the drama, which is the most perfect reflection of human existence,\nthere are three stages in the presentation of the subject, with a\ncorresponding variety in the design and scope of the piece.\n\nAt the first, which is also the most common, stage, the drama is\nnever anything more than merely _interesting_. The persons gain our\nattention by following their own aims, which resemble ours; the action\nadvances by means of intrigue and the play of character and incident;\nwhile wit and raillery season the whole.\n\nAt the second stage, the drama becomes _sentimental_. Sympathy is\nroused with the hero and, indirectly, with ourselves. The action takes\na pathetic turn; but the end is peaceful and satisfactory.\n\nThe climax is reached with the third stage, which is the most\ndifficult. There the drama aims at being _tragic_. We are brought face\nto face with great suffering and the storm and stress of existence;\nand the outcome of it is to show the vanity of all human effort.\nDeeply moved, we are either directly prompted to disengage our will\nfrom the struggle of life, or else a chord is struck in us which\nechoes a similar feeling.\n\nThe beginning, it is said, is always difficult. In the drama it is\njust the contrary; for these the difficulty always lies in the end.\nThis is proved by countless plays which promise very well for\nthe first act or two, and then become muddled, stick or\nfalter--notoriously so in the fourth act--and finally conclude in a\nway that is either forced or unsatisfactory or else long foreseen by\nevery one. Sometimes, too, the end is positively revolting, as in\nLessing's _Emilia Galotti_, which sends the spectators home in a\ntemper.\n\nThis difficulty in regard to the end of a play arises partly because\nit is everywhere easier to get things into a tangle than to get them\nout again; partly also because at the beginning we give the author\n_carte blanche_ to do as he likes, but, at the end, make certain\ndefinite demands upon him. Thus we ask for a conclusion that shall be\neither quite happy or else quite tragic; whereas human affairs do not\neasily take so decided a turn; and then we expect that it shall be\nnatural, fit and proper, unlabored, and at the same time foreseen by\nno one.\n\nThese remarks are also applicable to an epic and to a novel; but the\nmore compact nature of the drama makes the difficulty plainer by\nincreasing it.\n\n_E nihilo nihil fit_. That nothing can come from nothing is a maxim\ntrue in fine art as elsewhere. In composing an historical picture, a\ngood artist will use living men as a model, and take the groundwork\nof the faces from life; and then proceed to idealize them in point of\nbeauty or expression. A similar method, I fancy, is adopted by good\nnovelists. In drawing a character they take a general outline of it\nfrom some real person of their acquaintance, and then idealize and\ncomplete it to suit their purpose.\n\nA novel will be of a high and noble order, the more it represents\nof inner, and the less it represents of outer, life; and the ratio\nbetween the two will supply a means of judging any novel, of whatever\nkind, from _Tristram Shandy_ down to the crudest and most sensational\ntale of knight or robber. _Tristram Shandy_ has, indeed, as good as\nno action at all; and there is not much in _La Nouvelle Helo\u00efse_ and\n_Wilhelm Meister_. Even _Don Quixote_ has relatively little; and what\nthere is, very unimportant, and introduced merely for the sake of fun.\nAnd these four are the best of all existing novels.\n\nConsider, further, the wonderful romances of Jean Paul, and how much\ninner life is shown on the narrowest basis of actual event. Even in\nWalter Scott's novels there is a great preponderance of inner over\nouter life, and incident is never brought in except for the purpose of\ngiving play to thought and emotion; whereas, in bad novels, incident\nis there on its own account. Skill consists in setting the inner life\nin motion with the smallest possible array of circumstance; for it is\nthis inner life that really excites our interest.\n\nThe business of the novelist is not to relate great events, but to\nmake small ones interesting.\n\nHistory, which I like to think of as the contrary of poetry [Greek:\nistoroumenon--pepoiaemenon], is for time what geography is for space;\nand it is no more to be called a science, in any strict sense of the\nword, than is geography, because it does not deal with universal\ntruths, but only with particular details. History has always been the\nfavorite study of those who wish to learn something, without having to\nface the effort demanded by any branch of real knowledge, which taxes\nthe intelligence. In our time history is a favorite pursuit; as\nwitness the numerous books upon the subject which appear every year.\n\nIf the reader cannot help thinking, with me, that history is merely\nthe constant recurrence of similar things, just as in a kaleidoscope\nthe same bits of glass are represented, but in different combinations,\nhe will not be able to share all this lively interest; nor, however,\nwill he censure it. But there is a ridiculous and absurd claim, made\nby many people, to regard history as a part of philosophy, nay, as\nphilosophy itself; they imagine that history can take its place.\n\nThe preference shown for history by the greater public in all ages may\nbe illustrated by the kind of conversation which is so much in vogue\neverywhere in society. It generally consists in one person relating\nsomething and then another person relating something else; so that in\nthis way everyone is sure of receiving attention. Both here and in the\ncase of history it is plain that the mind is occupied with particular\ndetails. But as in science, so also in every worthy conversation, the\nmind rises to the consideration of some general truth.\n\nThis objection does not, however, deprive history of its value. Human\nlife is short and fleeting, and many millions of individuals share in\nit, who are swallowed by that monster of oblivion which is waiting for\nthem with ever-open jaws. It is thus a very thankworthy task to try to\nrescue something--the memory of interesting and important events, or\nthe leading features and personages of some epoch--from the general\nshipwreck of the world.\n\nFrom another point of view, we might look upon history as the sequel\nto zoology; for while with all other animals it is enough to observe\nthe species, with man individuals, and therefore individual events\nhave to be studied; because every man possesses a character as an\nindividual. And since individuals and events are without number or\nend, an essential imperfection attaches to history. In the study of\nit, all that a man learns never contributes to lessen that which he\nhas still to learn. With any real science, a perfection of knowledge\nis, at any rate, conceivable.\n\nWhen we gain access to the histories of China and of India, the\nendlessness of the subject-matter will reveal to us the defects in the\nstudy, and force our historians to see that the object of science is\nto recognize the many in the one, to perceive the rules in any given\nexample, and to apply to the life of nations a knowledge of mankind;\nnot to go on counting up facts _ad infinitum_.\n\nThere are two kinds of history; the history of politics and the\nhistory of literature and art. The one is the history of the will;\nthe other, that of the intellect. The first is a tale of woe, even of\nterror: it is a record of agony, struggle, fraud, and horrible murder\n_en masse_. The second is everywhere pleasing and serene, like the\nintellect when left to itself, even though its path be one of error.\nIts chief branch is the history of philosophy. This is, in fact, its\nfundamental bass, and the notes of it are heard even in the other\nkind of history. These deep tones guide the formation of opinion, and\nopinion rules the world. Hence philosophy, rightly understood, is a\nmaterial force of the most powerful kind, though very slow in its\nworking. The philosophy of a period is thus the fundamental bass of\nits history.\n\nThe NEWSPAPER, is the second-hand in the clock of history; and it is\nnot only made of baser metal than those which point to the minute and\nthe hour, but it seldom goes right.\n\nThe so-called leading article is the chorus to the drama of passing\nevents.\n\nExaggeration of every kind is as essential to journalism as it is to\nthe dramatic art; for the object of journalism is to make events go\nas far as possible. Thus it is that all journalists are, in the very\nnature of their calling, alarmists; and this is their way of giving\ninterest to what they write. Herein they are like little dogs; if\nanything stirs, they immediately set up a shrill bark.\n\nTherefore, let us carefully regulate the attention to be paid to this\ntrumpet of danger, so that it may not disturb our digestion. Let us\nrecognize that a newspaper is at best but a magnifying-glass, and very\noften merely a shadow on the wall.\n\nThe _pen_ is to thought what the stick is to walking; but you walk\nmost easily when you have no stick, and you think with the greatest\nperfection when you have no pen in your hand. It is only when a man\nbegins to be old that he likes to use a stick and is glad to take up\nhis pen.\n\nWhen an _hypothesis_ has once come to birth in the mind, or gained a\nfooting there, it leads a life so far comparable with the life of an\norganism, as that it assimilates matter from the outer world only when\nit is like in kind with it and beneficial; and when, contrarily, such\nmatter is not like in kind but hurtful, the hypothesis, equally with\nthe organism, throws it off, or, if forced to take it, gets rid of it\nagain entire.\n\nTo gain _immortality_ an author must possess so many excellences that\nwhile it will not be easy to find anyone to understand and appreciate\nthem all, there will be men in every age who are able to recognize\nand value some of them. In this way the credit of his book will be\nmaintained throughout the long course of centuries, in spite of the\nfact that human interests are always changing.\n\nAn author like this, who has a claim to the continuance of his life\neven with posterity, can only be a man who, over the wide earth, will\nseek his like in vain, and offer a palpable contrast with everyone\nelse in virtue of his unmistakable distinction. Nay, more: were he,\nlike the wandering Jew, to live through several generations, he would\nstill remain in the same superior position. If this were not so, it\nwould be difficult to see why his thoughts should not perish like\nthose of other men.\n\n_Metaphors_ and _similes_ are of great value, in so far as they\nexplain an unknown relation by a known one. Even the more detailed\nsimile which grows into a parable or an allegory, is nothing more than\nthe exhibition of some relation in its simplest, most visible and\npalpable form. The growth of ideas rests, at bottom, upon similes;\nbecause ideas arise by a process of combining the similarities and\nneglecting the differences between things. Further, intelligence, in\nthe strict sense of the word, ultimately consists in a seizing of\nrelations; and a clear and pure grasp of relations is all the more\noften attained when the comparison is made between cases that lie wide\napart from one another, and between things of quite different nature.\nAs long as a relation is known to me as existing only in a single\ncase, I have but an _individual_ idea of it--in other words, only an\nintuitive knowledge of it; but as soon as I see the same relation in\ntwo different cases, I have a _general_ idea of its whole nature, and\nthis is a deeper and more perfect knowledge.\n\nSince, then, similes and metaphors are such a powerful engine of\nknowledge, it is a sign of great intelligence in a writer if his\nsimiles are unusual and, at the same time, to the point. Aristotle\nalso observes that by far the most important thing to a writer is\nto have this power of metaphor; for it is a gift which cannot be\nacquired, and it is a mark of genius.\n\nAs regards _reading_, to require that a man shall retain everything he\nhas ever read, is like asking him to carry about with him all he has\never eaten. The one kind of food has given him bodily, and the other\nmental, nourishment; and it is through these two means that he has\ngrown to be what he is. The body assimilates only that which is like\nit; and so a man retains in his mind only that which interests him, in\nother words, that which suits his system of thought or his purposes in\nlife.\n\nIf a man wants to read good books, he must make a point of avoiding\nbad ones; for life is short, and time and energy limited.\n\n_Repetitio est mater studiorum_. Any book that is at all important\nought to be at once read through twice; partly because, on a second\nreading, the connection of the different portions of the book will be\nbetter understood, and the beginning comprehended only when the end\nis known; and partly because we are not in the same temper and\ndisposition on both readings. On the second perusal we get a new view\nof every passage and a different impression of the whole book, which\nthen appears in another light.\n\nA man's works are the quintessence of his mind, and even though he may\npossess very great capacity, they will always be incomparably more\nvaluable than his conversation. Nay, in all essential matters his\nworks will not only make up for the lack of personal intercourse with\nhim, but they will far surpass it in solid advantages. The writings\neven of a man of moderate genius may be edifying, worth reading and\ninstructive, because they are his quintessence--the result and fruit\nof all his thought and study; whilst conversation with him may be\nunsatisfactory.\n\nSo it is that we can read books by men in whose company we find\nnothing to please, and that a high degree of culture leads us to seek\nentertainment almost wholly from books and not from men.\n\n\n\n\nON CRITICISM.\n\n\nThe following brief remarks on the critical faculty are chiefly\nintended to show that, for the most part, there is no such thing.\nIt is a _rara avis_; almost as rare, indeed, as the phoenix, which\nappears only once in five hundred years.\n\nWhen we speak of _taste_--an expression not chosen with any regard for\nit--we mean the discovery, or, it may be only the recognition, of what\nis _right aesthetically_, apart from the guidance of any rule; and\nthis, either because no rule has as yet been extended to the matter in\nquestion, or else because, if existing, it is unknown to the artist,\nor the critic, as the case may be. Instead of _taste_, we might use\nthe expression _aesthetic sense_, if this were not tautological.\n\nThe perceptive critical taste is, so to speak, the female analogue\nto the male quality of productive talent or genius. Not capable\nof _begetting_ great work itself, it consists in a capacity of\n_reception_, that is to say, of recognizing as such what is right,\nfit, beautiful, or the reverse; in other words, of discriminating\nthe good from the bad, of discovering and appreciating the one and\ncondemning the other.\n\nIn appreciating a genius, criticism should not deal with the errors in\nhis productions or with the poorer of his works, and then proceed to\nrate him low; it should attend only to the qualities in which he most\nexcels. For in the sphere of intellect, as in other spheres, weakness\nand perversity cleave so firmly to human nature that even the most\nbrilliant mind is not wholly and at all times free from them. Hence\nthe great errors to be found even in the works of the greatest men; or\nas Horace puts it, _quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus_.\n\nThat which distinguishes genius, and should be the standard for\njudging it, is the height to which it is able to soar when it is in\nthe proper mood and finds a fitting occasion--a height always out\nof the reach of ordinary talent. And, in like manner, it is a very\ndangerous thing to compare two great men of the same class; for\ninstance, two great poets, or musicians, or philosophers, or artists;\nbecause injustice to the one or the other, at least for the moment,\ncan hardly be avoided. For in making a comparison of the kind the\ncritic looks to some particular merit of the one and at once discovers\nthat it is absent in the other, who is thereby disparaged. And then\nif the process is reversed, and the critic begins with the latter and\ndiscovers his peculiar merit, which is quite of a different order from\nthat presented by the former, with whom it may be looked for in vain,\nthe result is that both of them suffer undue depreciation.\n\nThere are critics who severally think that it rests with each one of\nthem what shall be accounted good, and what bad. They all mistake\ntheir own toy-trumpets for the trombones of fame.\n\nA drug does not effect its purpose if the dose is too large; and it\nis the same with censure and adverse criticism when it exceeds the\nmeasure of justice.\n\nThe disastrous thing for intellectual merit is that it must wait for\nthose to praise the good who have themselves produced nothing but what\nis bad; nay, it is a primary misfortune that it has to receive its\ncrown at the hands of the critical power of mankind--a quality of\nwhich most men possess only the weak and impotent semblance, so that\nthe reality may be numbered amongst the rarest gifts of nature. Hence\nLa Bruy\u00e8re's remark is, unhappily, as true as it is neat. _Apr\u00e8s\nl'esprit de discernement_, he says, _ce qu'il y a au monde de plus\nrare, ce sont les diamans et les perles_. The spirit of discernment!\nthe critical faculty! it is these that are lacking. Men do not know\nhow to distinguish the genuine from the false, the corn from the\nchaff, gold from copper; or to perceive the wide gulf that separates\na genius from an ordinary man. Thus we have that bad state of things\ndescribed in an old-fashioned verse, which gives it as the lot of the\ngreat ones here on earth to be recognized only when they are gone:\n\n  _Es ist nun das Geschick der Grossen fiier auf Erden,\n  Erst wann sie nicht mehr sind; von uns erkannt zu werden._\n\nWhen any genuine and excellent work makes its appearance, the chief\ndifficulty in its way is the amount of bad work it finds already in\npossession of the field, and accepted as though it were good. And\nthen if, after a long time, the new comer really succeeds, by a hard\nstruggle, in vindicating his place for himself and winning reputation,\nhe will soon encounter fresh difficulty from some affected, dull,\nawkward imitator, whom people drag in, with the object of calmly\nsetting him up on the altar beside the genius; not seeing the\ndifference and really thinking that here they have to do with another\ngreat man. This is what Yriarte means by the first lines of his\ntwenty-eighth Fable, where he declares that the ignorant rabble always\nsets equal value on the good and the bad:\n\n  _Siempre acostumbra hacer el vulgo necio\n  De lo bueno y lo malo igual aprecio_.\n\nSo even Shakespeare's dramas had, immediately after his death, to give\nplace to those of Ben Jonson, Massinger, Beaumont and Fletcher, and to\nyield the supremacy for a hundred years. So Kant's serious philosophy\nwas crowded out by the nonsense of Fichte, Schelling, Jacobi, Hegel.\nAnd even in a sphere accessible to all, we have seen unworthy\nimitators quickly diverting public attention from the incomparable\nWalter Scott. For, say what you will, the public has no sense for\nexcellence, and therefore no notion how very rare it is to find men\nreally capable of doing anything great in poetry, philosophy, or art,\nor that their works are alone worthy of exclusive attention. The\ndabblers, whether in verse or in any other high sphere, should be\nevery day unsparingly reminded that neither gods, nor men, nor\nbooksellers have pardoned their mediocrity:\n\n      _mediocribus esse poetis\n  Non homines, non D\u00ee, non concessere columnae_.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: Horace, _Ars Poetica_, 372.]\n\nAre they not the weeds that prevent the corn coming up, so that they\nmay cover all the ground themselves? And then there happens that which\nhas been well and freshly described by the lamented Feuchtersleben,[1]\nwho died so young: how people cry out in their haste that nothing\nis being done, while all the while great work is quietly growing to\nmaturity; and then, when it appears, it is not seen or heard in the\nclamor, but goes its way silently, in modest grief:\n\n  \"_Ist doch\"--rufen sie vermessen--\n  Nichts im Werke, nichts gethan!\"\n  Und das Grosse, reift indessen\n  Still heran_.\n\n  _Es ersheint nun: niemand sieht es,\n  Niemand h\u00f6rt es im Geschrei\n  Mit bescheid'ner Trauer zieht es\n  Still vorbei_.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Ernst Freiherr von Feuchtersleben\n(1806-49), an Austrian physician, philosopher, and poet, and a\nspecialist in medical psychology. The best known of his songs is that\nbeginning \"_Es ist bestimmt in Gottes Rath_\" to which Mendelssohn\ncomposed one of his finest melodies.]\n\nThis lamentable death of the critical faculty is not less obvious in\nthe case of science, as is shown by the tenacious life of false and\ndisproved theories. If they are once accepted, they may go on bidding\ndefiance to truth for fifty or even a hundred years and more, as\nstable as an iron pier in the midst of the waves. The Ptolemaic system\nwas still held a century after Copernicus had promulgated his theory.\nBacon, Descartes and Locke made their way extremely slowly and only\nafter a long time; as the reader may see by d'Alembert's celebrated\nPreface to the _Encyclopedia_. Newton was not more successful; and\nthis is sufficiently proved by the bitterness and contempt with which\nLeibnitz attacked his theory of gravitation in the controversy with\nClarke.[1] Although Newton lived for almost forty years after the\nappearance of the _Principia_, his teaching was, when he died, only\nto some extent accepted in his own country, whilst outside England he\ncounted scarcely twenty adherents; if we may believe the introductory\nnote to Voltaire's exposition of his theory. It was, indeed, chiefly\nowing to this treatise of Voltaire's that the system became known in\nFrance nearly twenty years after Newton's death. Until then a firm,\nresolute, and patriotic stand was made by the Cartesian _Vortices_;\nwhilst only forty years previously, this same Cartesian philosophy had\nbeen forbidden in the French schools; and now in turn d'Agnesseau, the\nChancellor, refused Voltaire the _Imprimatur_ for his treatise on the\nNewtonian doctrine. On the other hand, in our day Newton's absurd\ntheory of color still completely holds the field, forty years after\nthe publication of Goethe's. Hume, too, was disregarded up to his\nfiftieth year, though he began very early and wrote in a thoroughly\npopular style. And Kant, in spite of having written and talked all his\nlife long, did not become a famous man until he was sixty.\n\n[Footnote 1: See especially \u00a7\u00a7 35, 113, 118, 120, 122, 128.]\n\nArtists and poets have, to be sure, more chance than thinkers, because\ntheir public is at least a hundred times as large. Still, what was\nthought of Beethoven and Mozart during their lives? what of Dante?\nwhat even of Shakespeare? If the latter's contemporaries had in any\nway recognized his worth, at least one good and accredited portrait of\nhim would have come down to us from an age when the art of painting\nflourished; whereas we possess only some very doubtful pictures, a\nbad copperplate, and a still worse bust on his tomb.[1] And in like\nmanner, if he had been duly honored, specimens of his handwriting\nwould have been preserved to us by the hundred, instead of being\nconfined, as is the case, to the signatures to a few legal documents.\nThe Portuguese are still proud of their only poet Camo\u00ebns. He lived,\nhowever, on alms collected every evening in the street by a black\nslave whom he had brought with him from the Indies. In time, no doubt,\njustice will be done everyone; _tempo \u00e8 galant uomo_; but it is\nas late and slow in arriving as in a court of law, and the secret\ncondition of it is that the recipient shall be no longer alive. The\nprecept of Jesus the son of Sirach is faithfully followed: _Judge none\nblessed before his death._[2] He, then, who has produced immortal\nworks, must find comfort by applying to them the words of the Indian\nmyth, that the minutes of life amongst the immortals seem like years\nof earthly existence; and so, too, that years upon earth are only as\nthe minutes of the immortals.\n\n[Footnote 1: A. Wivell: _An Inquiry into the History, Authenticity,\nand Characteristics of Shakespeare's Portraits_; with 21 engravings.\nLondon, 1836.]\n\n[Footnote 2: _Ecclesiasticus_, xi. 28.]\n\nThis lack of critical insight is also shown by the fact that, while\nin every century the excellent work of earlier time is held in honor,\nthat of its own is misunderstood, and the attention which is its due\nis given to bad work, such as every decade carries with it only to be\nthe sport of the next. That men are slow to recognize genuine merit\nwhen it appears in their own age, also proves that they do not\nunderstand or enjoy or really value the long-acknowledged works of\ngenius, which they honor only on the score of authority. The crucial\ntest is the fact that bad work--Fichte's philosophy, for example--if\nit wins any reputation, also maintains it for one or two generations;\nand only when its public is very large does its fall follow sooner.\n\nNow, just as the sun cannot shed its light but to the eye that sees\nit, nor music sound but to the hearing ear, so the value of all\nmasterly work in art and science is conditioned by the kinship and\ncapacity of the mind to which it speaks. It is only such a mind as\nthis that possesses the magic word to stir and call forth the spirits\nthat lie hidden in great work. To the ordinary mind a masterpiece is\na sealed cabinet of mystery,--an unfamiliar musical instrument from\nwhich the player, however much he may flatter himself, can draw none\nbut confused tones. How different a painting looks when seen in a good\nlight, as compared with some dark corner! Just in the same way, the\nimpression made by a masterpiece varies with the capacity of the mind\nto understand it.\n\nA fine work, then, requires a mind sensitive to its beauty; a\nthoughtful work, a mind that can really think, if it is to exist and\nlive at all. But alas! it may happen only too often that he who gives\na fine work to the world afterwards feels like a maker of fireworks,\nwho displays with enthusiasm the wonders that have taken him so much\ntime and trouble to prepare, and then learns that he has come to the\nwrong place, and that the fancied spectators were one and all inmates\nof an asylum for the blind. Still even that is better than if his\npublic had consisted entirely of men who made fireworks themselves; as\nin this case, if his display had been extraordinarily good, it might\npossibly have cost him his head.\n\nThe source of all pleasure and delight is the feeling of kinship. Even\nwith the sense of beauty it is unquestionably our own species in the\nanimal world, and then again our own race, that appears to us the\nfairest. So, too, in intercourse with others, every man shows a\ndecided preference for those who resemble him; and a blockhead will\nfind the society of another blockhead incomparably more pleasant\nthan that of any number of great minds put together. Every man must\nnecessarily take his chief pleasure in his own work, because it is the\nmirror of his own mind, the echo of his own thought; and next in order\nwill come the work of people like him; that is to say, a dull, shallow\nand perverse man, a dealer in mere words, will give his sincere and\nhearty applause only to that which is dull, shallow, perverse or\nmerely verbose. On the other hand, he will allow merit to the work of\ngreat minds only on the score of authority, in other words, because\nhe is ashamed to speak his opinion; for in reality they give him no\npleasure at all. They do not appeal to him; nay, they repel him; and\nhe will not confess this even to himself. The works of genius cannot\nbe fully enjoyed except by those who are themselves of the privileged\norder. The first recognition of them, however, when they exist without\nauthority to support them, demands considerable superiority of mind.\n\nWhen the reader takes all this into consideration, he should be\nsurprised, not that great work is so late in winning reputation, but\nthat it wins it at all. And as a matter of fact, fame comes only by a\nslow and complex process. The stupid person is by degrees forced, and\nas it were, tamed, into recognizing the superiority of one who stands\nimmediately above him; this one in his turn bows before some one else;\nand so it goes on until the weight of the votes gradually prevail over\ntheir number; and this is just the condition of all genuine, in other\nwords, deserved fame. But until then, the greatest genius, even after\nhe has passed his time of trial, stands like a king amidst a crowd of\nhis own subjects, who do not know him by sight and therefore will not\ndo his behests; unless, indeed, his chief ministers of state are in\nhis train. For no subordinate official can be the direct recipient of\nthe royal commands, as he knows only the signature of his immediate\nsuperior; and this is repeated all the way up into the highest ranks,\nwhere the under-secretary attests the minister's signature, and the\nminister that of the king. There are analogous stages to be passed\nbefore a genius can attain widespread fame. This is why his reputation\nmost easily comes to a standstill at the very outset; because the\nhighest authorities, of whom there can be but few, are most frequently\nnot to be found; but the further down he goes in the scale the more\nnumerous are those who take the word from above, so that his fame is\nno more arrested.\n\nWe must console ourselves for this state of things by reflecting that\nit is really fortunate that the greater number of men do not form a\njudgment on their own responsibility, but merely take it on authority.\nFor what sort of criticism should we have on Plato and Kant, Homer,\nShakespeare and Goethe, if every man were to form his opinion by what\nhe really has and enjoys of these writers, instead of being forced by\nauthority to speak of them in a fit and proper way, however little\nhe may really feel what he says. Unless something of this kind took\nplace, it would be impossible for true merit, in any high sphere, to\nattain fame at all. At the same time it is also fortunate that every\nman has just so much critical power of his own as is necessary for\nrecognizing the superiority of those who are placed immediately over\nhim, and for following their lead. This means that the many come in\nthe end to submit to the authority of the few; and there results that\nhierarchy of critical judgments on which is based the possibility of a\nsteady, and eventually wide-reaching, fame.\n\nThe lowest class in the community is quite impervious to the merits\nof a great genius; and for these people there is nothing left but the\nmonument raised to him, which, by the impression it produces on their\nsenses, awakes in them a dim idea of the man's greatness.\n\nLiterary journals should be a dam against the unconscionable\nscribbling of the age, and the ever-increasing deluge of bad and\nuseless books. Their judgments should be uncorrupted, just and\nrigorous; and every piece of bad work done by an incapable person;\nevery device by which the empty head tries to come to the assistance\nof the empty purse, that is to say, about nine-tenths of all existing\nbooks, should be mercilessly scourged. Literary journals would then\nperform their duty, which is to keep down the craving for writing and\nput a check upon the deception of the public, instead of furthering\nthese evils by a miserable toleration, which plays into the hands of\nauthor and publisher, and robs the reader of his time and his money.\n\nIf there were such a paper as I mean, every bad writer, every\nbrainless compiler, every plagiarist from other's books, every hollow\nand incapable place-hunter, every sham-philosopher, every vain and\nlanguishing poetaster, would shudder at the prospect of the pillory\nin which his bad work would inevitably have to stand soon after\npublication. This would paralyze his twitching fingers, to the true\nwelfare of literature, in which what is bad is not only useless but\npositively pernicious. Now, most books are bad and ought to have\nremained unwritten. Consequently praise should be as rare as is now\nthe case with blame, which is withheld under the influence of personal\nconsiderations, coupled with the maxim _accedas socius, laudes\nlauderis ut absens_.\n\nIt is quite wrong to try to introduce into literature the same\ntoleration as must necessarily prevail in society towards those\nstupid, brainless people who everywhere swarm in it. In literature\nsuch people are impudent intruders; and to disparage the bad is here\nduty towards the good; for he who thinks nothing bad will think\nnothing good either. Politeness, which has its source in social\nrelations, is in literature an alien, and often injurious, element;\nbecause it exacts that bad work shall be called good. In this way the\nvery aim of science and art is directly frustrated.\n\nThe ideal journal could, to be sure, be written only by people who\njoined incorruptible honesty with rare knowledge and still rarer power\nof judgment; so that perhaps there could, at the very most, be one,\nand even hardly one, in the whole country; but there it would stand,\nlike a just Aeropagus, every member of which would have to be elected\nby all the others. Under the system that prevails at present, literary\njournals are carried on by a clique, and secretly perhaps also by\nbooksellers for the good of the trade; and they are often nothing but\ncoalitions of bad heads to prevent the good ones succeeding. As\nGoethe once remarked to me, nowhere is there so much dishonesty as in\nliterature.\n\nBut, above all, anonymity, that shield of all literary rascality,\nwould have to disappear. It was introduced under the pretext of\nprotecting the honest critic, who warned the public, against the\nresentment of the author and his friends. But where there is one case\nof this sort, there will be a hundred where it merely serves to take\nall responsibility from the man who cannot stand by what he has said,\nor possibly to conceal the shame of one who has been cowardly and base\nenough to recommend a book to the public for the purpose of putting\nmoney into his own pocket. Often enough it is only a cloak for\ncovering the obscurity, incompetence and insignificance of the critic.\nIt is incredible what impudence these fellows will show, and what\nliterary trickery they will venture to commit, as soon as they know\nthey are safe under the shadow of anonymity. Let me recommend a\ngeneral _Anti-criticism_, a universal medicine or panacea, to put a\nstop to all anonymous reviewing, whether it praises the bad or blames\nthe good: _Rascal! your name_! For a man to wrap himself up and draw\nhis hat over his face, and then fall upon people who are walking about\nwithout any disguise--this is not the part of a gentleman, it is the\npart of a scoundrel and a knave.\n\nAn anonymous review has no more authority than an anonymous letter;\nand one should be received with the same mistrust as the other. Or\nshall we take the name of the man who consents to preside over what\nis, in the strict sense of the word, _une soci\u00e9t\u00e9 anonyme_ as a\nguarantee for the veracity of his colleagues?\n\nEven Rousseau, in the preface to the _Nouvelle Helo\u00efse_, declares\n_tout honn\u00eate homme doit avouer les livres qu'il public_; which in\nplain language means that every honorable man ought to sign his\narticles, and that no one is honorable who does not do so. How much\ntruer this is of polemical writing, which is the general character\nof reviews! Riemer was quite right in the opinion he gives in his\n_Reminiscences of Goethe:[1] An overt enemy_, he says, _an enemy\nwho meets you face to face, is an honorable man, who will treat you\nfairly, and with whom you can come to terms and be reconciled: but an\nenemy who conceals himself_ is a base, cowardly scoundrel, _who has\nnot courage enough to avow his own judgment; it is not his opinion\nthat he cares about, but only the secret pleasures of wreaking his\nanger without being found out or punished._ This will also have been\nGoethe's opinion, as he was generally the source from which Riemer\ndrew his observations. And, indeed, Rousseau's maxim applies to\nevery line that is printed. Would a man in a mask ever be allowed to\nharangue a mob, or speak in any assembly; and that, too, when he was\ngoing to attack others and overwhelm them with abuse?\n\n[Footnote 1: Preface, p. xxix.]\n\nAnonymity is the refuge for all literary and journalistic rascality.\nIt is a practice which must be completely stopped. Every article, even\nin a newspaper, should be accompanied by the name of its author; and\nthe editor should be made strictly responsible for the accuracy of the\nsignature. The freedom of the press should be thus far restricted; so\nthat when a man publicly proclaims through the far-sounding trumpet of\nthe newspaper, he should be answerable for it, at any rate with his\nhonor, if he has any; and if he has none, let his name neutralize the\neffect of his words. And since even the most insignificant person is\nknown in his own circle, the result of such a measure would be to\nput an end to two-thirds of the newspaper lies, and to restrain the\naudacity of many a poisonous tongue.\n\n\n\n\nON REPUTATION.\n\n\nWriters may be classified as meteors, planets and fixed stars. A\nmeteor makes a striking effect for a moment. You look up and cry\n_There!_ and it is gone for ever. Planets and wandering stars last\na much longer time. They often outshine the fixed stars and are\nconfounded with them by the inexperienced; but this only because they\nare near. It is not long before they must yield their place; nay, the\nlight they give is reflected only, and the sphere of their influence\nis confined to their own orbit--their contemporaries. Their path is\none of change and movement, and with the circuit of a few years their\ntale is told. Fixed stars are the only ones that are constant; their\nposition in the firmament is secure; they shine with a light of their\nown; their effect to-day is the same as it was yesterday, because,\nhaving no parallax, their appearance does not alter with a difference\nin our standpoint. They belong not to _one_ system, _one_ nation only,\nbut to the universe. And just because they are so very far away, it is\nusually many years before their light is visible to the inhabitants of\nthis earth.\n\nWe have seen in the previous chapter that where a man's merits are of\na high order, it is difficult for him to win reputation, because the\npublic is uncritical and lacks discernment. But another and no less\nserious hindrance to fame comes from the envy it has to encounter. For\neven in the lowest kinds of work, envy balks even the beginnings of a\nreputation, and never ceases to cleave to it up to the last. How great\na part is played by envy in the wicked ways of the world! Ariosto is\nright in saying that the dark side of our mortal life predominates, so\nfull it is of this evil:\n\n    _questa assai pi\u00f9 oscura che serena\n  Vita mortal, tutta d'invidia piena_.\n\nFor envy is the moving spirit of that secret and informal, though\nflourishing, alliance everywhere made by mediocrity against individual\neminence, no matter of what kind. In his own sphere of work no one\nwill allow another to be distinguished: he is an intruder who cannot\nbe tolerated. _Si quelq'un excelle parmi nous, qu'il aille exceller\nailleurs_! this is the universal password of the second-rate. In\naddition, then, to the rarity of true merit and the difficulty it has\nin being understood and recognized, there is the envy of thousands to\nbe reckoned with, all of them bent on suppressing, nay, on smothering\nit altogether. No one is taken for what he is, but for what others\nmake of him; and this is the handle used by mediocrity to keep down\ndistinction, by not letting it come up as long as that can possibly be\nprevented.\n\nThere are two ways of behaving in regard to merit: either to have some\nof one's own, or to refuse any to others. The latter method is more\nconvenient, and so it is generally adopted. As envy is a mere sign\nof deficiency, so to envy merit argues the lack of it. My excellent\nBalthazar Gracian has given a very fine account of this relation\nbetween envy and merit in a lengthy fable, which may be found in his\n_Discreto_ under the heading _Hombre de ostentacion_. He describes\nall the birds as meeting together and conspiring against the peacock,\nbecause of his magnificent feathers. _If_, said the magpie, _we could\nonly manage to put a stop to the cursed parading of his tail, there\nwould soon be an end of his beauty; for what is not seen is as good as\nwhat does not exist_.\n\nThis explains how modesty came to be a virtue. It was invented only as\na protection against envy. That there have always been rascals to urge\nthis virtue, and to rejoice heartily over the bashfulness of a man of\nmerit, has been shown at length in my chief work.[1] In Lichtenberg's\n_Miscellaneous Writings_ I find this sentence quoted: _Modesty should\nbe the virtue of those who possess no other_. Goethe has a well-known\nsaying, which offends many people: _It is only knaves who are\nmodest_!--_Nur die Lumpen sind bescheiden_! but it has its prototype\nin Cervantes, who includes in his _Journey up Parnassus_ certain rules\nof conduct for poets, and amongst them the following: _Everyone whose\nverse shows him to be a poet should have a high opinion of himself,\nrelying on the proverb that he is a knave who thinks himself one_.\nAnd Shakespeare, in many of his Sonnets, which gave him the only\nopportunity he had of speaking of himself, declares, with a confidence\nequal to his ingenuousness, that what he writes is immortal.[2]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Welt als Wille_, Vol. II. c. 37.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Collier, one of his critical editors, in his Introduction\nto the Sonettes, remarks upon this point: \"In many of them are to be\nfound most remarkable indications of self-confidence and of assurance\nin the immortality of his verses, and in this respect the author's\nopinion was constant and uniform. He never scruples to express it,...\nand perhaps there is no writer of ancient or modern times who, for the\nquantity of such writings left behind him, has so frequently or so\nstrongly declared that what he had produced in this department of\npoetry 'the world would not willingly let die.'\"]\n\nA method of underrating good work often used by envy--in reality,\nhowever, only the obverse side of it--consists in the dishonorable and\nunscrupulous laudation of the bad; for no sooner does bad work gain\ncurrency than it draws attention from the good. But however effective\nthis method may be for a while, especially if it is applied on a large\nscale, the day of reckoning comes at last, and the fleeting credit\ngiven to bad work is paid off by the lasting discredit which overtakes\nthose who abjectly praised it. Hence these critics prefer to remain\nanonymous.\n\nA like fate threatens, though more remotely, those who depreciate and\ncensure good work; and consequently many are too prudent to attempt\nit. But there is another way; and when a man of eminent merit appears,\nthe first effect he produces is often only to pique all his rivals,\njust as the peacock's tail offended the birds. This reduces them to\na deep silence; and their silence is so unanimous that it savors of\npreconcertion. Their tongues are all paralyzed. It is the _silentium\nlivoris_ described by Seneca. This malicious silence, which is\ntechnically known as _ignoring_, may for a long time interfere with\nthe growth of reputation; if, as happens in the higher walks of\nlearning, where a man's immediate audience is wholly composed of rival\nworkers and professed students, who then form the channel of his fame,\nthe greater public is obliged to use its suffrage without being able\nto examine the matter for itself. And if, in the end, that malicious\nsilence is broken in upon by the voice of praise, it will be but\nseldom that this happens entirely apart from some ulterior aim,\npursued by those who thus manipulate justice. For, as Goethe says in\nthe _West-\u00f6stlicher Divan_, a man can get no recognition, either from\nmany persons or from only one, unless it is to publish abroad the\ncritic's own discernment:\n\n  _Denn es ist kein Anerkenen,\n  Weder Vieler, noch des Einen,\n  Wenn es nicht am Tage f\u00f6rdert,\n  Wo man selbst was m\u00f6chte scheinen_.\n\nThe credit you allow to another man engaged in work similar to your\nown or akin to it, must at bottom be withdrawn from yourself; and you\ncan praise him only at the expense of your own claims.\n\nAccordingly, mankind is in itself not at all inclined to award praise\nand reputation; it is more disposed to blame and find fault, whereby\nit indirectly praises itself. If, notwithstanding this, praise is\nwon from mankind, some extraneous motive must prevail. I am not here\nreferring to the disgraceful way in which mutual friends will puff one\nanother into a reputation; outside of that, an effectual motive is\nsupplied by the feeling that next to the merit of doing something\noneself, comes that of correctly appreciating and recognizing what\nothers have done. This accords with the threefold division of heads\ndrawn up by Hesiod[1] and afterwards by Machiavelli[2] _There are_,\nsays the latter, _in the capacities of mankind, three varieties:\none man will understand a thing by himself; another so far as it is\nexplained to him; a third, neither of himself nor when it is put\nclearly before him_. He, then, who abandons hope of making good his\nclaims to the first class, will be glad to seize the opportunity of\ntaking a place in the second. It is almost wholly owing to this state\nof things that merit may always rest assured of ultimately meeting\nwith recognition.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Works and Days_, 293.]\n\n[Footnote 2: _The Prince_, ch. 22.]\n\nTo this also is due the fact that when the value of a work has once\nbeen recognized and may no longer be concealed or denied, all men vie\nin praising and honoring it; simply because they are conscious\nof thereby doing themselves an honor. They act in the spirit of\nXenophon's remark: _he must be a wise man who knows what is wise_.\nSo when they see that the prize of original merit is for ever out of\ntheir reach, they hasten to possess themselves of that which comes\nsecond best--the correct appreciation of it. Here it happens as with\nan army which has been forced to yield; when, just as previously every\nman wanted to be foremost in the fight, so now every man tries to\nbe foremost in running away. They all hurry forward to offer their\napplause to one who is now recognized to be worthy of praise, in\nvirtue of a recognition, as a rule unconscious, of that law of\nhomogeneity which I mentioned in the last chapter; so that it may seem\nas though their way of thinking and looking at things were homogeneous\nwith that of the celebrated man, and that they may at least save the\nhonor of their literary taste, since nothing else is left them.\n\nFrom this it is plain that, whereas it is very difficult to win\nfame, it is not hard to keep it when once attained; and also that a\nreputation which comes quickly does not last very long; for here\ntoo, _quod cito fit, cito perit_. It is obvious that if the ordinary\naverage man can easily recognize, and the rival workers willingly\nacknowledge, the value of any performance, it will not stand very much\nabove the capacity of either of them to achieve it for themselves.\n_Tantum quisque laudat, quantum se posse sperat imitari_--a man will\npraise a thing only so far as he hopes to be able to imitate it\nhimself. Further, it is a suspicious sign if a reputation comes\nquickly; for an application of the laws of homogeneity will show that\nsuch a reputation is nothing but the direct applause of the multitude.\nWhat this means may be seen by a remark once made by Phocion, when he\nwas interrupted in a speech by the loud cheers of the mob. Turning\nto his friends who were standing close by, he asked: _Have I made a\nmistake and said something stupid?_[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: Plutarch, _Apophthegms_.]\n\nContrarily, a reputation that is to last a long time must be slow\nin maturing, and the centuries of its duration have generally to be\nbought at the cost of contemporary praise. For that which is to keep\nits position so long, must be of a perfection difficult to attain; and\neven to recognize this perfection requires men who are not always to\nbe found, and never in numbers sufficiently great to make themselves\nheard; whereas envy is always on the watch and doing its best to\nsmother their voice. But with moderate talent, which soon meets with\nrecognition, there is the danger that those who possess it will\noutlive both it and themselves; so that a youth of fame may be\nfollowed by an old age of obscurity. In the case of great merit, on\nthe other hand, a man may remain unknown for many years, but make up\nfor it later on by attaining a brilliant reputation. And if it should\nbe that this comes only after he is no more, well! he is to be\nreckoned amongst those of whom Jean Paul says that extreme unction is\ntheir baptism. He may console himself by thinking of the Saints, who\nalso are canonized only after they are dead.\n\nThus what Mahlmann[1] has said so well in _Herodes_ holds good; in\nthis world truly great work never pleases at once, and the god set up\nby the multitude keeps his place on the altar but a short time:\n\n  _Ich denke, das wahre Grosse in der Welt\n  Ist immer nur Das was nicht gleich gef\u00e4llt\n  Und wen der P\u00f6bel zum Gotte weiht,\n  Der steht auf dem Altar nur kurze Zeit_.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--August Mahlmann (1771-1826),\njournalist, poet and story-writer. His _Herodes vor Bethlehem_ is a\nparody of Kotzebue's _Hussiten vor Naumburg_.]\n\nIt is worth mention that this rule is most directly confirmed in the\ncase of pictures, where, as connoisseurs well know, the greatest\nmasterpieces are not the first to attract attention. If they make\na deep impression, it is not after one, but only after repeated,\ninspection; but then they excite more and more admiration every time\nthey are seen.\n\nMoreover, the chances that any given work will be quickly and rightly\nappreciated, depend upon two conditions: firstly, the character of\nthe work, whether high or low, in other words, easy or difficult to\nunderstand; and, secondly, the kind of public it attracts, whether\nlarge or small. This latter condition is, no doubt, in most instances\na, corollary of the former; but it also partly depends upon whether\nthe work in question admits, like books and musical compositions, of\nbeing produced in great numbers. By the compound action of these two\nconditions, achievements which serve no materially useful end--and\nthese alone are under consideration here--will vary in regard to\nthe chances they have of meeting with timely recognition and due\nappreciation; and the order of precedence, beginning with those who\nhave the greatest chance, will be somewhat as follows: acrobats,\ncircus riders, ballet-dancers, jugglers, actors, singers, musicians,\ncomposers, poets (both the last on account of the multiplication of\ntheir works), architects, painters, sculptors, philosophers.\n\nThe last place of all is unquestionably taken by philosophers because\ntheir works are meant not for entertainment, but for instruction, and\nbecause they presume some knowledge on the part of the reader, and\nrequire him to make an effort of his own to understand them. This\nmakes their public extremely small, and causes their fame to be more\nremarkable for its length than for its breadth. And, in general, it\nmay be said that the possibility of a man's fame lasting a long time,\nstands in almost inverse ratio with the chance that it will be early\nin making its appearance; so that, as regards length of fame, the\nabove order of precedence may be reversed. But, then, the poet and\nthe composer will come in the end to stand on the same level as the\nphilosopher; since, when once a work is committed to writing, it is\npossible to preserve it to all time. However, the first place still\nbelongs by right to the philosopher, because of the much greater\nscarcity of good work in this sphere, and the high importance of it;\nand also because of the possibility it offers of an almost perfect\ntranslation into any language. Sometimes, indeed, it happens that a\nphilosopher's fame outlives even his works themselves; as has happened\nwith Thales, Empedocles, Heraclitus, Democritus, Parmenides, Epicurus\nand many others.\n\nMy remarks are, as I have said, confined to achievements that are not\nof any material use. Work that serves some practical end, or ministers\ndirectly to some pleasure of the senses, will never have any\ndifficulty in being duly appreciated. No first-rate pastry-cook could\nlong remain obscure in any town, to say nothing of having to appeal to\nposterity.\n\nUnder fame of rapid growth is also to be reckoned fame of a false\nand artificial kind; where, for instance, a book is worked into a\nreputation by means of unjust praise, the help of friends, corrupt\ncriticism, prompting from above and collusion from below. All this\ntells upon the multitude, which is rightly presumed to have no power\nof judging for itself. This sort of fame is like a swimming bladder,\nby its aid a heavy body may keep afloat. It bears up for a certain\ntime, long or short according as the bladder is well sewed up and\nblown; but still the air comes out gradually, and the body sinks. This\nis the inevitable fate of all works which are famous by reason of\nsomething outside of themselves. False praise dies away; collusion\ncomes to an end; critics declare the reputation ungrounded; it\nvanishes, and is replaced by so much the greater contempt. Contrarily,\na genuine work, which, having the source of its fame in itself,\ncan kindle admiration afresh in every age, resembles a body of low\nspecific gravity, which always keeps up of its own accord, and so goes\nfloating down the stream of time.\n\nMen of great genius, whether their work be in poetry, philosophy or\nart, stand in all ages like isolated heroes, keeping up single-handed\na desperate struggling against the onslaught of an army of\nopponents.[1] Is not this characteristic of the miserable nature of\nmankind? The dullness, grossness, perversity, silliness and brutality\nof by far the greater part of the race, are always an obstacle to the\nefforts of the genius, whatever be the method of his art; they so form\nthat hostile army to which at last he has to succumb. Let the isolated\nchampion achieve what he may: it is slow to be acknowledged; it is\nlate in being appreciated, and then only on the score of authority;\nit may easily fall into neglect again, at any rate for a while. Ever\nafresh it finds itself opposed by false, shallow, and insipid ideas,\nwhich are better suited to that large majority, that so generally hold\nthe field. Though the critic may step forth and say, like Hamlet when\nhe held up the two portraits to his wretched mother, _Have you eyes?\nHave you eyes_? alas! they have none. When I watch the behavior of a\ncrowd of people in the presence of some great master's work, and mark\nthe manner of their applause, they often remind me of trained monkeys\nin a show. The monkey's gestures are, no doubt, much like those of\nmen; but now and again they betray that the real inward spirit of\nthese gestures is not in them. Their irrational nature peeps out.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--At this point Schopenhauer\ninterrupts the thread of his discourse to speak at length upon an\nexample of false fame. Those who are at all acquainted with the\nphilosopher's views will not be surprised to find that the writer thus\nheld up to scorn is Hegel; and readers of the other volumes in this\nseries will, with the translator, have had by now quite enough of the\nsubject. The passage is therefore omitted.]\n\nIt is often said of a man that _he is in advance of his age_; and it\nfollows from the above remarks that this must be taken to mean that\nhe is in advance of humanity in general. Just because of this fact,\na genius makes no direct appeal except to those who are too rare to\nallow of their ever forming a numerous body at any one period. If he\nis in this respect not particularly favored by fortune, he will\nbe _misunderstood by his own age_; in other words, he will remain\nunaccepted until time gradually brings together the voices of those\nfew persons who are capable of judging a work of such high character.\nThen posterity will say: _This man was in advance of his age_, instead\nof _in advance of humanity_; because humanity will be glad to lay the\nburden of its own faults upon a single epoch.\n\nHence, if a man has been superior to his own age, he would also have\nbeen superior to any other; provided that, in that age, by some rare\nand happy chance, a few just men, capable of judging in the sphere of\nhis achievements, had been born at the same time with him; just as\nwhen, according to a beautiful Indian myth, Vischnu becomes incarnate\nas a hero, so, too, Brahma at the same time appears as the singer of\nhis deeds; and hence Valmiki, Vyasa and Kalidasa are incarnations of\nBrahma.\n\nIn this sense, then, it may be said that every immortal work puts its\nage to the proof, whether or no it will be able to recognize the merit\nof it. As a rule, the men of any age stand such a test no better than\nthe neighbors of Philemon and Baucis, who expelled the deities they\nfailed to recognize. Accordingly, the right standard for judging the\nintellectual worth of any generation is supplied, not by the great\nminds that make their appearance in it--for their capacities are the\nwork of Nature, and the possibility of cultivating them a matter of\nchance circumstance--but by the way in which contemporaries receive\ntheir works; whether, I mean, they give their applause soon and with\na will, or late and in niggardly fashion, or leave it to be bestowed\naltogether by posterity.\n\nThis last fate will be especially reserved for works of a high\ncharacter. For the happy chance mentioned above will be all the more\ncertain not to come, in proportion as there are few to appreciate\nthe kind of work done by great minds. Herein lies the immeasurable\nadvantage possessed by poets in respect of reputation; because their\nwork is accessible to almost everyone. If it had been possible for Sir\nWalter Scott to be read and criticised by only some hundred persons,\nperhaps in his life-time any common scribbler would have been\npreferred to him; and afterwards, when he had taken his proper place,\nit would also have been said in his honor that he was _in advance of\nhis age_. But if envy, dishonesty and the pursuit of personal aims are\nadded to the incapacity of those hundred persons who, in the name of\ntheir generation, are called upon to pass judgment on a work, then\nindeed it meets with the same sad fate as attends a suitor who pleads\nbefore a tribunal of judges one and all corrupt.\n\nIn corroboration of this, we find that the history of literature\ngenerally shows all those who made knowledge and insight their goal\nto have remained unrecognized and neglected, whilst those who\nparaded with the vain show of it received the admiration of their\ncontemporaries, together with the emoluments.\n\nThe effectiveness of an author turns chiefly upon his getting the\nreputation that he should be read. But by practicing various arts,\nby the operation of chance, and by certain natural affinities, this\nreputation is quickly won by a hundred worthless people: while a\nworthy writer may come by it very slowly and tardily. The former\npossess friends to help them; for the rabble is always a numerous body\nwhich holds well together. The latter has nothing but enemies; because\nintellectual superiority is everywhere and under all circumstances the\nmost hateful thing in the world, and especially to bunglers in the\nsame line of work, who want to pass for something themselves.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: If the professors of philosophy should chance to think\nthat I am here hinting at them and the tactics they have for more than\nthirty years pursued toward my works, they have hit the nail upon the\nhead.]\n\nThis being so, it is a prime condition for doing any great work--any\nwork which is to outlive its own age, that a man pay no heed to his\ncontemporaries, their views and opinions, and the praise or blame\nwhich they bestow. This condition is, however, fulfilled of itself\nwhen a man really does anything great, and it is fortunate that it is\nso. For if, in producing such a work, he were to look to the general\nopinion or the judgment of his colleagues, they would lead him astray\nat every step. Hence, if a man wants to go down to posterity, he must\nwithdraw from the influence of his own age. This will, of course,\ngenerally mean that he must also renounce any influence upon it, and\nbe ready to buy centuries of fame by foregoing the applause of his\ncontemporaries.\n\nFor when any new and wide-reaching truth comes into the world--and if\nit is new, it must be paradoxical--an obstinate stand will be made\nagainst it as long as possible; nay, people will continue to deny it\neven after they slacken their opposition and are almost convinced of\nits truth. Meanwhile it goes on quietly working its way, and, like an\nacid, undermining everything around it. From time to time a crash is\nheard; the old error comes tottering to the ground, and suddenly the\nnew fabric of thought stands revealed, as though it were a monument\njust uncovered. Everyone recognizes and admires it. To be sure, this\nall comes to pass for the most part very slowly. As a rule, people\ndiscover a man to be worth listening to only after he is gone; their\n_hear, hear_, resounds when the orator has left the platform.\n\nWorks of the ordinary type meet with a better fate. Arising as they\ndo in the course of, and in connection with, the general advance in\ncontemporary culture, they are in close alliance with the spirit of\ntheir age--in other words, just those opinions which happen to be\nprevalent at the time. They aim at suiting the needs of the moment. If\nthey have any merit, it is soon recognized; and they gain currency as\nbooks which reflect the latest ideas. Justice, nay, more than justice,\nis done to them. They afford little scope for envy; since, as was said\nabove, a man will praise a thing only so far as he hopes to be able to\nimitate it himself.\n\nBut those rare works which are destined to become the property of all\nmankind and to live for centuries, are, at their origin, too far in\nadvance of the point at which culture happens to stand, and on that\nvery account foreign to it and the spirit of their own time. They\nneither belong to it nor are they in any connection with it, and hence\nthey excite no interest in those who are dominated by it. They belong\nto another, a higher stage of culture, and a time that is still far\noff. Their course is related to that of ordinary works as the orbit\nof Uranus to the orbit of Mercury. For the moment they get no justice\ndone to them. People are at a loss how to treat them; so they leave\nthem alone, and go their own snail's pace for themselves. Does the\nworm see the eagle as it soars aloft?\n\nOf the number of books written in any language about one in 100,000\nforms a part of its real and permanent literature. What a fate this\none book has to endure before it outstrips those 100,000 and gains its\ndue place of honor! Such a book is the work of an extraordinary and\neminent mind, and therefore it is specifically different from the\nothers; a fact which sooner or later becomes manifest.\n\nLet no one fancy that things will ever improve in this respect. No!\nthe miserable constitution of humanity never changes, though it may,\nto be sure, take somewhat varying forms with every generation. A\ndistinguished mind seldom has its full effect in the life-time of\nits possessor; because, at bottom, it is completely and properly\nunderstood only by minds already akin to it.\n\nAs it is a rare thing for even one man out of many millions to tread\nthe path that leads to immortality, he must of necessity be very\nlonely. The journey to posterity lies through a horribly dreary\nregion, like the Lybian desert, of which, as is well known, no one has\nany idea who has not seen it for himself. Meanwhile let me before\nall things recommend the traveler to take light baggage with him;\notherwise he will have to throw away too much on the road. Let him\nnever forget the words of Balthazar Gracian: _lo bueno si breve, dos\nvezes bueno_--good work is doubly good if it is short. This advice is\nspecially applicable to my own countrymen.\n\nCompared with the short span of time they live, men of great intellect\nare like huge buildings, standing on a small plot of ground. The size\nof the building cannot be seen by anyone, just in front of it; nor,\nfor an analogous reason, can the greatness of a genius be estimated\nwhile he lives. But when a century has passed, the world recognizes it\nand wishes him back again.\n\nIf the perishable son of time has produced an imperishable work, how\nshort his own life seems compared with that of his child! He is like\nSemela or Maia--a mortal mother who gave birth to an immortal son; or,\ncontrarily, he is like Achilles in regard to Thetis. What a contrast\nthere is between what is fleeting and what is permanent! The short\nspan of a man's life, his necessitous, afflicted, unstable existence,\nwill seldom allow of his seeing even the beginning of his immortal\nchild's brilliant career; nor will the father himself be taken for\nthat which he really is. It may be said, indeed, that a man whose fame\ncomes after him is the reverse of a nobleman, who is preceded by it.\n\nHowever, the only difference that it ultimately makes to a man to\nreceive his fame at the hands of contemporaries rather than from\nposterity is that, in the former case, his admirers are separated\nfrom him by space, and in the latter by time. For even in the case\nof contemporary fame, a man does not, as a rule, see his admirers\nactually before him. Reverence cannot endure close proximity; it\nalmost always dwells at some distance from its object; and in the\npresence of the person revered it melts like butter in the sun.\nAccordingly, if a man is celebrated with his contemporaries,\nnine-tenths of those amongst whom he lives will let their esteem be\nguided by his rank and fortune; and the remaining tenth may perhaps\nhave a dull consciousness of his high qualities, because they have\nheard about him from remote quarters. There is a fine Latin letter of\nPetrarch's on this incompatibility between reverence and the presence\nof the person, and between fame and life. It comes second in his\n_Epistolae familiares?_[1] and it is addressed to Thomas Messanensis.\nHe there observes, amongst other things, that the learned men of his\nage all made it a rule to think little of a man's writings if they had\neven once seen him.\n\n[Footnote 1: In the Venetian edition of 1492.]\n\nSince distance, then, is essential if a famous man is to be recognized\nand revered, it does not matter whether it is distance of space or of\ntime. It is true that he may sometimes hear of his fame in the one\ncase, but never in the other; but still, genuine and great merit may\nmake up for this by confidently anticipating its posthumous fame.\nNay, he who produces some really great thought is conscious of his\nconnection with coming generations at the very moment he conceives it;\nso that he feels the extension of his existence through centuries\nand thus lives _with_ posterity as well as _for_ it. And when, after\nenjoying a great man's work, we are seized with admiration for him,\nand wish him back, so that we might see and speak with him, and have\nhim in our possession, this desire of ours is not unrequited; for\nhe, too, has had his longing for that posterity which will grant\nthe recognition, honor, gratitude and love denied by envious\ncontemporaries.\n\nIf intellectual works of the highest order are not allowed their due\nuntil they come before the tribunal of posterity, a contrary fate\nis prepared for certain brilliant errors which proceed from men of\ntalent, and appear with an air of being well grounded. These errors\nare defended with so much acumen and learning that they actually\nbecome famous with their own age, and maintain their position at least\nduring their author's lifetime. Of this sort are many false theories\nand wrong criticisms; also poems and works of art, which exhibit some\nfalse taste or mannerism favored by contemporary prejudice. They gain\nreputation and currency simply because no one is yet forthcoming who\nknows how to refute them or otherwise prove their falsity; and when\nhe appears, as he usually does, in the next generation, the glory of\nthese works is brought to an end. Posthumous judges, be their decision\nfavorable to the appellant or not, form the proper court for quashing\nthe verdict of contemporaries. That is why it is so difficult and so\nrare to be victorious alike in both tribunals.\n\nThe unfailing tendency of time to correct knowledge and judgment\nshould always be kept in view as a means of allaying anxiety, whenever\nany grievous error appears, whether in art, or science, or practical\nlife, and gains ground; or when some false and thoroughly perverse\npolicy of movement is undertaken and receives applause at the hands of\nmen. No one should be angry, or, still less, despondent; but simply\nimagine that the world has already abandoned the error in question,\nand now only requires time and experience to recognize of its own\naccord that which a clear vision detected at the first glance.\n\nWhen the facts themselves are eloquent of a truth, there is no need to\nrush to its aid with words: for time will give it a thousand tongues.\nHow long it may be before they speak, will of course depend upon the\ndifficulty of the subject and the plausibility of the error; but come\nthey will, and often it would be of no avail to try to anticipate\nthem. In the worst cases it will happen with theories as it happens\nwith affairs in practical life; where sham and deception, emboldened\nby success, advance to greater and greater lengths, until discovery is\nmade almost inevitable. It is just so with theories; through the blind\nconfidence of the blockheads who broach them, their absurdity reaches\nsuch a pitch that at last it is obvious even to the dullest eye. We\nmay thus say to such people: _the wilder your statements, the better_.\n\nThere is also some comfort to be found in reflecting upon all the\nwhims and crotchets which had their day and have now utterly vanished.\nIn style, in grammar, in spelling, there are false notions of this\nsort which last only three or four years. But when the errors are on\na large scale, while we lament the brevity of human life, we shall\nin any case, do well to lag behind our own age when we see it on a\ndownward path. For there are two ways of not keeping on a level with\nthe times. A man may be below it; or he may be above it.\n\n\n\n\nON GENIUS.\n\n\nNo difference of rank, position, or birth, is so great as the gulf\nthat separates the countless millions who use their head only in the\nservice of their belly, in other words, look upon it as an instrument\nof the will, and those very few and rare persons who have the courage\nto say: No! it is too good for that; my head shall be active only in\nits own service; it shall try to comprehend the wondrous and varied\nspectacle of this world, and then reproduce it in some form, whether\nas art or as literature, that may answer to my character as an\nindividual. These are the truly noble, the real _noblesse_ of the\nworld. The others are serfs and go with the soil--_glebae adscripti_.\nOf course, I am here referring to those who have not only the courage,\nbut also the call, and therefore the right, to order the head to quit\nthe service of the will; with a result that proves the sacrifice to\nhave been worth the making. In the case of those to whom all this can\nonly partially apply, the gulf is not so wide; but even though their\ntalent be small, so long as it is real, there will always be a sharp\nline of demarcation between them and the millions.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: The correct scale for adjusting the hierarchy of\nintelligences is furnished by the degree in which the mind takes\nmerely individual or approaches universal views of things. The brute\nrecognizes only the individual as such: its comprehension does not\nextend beyond the limits of the individual. But man reduces the\nindividual to the general; herein lies the exercise of his reason; and\nthe higher his intelligence reaches, the nearer do his general ideas\napproach the point at which they become universal.]\n\nThe works of fine art, poetry and philosophy produced by a nation are\nthe outcome of the superfluous intellect existing in it.\n\nFor him who can understand aright--_cum grano salis_--the relation\nbetween the genius and the normal man may, perhaps, be best expressed\nas follows: A genius has a double intellect, one for himself and the\nservice of his will; the other for the world, of which he becomes the\nmirror, in virtue of his purely objective attitude towards it. The\nwork of art or poetry or philosophy produced by the genius is\nsimply the result, or quintessence, of this contemplative attitude,\nelaborated according to certain technical rules.\n\nThe normal man, on the other hand, has only a single intellect, which\nmay be called _subjective_ by contrast with the _objective_ intellect\nof genius. However acute this subjective intellect may be--and it\nexists in very various degrees of perfection--it is never on the same\nlevel with the double intellect of genius; just as the open chest\nnotes of the human voice, however high, are essentially different from\nthe falsetto notes. These, like the two upper octaves of the flute\nand the harmonics of the violin, are produced by the column of air\ndividing itself into two vibrating halves, with a node between them;\nwhile the open chest notes of the human voice and the lower octave of\nthe flute are produced by the undivided column of air vibrating as\na whole. This illustration may help the reader to understand that\nspecific peculiarity of genius which is unmistakably stamped on the\nworks, and even on the physiognomy, of him who is gifted with it. At\nthe same time it is obvious that a double intellect like this must, as\na rule, obstruct the service of the will; and this explains the poor\ncapacity often shown by genius in the conduct of life. And what\nspecially characterizes genius is that it has none of that sobriety of\ntemper which is always to be found in the ordinary simple intellect,\nbe it acute or dull.\n\nThe brain may be likened to a parasite which is nourished as a part of\nthe human frame without contributing directly to its inner economy;\nit is securely housed in the topmost story, and there leads a\nself-sufficient and independent life. In the same way it may be said\nthat a man endowed with great mental gifts leads, apart from the\nindividual life common to all, a second life, purely of the intellect.\nHe devotes himself to the constant increase, rectification and\nextension, not of mere learning, but of real systematic knowledge\nand insight; and remains untouched by the fate that overtakes him\npersonally, so long as it does not disturb him in his work. It is thus\na life which raises a man and sets him above fate and its changes.\nAlways thinking, learning, experimenting, practicing his knowledge,\nthe man soon comes to look upon this second life as the chief mode\nof existence, and his merely personal life as something subordinate,\nserving only to advance ends higher than itself.\n\nAn example of this independent, separate existence is furnished by\nGoethe. During the war in the Champagne, and amid all the bustle of\nthe camp, he made observations for his theory of color; and as soon as\nthe numberless calamities of that war allowed of his retiring for a\nshort time to the fortress of Luxembourg, he took up the manuscript of\nhis _Farbenlehre_. This is an example which we, the salt of the earth,\nshould endeavor to follow, by never letting anything disturb us in the\npursuit of our intellectual life, however much the storm of the world\nmay invade and agitate our personal environment; always remembering\nthat we are the sons, not of the bondwoman, but of the free. As our\nemblem and coat of arms, I propose a tree mightily shaken by the wind,\nbut still bearing its ruddy fruit on every branch; with the motto _Dum\nconvellor mitescunt_, or _Conquassata sed ferax._\n\nThat purely intellectual life of the individual has its counterpart in\nhumanity as a whole. For there, too, the real life is the life of the\n_will_, both in the empirical and in the transcendental meaning of the\nword. The purely intellectual life of humanity lies in its effort to\nincrease knowledge by means of the sciences, and its desire to perfect\nthe arts. Both science and art thus advance slowly from one generation\nto another, and grow with the centuries, every race as it hurries by\nfurnishing its contribution. This intellectual life, like some gift\nfrom heaven, hovers over the stir and movement of the world; or it\nis, as it were, a sweet-scented air developed out of the ferment\nitself--the real life of mankind, dominated by will; and side by side\nwith the history of nations, the history of philosophy, science and\nart takes its innocent and bloodless way.\n\nThe difference between the genius and the ordinary man is, no doubt, a\n_quantitative_ one, in so far as it is a difference of degree; but I\nam tempted to regard it also as _qualitative_, in view of the fact\nthat ordinary minds, notwithstanding individual variation, have a\ncertain tendency to think alike. Thus on similar occasions their\nthoughts at once all take a similar direction, and run on the same\nlines; and this explains why their judgments constantly agree--not,\nhowever, because they are based on truth. To such lengths does this go\nthat certain fundamental views obtain amongst mankind at all times,\nand are always being repeated and brought forward anew, whilst the\ngreat minds of all ages are in open or secret opposition to them.\n\nA genius is a man in whose mind the world is presented as an object\nis presented in a mirror, but with a degree more of clearness and a\ngreater distinction of outline than is attained by ordinary people.\nIt is from him that humanity may look for most instruction; for the\ndeepest insight into the most important matters is to be acquired, not\nby an observant attention to detail, but by a close study of things as\na whole. And if his mind reaches maturity, the instruction he gives\nwill be conveyed now in one form, now in another. Thus genius may be\ndefined as an eminently clear consciousness of things in general, and\ntherefore, also of that which is opposed to them, namely, one's own\nself.\n\nThe world looks up to a man thus endowed, and expects to learn\nsomething about life and its real nature. But several highly favorable\ncircumstances must combine to produce genius, and this is a very rare\nevent. It happens only now and then, let us say once in a century,\nthat a man is born whose intellect so perceptibly surpasses the\nnormal measure as to amount to that second faculty which seems to be\naccidental, as it is out of all relation to the will. He may remain\na long time without being recognized or appreciated, stupidity\npreventing the one and envy the other. But should this once come to\npass, mankind will crowd round him and his works, in the hope that he\nmay be able to enlighten some of the darkness of their existence or\ninform them about it. His message is, to some extent, a revelation,\nand he himself a higher being, even though he may be but little above\nthe ordinary standard.\n\nLike the ordinary man, the genius is what he is chiefly for himself.\nThis is essential to his nature: a fact which can neither be avoided\nnor altered, he may be for others remains a matter of chance and of\nsecondary importance. In no case can people receive from his mind\nmore than a reflection, and then only when he joins with them in the\nattempt to get his thought into their heads; where, however, it is\nnever anything but an exotic plant, stunted and frail.\n\nIn order to have original, uncommon, and perhaps even immortal\nthoughts, it is enough to estrange oneself so fully from the world of\nthings for a few moments, that the most ordinary objects and events\nappear quite new and unfamiliar. In this way their true nature is\ndisclosed. What is here demanded cannot, perhaps, be said to be\ndifficult; it is not in our power at all, but is just the province of\ngenius.\n\nBy itself, genius can produce original thoughts just as little as a\nwoman by herself can bear children. Outward circumstances must come to\nfructify genius, and be, as it were, a father to its progeny.\n\nThe mind of genius is among other minds what the carbuncle is among\nprecious stones: it sends forth light of its own, while the others\nreflect only that which they have received. The relation of the\ngenius to the ordinary mind may also be described as that of\nan idio-electrical body to one which merely is a conductor of\nelectricity.\n\nThe mere man of learning, who spends his life in teaching what he\nhas learned, is not strictly to be called a man of genius; just as\nidio-electrical bodies are not conductors. Nay, genius stands to mere\nlearning as the words to the music in a song. A man of learning is a\nman who has learned a great deal; a man of genius, one from whom we\nlearn something which the genius has learned from nobody. Great minds,\nof which there is scarcely one in a hundred millions, are thus the\nlighthouses of humanity; and without them mankind would lose itself in\nthe boundless sea of monstrous error and bewilderment.\n\nAnd so the simple man of learning, in the strict sense of the\nword--the ordinary professor, for instance--looks upon the genius much\nas we look upon a hare, which is good to eat after it has been killed\nand dressed up. So long as it is alive, it is only good to shoot at.\n\nHe who wishes to experience gratitude from his contemporaries, must\nadjust his pace to theirs. But great things are never produced in\nthis way. And he who wants to do great things must direct his gaze\nto posterity, and in firm confidence elaborate his work for coming\ngenerations. No doubt, the result may be that he will remain quite\nunknown to his contemporaries, and comparable to a man who, compelled\nto spend his life upon a lonely island, with great effort sets up a\nmonument there, to transmit to future sea-farers the knowledge of his\nexistence. If he thinks it a hard fate, let him console himself with\nthe reflection that the ordinary man who lives for practical aims\nonly, often suffers a like fate, without having any compensation to\nhope for; inasmuch as he may, under favorable conditions, spend a life\nof material production, earning, buying, building, fertilizing,\nlaying out, founding, establishing, beautifying with daily effort\nand unflagging zeal, and all the time think that he is working for\nhimself; and yet in the end it is his descendants who reap the benefit\nof it all, and sometimes not even his descendants. It is the same with\nthe man of genius; he, too, hopes for his reward and for honor at\nleast; and at last finds that he has worked for posterity alone. Both,\nto be sure, have inherited a great deal from their ancestors.\n\nThe compensation I have mentioned as the privilege of genius lies, not\nin what it is to others, but in what it is to itself. What man has in\nany real sense lived more than he whose moments of thought make their\nechoes heard through the tumult of centuries? Perhaps, after all, it\nwould be the best thing for a genius to attain undisturbed possession\nof himself, by spending his life in enjoying the pleasure of his own\nthoughts, his own works, and by admitting the world only as the heir\nof his ample existence. Then the world would find the mark of his\nexistence only after his death, as it finds that of the Ichnolith.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note._--For an illustration of this feeling\nin poetry, Schopenhauer refers the reader to Byron's _Prophecy of\nDante_: introd. to C. 4.]\n\nIt is not only in the activity of his highest powers that the genius\nsurpasses ordinary people. A man who is unusually well-knit, supple\nand agile, will perform all his movements with exceptional ease, even\nwith comfort, because he takes a direct pleasure in an activity for\nwhich he is particularly well-equipped, and therefore often exercises\nit without any object. Further, if he is an acrobat or a dancer, not\nonly does he take leaps which other people cannot execute, but he also\nbetrays rare elasticity and agility in those easier steps which others\ncan also perform, and even in ordinary walking. In the same way a man\nof superior mind will not only produce thoughts and works which could\nnever have come from another; it will not be here alone that he will\nshow his greatness; but as knowledge and thought form a mode of\nactivity natural and easy to him, he will also delight himself in them\nat all times, and so apprehend small matters which are within the\nrange of other minds, more easily, quickly and correctly than they.\nThus he will take a direct and lively pleasure in every increase of\nKnowledge, every problem solved, every witty thought, whether of his\nown or another's; and so his mind will have no further aim than to be\nconstantly active. This will be an inexhaustible spring of delight;\nand boredom, that spectre which haunts the ordinary man, can never\ncome near him.\n\nThen, too, the masterpieces of past and contemporary men of genius\nexist in their fullness for him alone. If a great product of genius\nis recommended to the ordinary, simple mind, it will take as much\npleasure in it as the victim of gout receives in being invited to a\nball. The one goes for the sake of formality, and the other reads the\nbook so as not to be in arrear. For La Bruy\u00e8re was quite right when he\nsaid: _All the wit in the world is lost upon him who has none_. The\nwhole range of thought of a man of talent, or of a genius, compared\nwith the thoughts of the common man, is, even when directed to objects\nessentially the same, like a brilliant oil-painting, full of life,\ncompared with a mere outline or a weak sketch in water-color.\n\nAll this is part of the reward of genius, and compensates him for a\nlonely existence in a world with which he has nothing in common and\nno sympathies. But since size is relative, it comes to the same thing\nwhether I say, Caius was a great man, or Caius has to live amongst\nwretchedly small people: for Brobdingnack and Lilliput vary only\nin the point from which they start. However great, then, however\nadmirable or instructive, a long posterity may think the author\nof immortal works, during his lifetime he will appear to his\ncontemporaries small, wretched, and insipid in proportion. This is\nwhat I mean by saying that as there are three hundred degrees from the\nbase of a tower to the summit, so there are exactly three hundred\nfrom the summit to the base. Great minds thus owe little ones some\nindulgence; for it is only in virtue of these little minds that they\nthemselves are great.\n\nLet us, then, not be surprised if we find men of genius generally\nunsociable and repellent. It is not their want of sociability that is\nto blame. Their path through the world is like that of a man who goes\nfor a walk on a bright summer morning. He gazes with delight on the\nbeauty and freshness of nature, but he has to rely wholly on that for\nentertainment; for he can find no society but the peasants as they\nbend over the earth and cultivate the soil. It is often the case that\na great mind prefers soliloquy to the dialogue he may have in this\nworld. If he condescends to it now and then, the hollowness of it may\npossibly drive him back to his soliloquy; for in forgetfulness of his\ninterlocutor, or caring little whether he understands or not, he talks\nto him as a child talks to a doll.\n\nModesty in a great mind would, no doubt, be pleasing to the world;\nbut, unluckily, it is a _contradictio in adjecto_. It would compel a\ngenius to give the thoughts and opinions, nay, even the method and\nstyle, of the million preference over his own; to set a higher value\nupon them; and, wide apart as they are, to bring his views into\nharmony with theirs, or even suppress them altogether, so as to let\nthe others hold the field. In that case, however, he would either\nproduce nothing at all, or else his achievements would be just upon a\nlevel with theirs. Great, genuine and extraordinary work can be done\nonly in so far as its author disregards the method, the thoughts, the\nopinions of his contemporaries, and quietly works on, in spite of\ntheir criticism, on his side despising what they praise. No one\nbecomes great without arrogance of this sort. Should his life and work\nfall upon a time which cannot recognize and appreciate him, he is at\nany rate true to himself; like some noble traveler forced to pass the\nnight in a miserable inn; when morning comes, he contentedly goes his\nway.\n\nA poet or philosopher should have no fault to find with his age if it\nonly permits him to do his work undisturbed in his own corner; nor\nwith his fate if the corner granted him allows of his following his\nvocation without having to think about other people.\n\nFor the brain to be a mere laborer in the service of the belly, is\nindeed the common lot of almost all those who do not live on the work\nof their hands; and they are far from being discontented with\ntheir lot. But it strikes despair into a man of great mind, whose\nbrain-power goes beyond the measure necessary for the service of\nthe will; and he prefers, if need be, to live in the narrowest\ncircumstances, so long as they afford him the free use of his time for\nthe development and application of his faculties; in other words, if\nthey give him the leisure which is invaluable to him.\n\nIt is otherwise with ordinary people: for them leisure has no value in\nitself, nor is it, indeed, without its dangers, as these people\nseem to know. The technical work of our time, which is done to an\nunprecedented perfection, has, by increasing and multiplying objects\nof luxury, given the favorites of fortune a choice between more\nleisure and culture upon the one side, and additional luxury and good\nliving, but with increased activity, upon the other; and, true to\ntheir character, they choose the latter, and prefer champagne to\nfreedom. And they are consistent in their choice; for, to them, every\nexertion of the mind which does not serve the aims of the will is\nfolly. Intellectual effort for its own sake, they call eccentricity.\nTherefore, persistence in the aims of the will and the belly will be\nconcentricity; and, to be sure, the will is the centre, the kernel of\nthe world.\n\nBut in general it is very seldom that any such alternative is\npresented. For as with money, most men have no superfluity, but only\njust enough for their needs, so with intelligence; they possess just\nwhat will suffice for the service of the will, that is, for the\ncarrying on of their business. Having made their fortune, they are\ncontent to gape or to indulge in sensual pleasures or childish\namusements, cards or dice; or they will talk in the dullest way, or\ndress up and make obeisance to one another. And how few are those who\nhave even a little superfluity of intellectual power! Like the others\nthey too make themselves a pleasure; but it is a pleasure of the\nintellect. Either they will pursue some liberal study which brings\nthem in nothing, or they will practice some art; and in general, they\nwill be capable of taking an objective interest in things, so that\nit will be possible to converse with them. But with the others it is\nbetter not to enter into any relations at all; for, except when they\ntell the results of their own experience or give an account of their\nspecial vocation, or at any rate impart what they have learned from\nsome one else, their conversation will not be worth listening to; and\nif anything is said to them, they will rarely grasp or understand it\naright, and it will in most cases be opposed to their own opinions.\nBalthazar Gracian describes them very strikingly as men who are not\nmen--_hombres che non lo son_. And Giordano Bruno _says_ the same\nthing: _What a difference there is in having to do with men compared\nwith those who are only made in their image and likeness_![1] And how\nwonderfully this passage agrees with that remark in the Kurral: _The\ncommon people look like men but I have never seen anything quite like\nthem_. If the reader will consider the extent to which these ideas\nagree in thought and even in expression, and in the wide difference\nbetween them in point of date and nationality, he cannot doubt but\nthat they are at one with the facts of life. It was certainly not\nunder the influence of those passages that, about twenty years ago, I\ntried to get a snuff-box made, the lid of which should have two fine\nchestnuts represented upon it, if possible in mosaic; together with a\nleaf which was to show that they were horse-chestnuts. This symbol was\nmeant to keep the thought constantly before my mind. If anyone wishes\nfor entertainment, such as will prevent him feeling solitary even when\nhe is alone, let me recommend the company of dogs, whose moral and\nintellectual qualities may almost afford delight and gratification.\n\n[Footnote 1: Opera: ed. Wagner, 1. 224.]\n\nStill, we should always be careful to avoid being unjust. I am often\nsurprised by the cleverness, and now and again by the stupidity of my\ndog; and I have similar experiences with mankind. Countless times,\nin indignation at their incapacity, their total lack of discernment,\ntheir bestiality, I have been forced to echo the old complaint that\nfolly is the mother and the nurse of the human race:\n\n  _Humani generis mater nutrixque profecto\n  Stultitia est_.\n\nBut at other times I have been astounded that from such a race there\ncould have gone forth so many arts and sciences, abounding in so much\nuse and beauty, even though it has always been the few that produce\nthem. Yet these arts and sciences have struck root, established and\nperfected themselves: and the race has with persistent fidelity\npreserved Homer, Plato, Horace and others for thousands of years, by\ncopying and treasuring their writings, thus saving them from oblivion,\nin spite of all the evils and atrocities that have happened in the\nworld. Thus the race has proved that it appreciates the value of these\nthings, and at the same time it can form a correct view of special\nachievements or estimate signs of judgment and intelligence. When this\ntakes place amongst those who belong to the great multitude, it is by\na kind of inspiration. Sometimes a correct opinion will be formed by\nthe multitude itself; but this is only when the chorus of praise\nhas grown full and complete. It is then like the sound of untrained\nvoices; where there are enough of them, it is always harmonious.\n\nThose who emerge from the multitude, those who are called men of\ngenius, are merely the _lucida intervalla_ of the whole human race.\nThey achieve that which others could not possibly achieve. Their\noriginality is so great that not only is their divergence from others\nobvious, but their individuality is expressed with such force, that\nall the men of genius who have ever existed show, every one of them,\npeculiarities of character and mind; so that the gift of his works is\none which he alone of all men could ever have presented to the world.\nThis is what makes that simile of Ariosto's so true and so justly\ncelebrated: _Natura lo fece e poi ruppe lo stampo._ After Nature\nstamps a man of genius, she breaks the die.\n\nBut there is always a limit to human capacity; and no one can be a\ngreat genius without having some decidedly weak side, it may even be,\nsome intellectual narrowness. In other words, there will foe some\nfaculty in which he is now and then inferior to men of moderate\nendowments. It will be a faculty which, if strong, might have been an\nobstacle to the exercise of the qualities in which he excels. What\nthis weak point is, it will always be hard to define with any accuracy\neven in a given case. It may be better expressed indirectly; thus\nPlato's weak point is exactly that in which Aristotle is strong, and\n_vice versa_; and so, too, Kant is deficient just where Goethe is\ngreat.\n\nNow, mankind is fond of venerating something; but its veneration is\ngenerally directed to the wrong object, and it remains so directed\nuntil posterity comes to set it right. But the educated public is\nno sooner set right in this, than the honor which is due to genius\ndegenerates; just as the honor which the faithful pay to their saints\neasily passes into a frivolous worship of relics. Thousands of\nChristians adore the relics of a saint whose life and doctrine are\nunknown to them; and the religion of thousands of Buddhists lies more\nin veneration of the Holy Tooth or some such object, or the vessel\nthat contains it, or the Holy Bowl, or the fossil footstep, or the\nHoly Tree which Buddha planted, than in the thorough knowledge and\nfaithful practice of his high teaching. Petrarch's house in Arqua;\nTasso's supposed prison in Ferrara; Shakespeare's house in Stratford,\nwith his chair; Goethe's house in Weimar, with its furniture; Kant's\nold hat; the autographs of great men; these things are gaped at with\ninterest and awe by many who have never read their works. They cannot\ndo anything more than just gape.\n\nThe intelligent amongst them are moved by the wish to see the objects\nwhich the great man habitually had before his eyes; and by a strange\nillusion, these produce the mistaken notion that with the objects they\nare bringing back the man himself, or that something of him must\ncling to them. Akin to such people are those who earnestly strive to\nacquaint themselves with the subject-matter of a poet's works, or to\nunravel the personal circumstances and events in his life which have\nsuggested particular passages. This is as though the audience in a\ntheatre were to admire a fine scene and then rush upon the stage to\nlook at the scaffolding that supports it. There are in our day enough\ninstances of these critical investigators, and they prove the truth of\nthe saying that mankind is interested, not in the _form_ of a work,\nthat is, in its manner of treatment, but in its actual matter. All it\ncares for is the theme. To read a philosopher's biography, instead of\nstudying his thoughts, is like neglecting a picture and attending only\nto the style of its frame, debating whether it is carved well or ill,\nand how much it cost to gild it.\n\nThis is all very well. However, there is another class of\npersons whose interest is also directed to material and personal\nconsiderations, but they go much further and carry it to a point where\nit becomes absolutely futile. Because a great man has opened up to\nthem the treasures of his inmost being, and, by a supreme effort\nof his faculties, produced works which not only redound to their\nelevation and enlightenment, but will also benefit their posterity to\nthe tenth and twentieth generation; because he has presented mankind\nwith a matchless gift, these varlets think themselves justified in\nsitting in judgment upon his personal morality, and trying if they\ncannot discover here or there some spot in him which will soothe the\npain they feel at the sight of so great a mind, compared with the\noverwhelming feeling of their own nothingness.\n\nThis is the real source of all those prolix discussions, carried on in\ncountless books and reviews, on the moral aspect of Goethe's life, and\nwhether he ought not to have married one or other of the girls with\nwhom he fell in love in his young days; whether, again, instead of\nhonestly devoting himself to the service of his master, he should not\nhave been a man of the people, a German patriot, worthy of a seat in\nthe _Paulskirche_, and so on. Such crying ingratitude and malicious\ndetraction prove that these self-constituted judges are as great\nknaves morally as they are intellectually, which is saying a great\ndeal.\n\nA man of talent will strive for money and reputation; but the spring\nthat moves genius to the production of its works is not as easy to\nname. Wealth is seldom its reward. Nor is it reputation or glory; only\na Frenchman could mean that. Glory is such an uncertain thing, and,\nif you look at it closely, of so little value. Besides it never\ncorresponds to the effort you have made:\n\n  _Responsura tuo nunquam est par fama labori._\n\nNor, again, is it exactly the pleasure it gives you; for this is\nalmost outweighed by the greatness of the effort. It is rather a\npeculiar kind of instinct, which drives the man of genius to give\npermanent form to what he sees and feels, without being conscious of\nany further motive. It works, in the main, by a necessity similar to\nthat which makes a tree bear its fruit; and no external condition is\nneeded but the ground upon which it is to thrive.\n\nOn a closer examination, it seems as though, in the case of a genius,\nthe will to live, which is the spirit of the human species, were\nconscious of having, by some rare chance, and for a brief period,\nattained a greater clearness of vision, and were now trying to secure\nit, or at least the outcome of it, for the whole species, to which the\nindividual genius in his inmost being belongs; so that the light which\nhe sheds about him may pierce the darkness and dullness of ordinary\nhuman consciousness and there produce some good effect.\n\nArising in some such way, this instinct drives the genius to carry\nhis work to completion, without thinking of reward or applause or\nsympathy; to leave all care for his own personal welfare; to make his\nlife one of industrious solitude, and to strain his faculties to\nthe utmost. He thus comes to think more about posterity than about\ncontemporaries; because, while the latter can only lead him astray,\nposterity forms the majority of the species, and time will gradually\nbring the discerning few who can appreciate him. Meanwhile it is with\nhim as with the artist described by Goethe; he has no princely patron\nto prize his talents, no friend to rejoice with him:\n\n  _Ein F\u00fcrst der die Talente sch\u00e4tzt,\n  Ein Freund, der sich mit mir erg\u00f6tzt,\n  Die haben leider mir gefehlt_.\n\nHis work is, as it were, a sacred object and the true fruit of his\nlife, and his aim in storing it away for a more discerning posterity\nwill be to make it the property of mankind. An aim like this far\nsurpasses all others, and for it he wears the crown of thorns which\nis one day to bloom into a wreath of laurel. All his powers are\nconcentrated in the effort to complete and secure his work; just as\nthe insect, in the last stage of its development, uses its whole\nstrength on behalf of a brood it will never live to see; it puts its\neggs in some place of safety, where, as it well knows, the young will\none day find life and nourishment, and then dies in confidence.","title":"The Essays of Arthur Schopenhauer; The Art of Literature","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":37465}