{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_10715/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_10715","id":"gutenberg_10715","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10715","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Conduct of life","Maxims"],"text":"THE ESSAYS\n\nOF\n\nARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER\n\n\nTRANSLATED BY\n\nT. BAILEY SAUNDERS, M.A.\n\n\n\n\nCOUNSELS AND MAXIMS.\n\n  _Le bonheur n'est pas chose ais\u00e9e: il est\n  tr\u00e8s difficile de le trouver en nous, et impossible\n  de le trouver ailleurs_.\n\nCHAMFORT.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nCHAPTER\n\n  INTRODUCTION\n  I.   GENERAL RULES\n  II.  OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES\n  III. OUR RELATION TO OTHERS\n  IV.  WORLDLY FORTUNE\n  V.   THE AGES OF LIFE\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\nIf my object in these pages were to present a complete scheme of\ncounsels and maxims for the guidance of life, I should have to repeat\nthe numerous rules--some of them excellent--which have been drawn\nup by thinkers of all ages, from Theognis and Solomon[1] down to La\nRochefoucauld; and, in so doing, I should inevitably entail upon the\nreader a vast amount of well-worn commonplace. But the fact is that in\nthis work I make still less claim to exhaust my subject than in any\nother of my writings.\n\n[Footnote 1: I refer to the proverbs and maxims ascribed, in the Old\nTestament, to the king of that name.]\n\nAn author who makes no claims to completeness must also, in a great\nmeasure, abandon any attempt at systematic arrangement. For his double\nloss in this respect, the reader may console himself by reflecting\nthat a complete and systematic treatment of such a subject as the\nguidance of life could hardly fail to be a very wearisome business.\nI have simply put down those of my thoughts which appear to be worth\ncommunicating--thoughts which, as far as I know, have not been\nuttered, or, at any rate, not just in the same form, by any one else;\nso that my remarks may be taken as a supplement to what has been\nalready achieved in the immense field.\n\nHowever, by way of introducing some sort of order into the great\nvariety of matters upon which advice will be given in the following\npages, I shall distribute what I have to say under the following\nheads: (1) general rules; (2) our relation to ourselves; (3) our\nrelation to others; and finally, (4) rules which concern our manner of\nlife and our worldly circumstances. I shall conclude with some remarks\non the changes which the various periods of life produce in us.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nGENERAL RULES.--SECTION 1.\n\n\nThe first and foremost rule for the wise conduct of life seems to me\nto be contained in a view to which Aristotle parenthetically refers in\nthe _Nichomachean Ethics_:[1] [Greek: o phronimoz to alupon dioke e ou\nto aedu] or, as it may be rendered, _not pleasure, but freedom from\npain, is what the wise man will aim at_.\n\n[Footnote 1: vii. (12) 12.]\n\nThe truth of this remark turns upon the negative character of\nhappiness,--the fact that pleasure is only the negation of pain, and\nthat pain is the positive element in life. Though I have given a\ndetailed proof of this proposition in my chief work,[1] I may supply\none more illustration of it here, drawn from a circumstance of daily\noccurrence. Suppose that, with the exception of some sore or painful\nspot, we are physically in a sound and healthy condition: the sore of\nthis one spot, will completely absorb our attention, causing us to\nlose the sense of general well-being, and destroying all our comfort\nin life. In the same way, when all our affairs but one turn out as\nwe wish, the single instance in which our aims are frustrated is a\nconstant trouble to us, even though it be something quite trivial. We\nthink a great deal about it, and very little about those other and\nmore important matters in which we have been successful. In both these\ncases what has met with resistance is _the will_; in the one case, as\nit is objectified in the organism, in the other, as it presents\nitself in the struggle of life; and in both, it is plain that the\nsatisfaction of the will consists in nothing else than that it meets\nwith no resistance. It is, therefore, a satisfaction which is not\ndirectly felt; at most, we can become conscious of it only when we\nreflect upon our condition. But that which checks or arrests the will\nis something positive; it proclaims its own presence. All pleasure\nconsists in merely removing this check--in other words, in freeing us\nfrom its action; and hence pleasure is a state which can never last\nvery long.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Welt als Wille und Vorstellung_. Vol. I., p. 58.]\n\nThis is the true basis of the above excellent rule quoted from\nAristotle, which bids us direct our aim, not toward securing what is\npleasurable and agreeable in life, but toward avoiding, as far as\npossible, its innumerable evils. If this were not the right course to\ntake, that saying of Voltaire's, _Happiness is but a dream and sorrow\nis real_, would be as false as it is, in fact, true. A man who desires\nto make up the book of his life and determine where the balance of\nhappiness lies, must put down in his accounts, not the pleasures which\nhe has enjoyed, but the evils which he has escaped. That is the\ntrue method of eudaemonology; for all eudaemonology must begin by\nrecognizing that its very name is a euphemism, and that _to live\nhappily_ only means _to live less unhappily_--to live a tolerable\nlife. There is no doubt that life is given us, not to be enjoyed,\nbut to be overcome--to be got over. There are numerous expressions\nillustrating this--such as _degere vitam, vita defungi_; or\nin Italian, _si scampa cosi_; or in German, _man muss suchen\ndurchzukommen; er wird schon durch die Welt kommen_, and so on. In old\nage it is indeed a consolation to think that the work of life is over\nand done with. The happiest lot is not to have experienced the keenest\ndelights or the greatest pleasures, but to have brought life to a\nclose without any very great pain, bodily or mental. To measure the\nhappiness of a life by its delights or pleasures, is to apply a false\nstandard. For pleasures are and remain something negative; that\nthey produce happiness is a delusion, cherished by envy to its own\npunishment. Pain is felt to be something positive, and hence its\nabsence is the true standard of happiness. And if, over and above\nfreedom from pain, there is also an absence of boredom, the essential\nconditions of earthly happiness are attained; for all else is\nchimerical.\n\nIt follows from this that a man should never try to purchase pleasure\nat the cost of pain, or even at the risk of incurring it; to do so is\nto pay what is positive and real, for what is negative and illusory;\nwhile there is a net profit in sacrificing pleasure for the sake of\navoiding pain. In either case it is a matter of indifference whether\nthe pain follows the pleasure or precedes it. While it is a complete\ninversion of the natural order to try and turn this scene of misery\ninto a garden of pleasure, to aim at joy and pleasure rather than\nat the greatest possible freedom from pain--and yet how many do\nit!--there is some wisdom in taking a gloomy view, in looking upon the\nworld as a kind of Hell, and in confining one's efforts to securing\na little room that shall not be exposed to the fire. The fool rushes\nafter the pleasures of life and finds himself their dupe; the wise man\navoids its evils; and even if, notwithstanding his precautions, he\nfalls into misfortunes, that is the fault of fate, not of his own\nfolly. As far as he is successful in his endeavors, he cannot be said\nto have lived a life of illusion; for the evils which he shuns are\nvery real. Even if he goes too far out of his way to avoid evils, and\nmakes an unnecessary sacrifice of pleasure, he is, in reality, not the\nworse off for that; for all pleasures are chimerical, and to mourn\nfor having lost any of them is a frivolous, and even ridiculous\nproceeding.\n\nThe failure to recognize this truth--a failure promoted by optimistic\nideas--is the source of much unhappiness. In moments free from pain,\nour restless wishes present, as it were in a mirror, the image of a\nhappiness that has no counterpart in reality, seducing us to follow\nit; in doing so we bring pain upon ourselves, and that is something\nundeniably real. Afterwards, we come to look with regret upon that\nlost state of painlessness; it is a paradise which we have gambled\naway; it is no longer with us, and we long in vain to undo what has\nbeen done.\n\nOne might well fancy that these visions of wishes fulfilled were the\nwork of some evil spirit, conjured up in order to entice us away from\nthat painless state which forms our highest happiness.\n\nA careless youth may think that the world is meant to be enjoyed, as\nthough it were the abode of some real or positive happiness, which\nonly those fail to attain who are not clever enough to overcome the\ndifficulties that lie in the way. This false notion takes a stronger\nhold on him when he comes to read poetry and romance, and to be\ndeceived by outward show--the hypocrisy that characterizes the\nworld from beginning to end; on which I shall have something to say\npresently. The result is that his life is the more or less deliberate\npursuit of positive happiness; and happiness he takes to be equivalent\nto a series of definite pleasures. In seeking for these pleasures he\nencounters danger--a fact which should not be forgotten. He hunts for\ngame that does not exist; and so he ends by suffering some very\nreal and positive misfortune--pain, distress, sickness, loss, care,\npoverty, shame, and all the thousand ills of life. Too late he\ndiscovers the trick that has been played upon him.\n\nBut if the rule I have mentioned is observed, and a plan of life is\nadopted which proceeds by avoiding pain--in other words, by taking\nmeasures of precaution against want, sickness, and distress in all its\nforms, the aim is a real one, and something may be achieved which will\nbe great in proportion as the plan is not disturbed by striving after\nthe chimera of positive happiness. This agrees with the opinion\nexpressed by Goethe in the _Elective Affinities_, and there put into\nthe mouth of Mittler--the man who is always trying to make other\npeople happy: _To desire to get rid of an evil is a definite object,\nbut to desire a better fortune than one has is blind folly_. The same\ntruth is contained in that fine French proverb: _le mieux est l'ennemi\ndu bien_--leave well alone. And, as I have remarked in my chief\nwork,[1] this is the leading thought underlying the philosophical\nsystem of the Cynics. For what was it led the Cynics to repudiate\npleasure in every form, if it was not the fact that pain is, in a\ngreater or less degree, always bound up with pleasure? To go out of\nthe way of pain seemed to them so much easier than to secure pleasure.\nDeeply impressed as they were by the negative nature of pleasure and\nthe positive nature of pain, they consistently devoted all their\nefforts to the avoidance of pain. The first step to that end was, in\ntheir opinion, a complete and deliberate repudiation of pleasure, as\nsomething which served only to entrap the victim in order that he\nmight be delivered over to pain.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Welt als Wille und Vorstellung_, vol. ii., ch. 16.]\n\nWe are all born, as Schiller says, in Arcadia. In other words, we\ncome into the world full of claims to happiness and pleasure, and we\ncherish the fond hope of making them good. But, as a rule, Fate soon\nteaches us, in a rough and ready way that we really possess nothing at\nall, but that everything in the world is at its command, in virtue of\nan unassailable right, not only to all we have or acquire, to wife or\nchild, but even to our very limbs, our arms, legs, _eyes_ and ears,\nnay, even to the nose in the middle of our face. And in any case,\nafter some little time, we learn by experience that happiness and\npleasure are a _fata morgana_, which, visible from afar, vanish as we\napproach; that, on the other hand, suffering and pain are a reality,\nwhich makes its presence felt without any intermediary, and for its\neffect, stands in no need of illusion or the play of false hope.\n\nIf the teaching of experience bears fruit in us, we soon give up the\npursuit of pleasure and happiness, and think much more about making\nourselves secure against the attacks of pain and suffering. We see\nthat the best the world has to offer is an existence free from pain--a\nquiet, tolerable life; and we confine our claims to this, as to\nsomething we can more surely hope to achieve. For the safest way of\nnot being very miserable is not to expect to be very happy. Merck, the\nfriend of Goethe's youth, was conscious of this truth when he\nwrote: _It is the wretched way people have of setting up a claim to\nhappiness_--_and, that to, in a measure corresponding with their\ndesires_--_that ruins everything in this world. A man will make\nprogress if he can get rid of this claim,[1] and desire nothing but\nwhat he sees before him_. Accordingly it is advisable to put very\nmoderate limits upon our expectations of pleasure, possessions, rank,\nhonor and so on; because it is just this striving and struggling to\nbe happy, to dazzle the world, to lead a life full of pleasure, which\nentail great misfortune. It is prudent and wise, I say, to reduce\none's claims, if only for the reason that it is extremely easy to be\nvery unhappy; while to be very happy is not indeed difficult, but\nquite impossible. With justice sings the poet of life's wisdom:\n\n  _Auream quisquis mediocritatem\n  Diligit, tutus caret obsoleti\n  Sordibus tecti, caret invidenda\n        Sobrius aula.\n  Savius ventis agitatur ingens\n  Pinus: et celsae graviori casu\n  Decidunt turres; feriuntque summos\n        Fulgura monies.[2]_\n\n--the golden mean is best--to live free from the squalor of a mean\nabode, and yet not be a mark for envy. It is the tall pine which is\ncruelly shaken by the wind, the highest summits that are struck in the\nstorm, and the lofty towers that fall so heavily.\n\n[Footnote 1: Letters to and from Merck.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Horace. Odes II. x.]\n\nHe who has taken to heart the teaching of my philosophy--who knows,\ntherefore, that our whole existence is something which had better\nnot have been, and that to disown and disclaim it is the highest\nwisdom--he will have no great expectations from anything or any\ncondition in life: he will spend passion upon nothing in the world,\nnor lament over-much if he fails in any of his undertakings. He\nwill feel the deep truth of what Plato[1] says: [Greek: oute ti ton\nanthropinon haxion on megalaes spondaes]--nothing in human affairs is\nworth any great anxiety; or, as the Persian poet has it,\n\n  _Though from thy grasp all worldly things should flee,\n    Grieve not for them, for they are nothing worth:\n  And though a world in thy possession be,\n    Joy not, for worthless are the things of earth.\n  Since to that better world 'tis given to thee\n    To pass, speed on, for this is nothing worth._[2]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Republic_, x. 604.]\n\n[Footnote 2: _Translator's Note_. From the Anv\u00e1r-i Suhail\u00ed--_The\nLights of Canopus_--being the Persian version of the _Table of\nBidpai_. Translated by E.B. Eastwick, ch. iii. Story vi., p. 289.]\n\nThe chief obstacle to our arriving at these salutary views is that\nhypocrisy of the world to which I have already alluded--an hypocrisy\nwhich should be early revealed to the young. Most of the glories of\nthe world are mere outward show, like the scenes on a stage: there\nis nothing real about them. Ships festooned and hung with pennants,\nfiring of cannon, illuminations, beating of drums and blowing of\ntrumpets, shouting and applauding--these are all the outward sign, the\npretence and suggestion,--as it were the hieroglyphic,--of _joy_: but\njust there, joy is, as a rule, not to be found; it is the only guest\nwho has declined to be present at the festival. Where this guest may\nreally be found, he comes generally without invitation; he is not\nformerly announced, but slips in quietly by himself _sans facon_;\noften making his appearance under the most unimportant and trivial\ncircumstances, and in the commonest company--anywhere, in short, but\nwhere the society is brilliant and distinguished. Joy is like the gold\nin the Australian mines--found only now and then, as it were, by the\ncaprice of chance, and according to no rule or law; oftenest in very\nlittle grains, and very seldom in heaps. All that outward show which I\nhave described, is only an attempt to make people believe that it\nis really joy which has come to the festival; and to produce this\nimpression upon the spectators is, in fact, the whole object of it.\n\nWith _mourning_ it is just the same. That long funeral procession,\nmoving up so slowly; how melancholy it looks! what an endless row of\ncarriages! But look into them--they are all empty; the coachmen of the\nwhole town are the sole escort the dead man has to his grave. Eloquent\npicture of the friendship and esteem of the world! This is the\nfalsehood, the hollowness, the hypocrisy of human affairs!\n\nTake another example--a roomful of guests in full dress, being\nreceived with great ceremony. You could almost believe that this is\na noble and distinguished company; but, as a matter of fact, it is\ncompulsion, pain and boredom who are the real guests. For where many\nare invited, it is a rabble--even if they all wear stars. Really good\nsociety is everywhere of necessity very small. In brilliant festivals\nand noisy entertainments, there is always, at bottom, a sense of\nemptiness prevalent. A false tone is there: such gatherings are in\nstrange contrast with the misery and barrenness of our existence. The\ncontrast brings the true condition into greater relief. Still, these\ngatherings are effective from the outside; and that is just their\npurpose. Chamfort[1] makes the excellent remark that _society_--_les\ncercles, les salons, ce qu'on appelle le monde_--is like a miserable\nplay, or a bad opera, without any interest in itself, but supported\nfor a time by mechanical aid, costumes and scenery.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. Nicholas \"Chamfort\" (1741-94), a\nFrench miscellaneous writer, whose brilliant conversation, power of\nsarcasm, and epigrammic force, coupled with an extraordinary career,\nrender him one of the most interesting and remarkable men of his\ntime. Schopenhauer undoubtedly owed much to this writer, to whom he\nconstantly refers.]\n\nAnd so, too, with academies and chairs of philosophy. You have a kind\nof sign-board hung out to show the apparent abode of _wisdom_: but\nwisdom is another guest who declines the invitation; she is to be\nfound elsewhere. The chiming of bells, ecclesiastical millinery,\nattitudes of devotion, insane antics--these are the pretence, the\nfalse show of _piety_. And so on. Everything in the world is like a\nhollow nut; there is little kernel anywhere, and when it does exist,\nit is still more rare to find it in the shell. You may look for it\nelsewhere, and find it, as a rule, only by chance.\n\nSECTION 2. To estimate a man's condition in regard to happiness, it is\nnecessary to ask, not what things please him, but what things trouble\nhim; and the more trivial these things are in themselves, the happier\nthe man will be. To be irritated by trifles, a man must be well off;\nfor in misfortunes trifles are unfelt.\n\nSECTION 3. Care should be taken not to build the happiness of life\nupon a _broad foundation_--not to require a great many things in order\nto be happy. For happiness on such a foundation is the most easily\nundermined; it offers many more opportunities for accidents; and\naccidents are always happening. The architecture of happiness follows\na plan in this respect just the opposite of that adopted in every\nother case, where the broadest foundation offers the greatest\nsecurity. Accordingly, to reduce your claims to the lowest possible\ndegree, in comparison with your means,--of whatever kind these may\nbe--is the surest way of avoiding extreme misfortune.\n\nTo make extensive preparations for life--no matter what form they\nmay take--is one of the greatest and commonest of follies. Such\npreparations presuppose, in the first place, a long life, the full and\ncomplete term of years appointed to man--and how few reach it! and\neven if it be reached, it is still too short for all the plans that\nhave been made; for to carry them out requites more time than was\nthought necessary at the beginning. And then how many mischances and\nobstacles stand in the way! how seldom the goal is ever reached in\nhuman affairs!\n\nAnd lastly, even though the goal should be reached, the changes which\nTime works in us have been left out of the reckoning: we forget that\nthe capacity whether for achievement or for enjoyment does not last a\nwhole lifetime. So we often toil for things which are no longer suited\nto us when we attain them; and again, the years we spend in preparing\nfor some work, unconsciously rob us of the power for carrying it out.\n\nHow often it happens that a man is unable to enjoy the wealth which he\nacquired at so much trouble and risk, and that the fruits of his\nlabor are reserved for others; or that he is incapable of filling the\nposition which he has won after so many years of toil and struggle.\nFortune has come too late for him; or, contrarily, he has come too\nlate for fortune,--when, for instance, he wants to achieve great\nthings, say, in art or literature: the popular taste has changed, it\nmay be; a new generation has grown up, which takes no interest in his\nwork; others have gone a shorter way and got the start of him. These\nare the facts of life which Horace must have had in view, when he\nlamented the uselessness of all advice:--\n\n            _quid eternis minorem\n  Consiliis animum fatigas?_[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: Odes II. xi.]\n\nThe cause of this commonest of all follies is that optical illusion of\nthe mind from which everyone suffers, making life, at its beginning,\nseem of long duration; and at its end, when one looks back over the\ncourse of it, how short a time it seems! There is some advantage in\nthe illusion; but for it, no great work would ever be done.\n\nOur life is like a journey on which, as we advance, the landscape\ntakes a different view from that which it presented at first,\nand changes again, as we come nearer. This is just what\nhappens--especially with our wishes. We often find something else,\nnay, something better than what we are looking for; and what we look\nfor, we often find on a very different path from that on which we\nbegan a vain search. Instead of finding, as we expected, pleasure,\nhappiness, joy, we get experience, insight, knowledge--a real and\npermanent blessing, instead of a fleeting and illusory one.\n\nThis is the thought that runs through _Wilkelm Meister_, like the bass\nin a piece of music. In this work of Goethe's, we have a novel of the\n_intellectual_ kind, and, therefore, superior to all others, even to\nSir Walter Scott's, which are, one and all, _ethical_; in other words,\nthey treat of human nature only from the side of the will. So, too,\nin the _Zauberfl\u00f6te_--that grotesque, but still significant, and even\nhieroglyphic--the same thought is symbolized, but in great, coarse\nlines, much in the way in which scenery is painted. Here the symbol\nwould be complete if Tamino were in the end to be cured of his desire\nto possess Tainina, and received, in her stead, initiation into the\nmysteries of the Temple of Wisdom. It is quite right for Papageno, his\nnecessary contrast, to succeed in getting his Papagena.\n\nMen of any worth or value soon come to see that they are in the hands\nof Fate, and gratefully submit to be moulded by its teachings. They\nrecognize that the fruit of life is experience, and not happiness;\nthey become accustomed and content to exchange hope for insight; and,\nin the end, they can say, with Petrarch, that all they care for is to\nlearn:--\n\n  _Altro diletto che 'mparar, non provo_.\n\nIt may even be that they to some extent still follow their old wishes\nand aims, trifling with them, as it were, for the sake of appearances;\nall the while really and seriously looking for nothing but\ninstruction; a process which lends them an air of genius, a trait of\nsomething contemplative and sublime.\n\nIn their search for gold, the alchemists discovered other\nthings--gunpowder, china, medicines, the laws of nature. There is a\nsense in which we are all alchemists.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nOUR RELATION TO OURSELVES.--SECTION 4.\n\n\nThe mason employed on the building of a house may be quite ignorant of\nits general design; or at any rate, he may not keep it constantly in\nmind. So it is with man: in working through the days and hours of his\nlife, he takes little thought of its character as a whole.\n\nIf there is any merit or importance attaching to a man's career, if he\nlays himself out carefully for some special work, it is all the more\nnecessary and advisable for him to turn his attention now and then\nto its _plan_, that is to say, the miniature sketch of its general\noutlines. Of course, to do that, he must have applied the maxim\n[Greek: Gnothi seauton]; he must have made some little progress in the\nart of understanding himself. He must know what is his real, chief,\nand foremost object in life,--what it is that he most wants in order\nto be happy; and then, after that, what occupies the second and third\nplace in his thoughts; he must find out what, on the whole, his\nvocation really is--the part he has to play, his general relation to\nthe world. If he maps out important work for himself on great lines,\na glance at this miniature plan of his life will, more than anything\nelse stimulate, rouse and ennoble him, urge him on to action and keep\nhim from false paths.\n\nAgain, just as the traveler, on reaching a height, gets a connected\nview over the road he has taken, with its many turns and windings; so\nit is only when we have completed a period in our life, or approach\nthe end of it altogether, that we recognize the true connection\nbetween all our actions,--what it is we have achieved, what work we\nhave done. It is only then that we see the precise chain of cause and\neffect, and the exact value of all our efforts. For as long as we are\nactually engaged in the work of life, we always act in accordance with\nthe nature of our character, under the influence of motive, and within\nthe limits of our capacity,--in a word, from beginning to end, under\na law of _necessity_; at every moment we do just what appears to us\nright and proper. It is only afterwards, when we come to look back at\nthe whole course of our life and its general result, that we see the\nwhy and wherefore of it all.\n\nWhen we are actually doing some great deed, or creating some immortal\nwork, we are not conscious of it as such; we think only of satisfying\npresent aims, of fulfilling the intentions we happen to have at the\ntime, of doing the right thing at the moment. It is only when we\ncome to view our life as a connected whole that our character and\ncapacities show themselves in their true light; that we see how, in\nparticular instances, some happy inspiration, as it were, led us to\nchoose the only true path out of a thousand which might have brought\nus to ruin. It was our genius that guided us, a force felt in the\naffairs of the intellectual as in those of the world; and working by\nits defect just in the same way in regard to evil and disaster.\n\nSECTION 5. Another important element in the wise conduct of life is to\npreserve a proper proportion between our thought for the present and\nour thought for the future; in order not to spoil the one by paying\nover-great attention to the other. Many live too long in the\npresent--frivolous people, I mean; others, too much in the future,\never anxious and full of care. It is seldom that a man holds the right\nbalance between the two extremes. Those who strive and hope and live\nonly in the future, always looking ahead and impatiently anticipating\nwhat is coming, as something which will make them happy when they\nget it, are, in spite of their very clever airs, exactly like those\ndonkeys one sees in Italy, whose pace may be hurried by fixing a stick\non their heads with a wisp of hay at the end of it; this is always\njust in front of them, and they keep on trying to get it. Such people\nare in a constant state of illusion as to their whole existence; they\ngo on living _ad interim_, until at last they die.\n\nInstead, therefore, of always thinking about our plans and anxiously\nlooking to the future, or of giving ourselves up to regret for the\npast, we should never forget that the present is the only reality, the\nonly certainty; that the future almost always turns out contrary to\nour expectations; that the past, too, was very different from what\nwe suppose it to have been. But the past and the future are, on the\nwhole, of less consequence than we think. Distance, which makes\nobjects look small to the outward eye, makes them look big to the eye\nof thought. The present alone is true and actual; it is the only\ntime which possesses full reality, and our existence lies in it\nexclusively. Therefore we should always be glad of it, and give it\nthe welcome it deserves, and enjoy every hour that is bearable by\nits freedom from pain and annoyance with a full consciousness of its\nvalue. We shall hardly be able to do this if we make a wry face over\nthe failure of our hopes in the past or over our anxiety for the\nfuture. It is the height of folly to refuse the present hour of\nhappiness, or wantonly to spoil it by vexation at by-gones or\nuneasiness about what is to come. There is a time, of course, for\nforethought, nay, even for repentance; but when it is over let us\nthink of what is past as of something to which we have said farewell,\nof necessity subduing our hearts--\n\n  [Greek: alla ta men protuchthai easomen achnumenoi per\n  tumhon eni staethessi philon damasntes hanankae],[1]\n\nand of the future as of that which lies beyond our power, in the lap\nof the gods--\n\n[Greek: all aetoi men tauta theon en gounasi keitai.][2]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Iliad_, xix, 65.]\n\n[Footnote 2: _Ibid_, xvii, 514]\n\nBut in regard to the present let us remember Seneca's advice, and live\neach day as if it were our whole life,--_singulas dies singulas vitas\nputa_: let us make it as agreeable as possible, it is the only real\ntime we have.\n\nOnly those evils which are sure to come at a definite date have\nany right to disturb us; and how few there are which fulfill this\ndescription. For evils are of two kinds; either they are possible\nonly, at most probable; or they are inevitable. Even in the case of\nevils which are sure to happen, the time at which they will happen is\nuncertain. A man who is always preparing for either class of evil will\nnot have a moment of peace left him. So, if we are not to lose all\ncomfort in life through the fear of evils, some of which are uncertain\nin themselves, and others, in the time at which they will occur, we\nshould look upon the one kind as never likely to happen, and the other\nas not likely to happen very soon.\n\nNow, the less our peace of mind is disturbed by fear, the more likely\nit is to be agitated by desire and expectation. This is the true\nmeaning of that song of Goethe's which is such a favorite with\neveryone: _Ich hab' mein' Sach' auf nichts gestellt_. It is only\nafter a man has got rid of all pretension, and taken refuge in mere\nunembellished existence, that he is able to attain that peace of mind\nwhich is the foundation of human happiness. Peace of mind! that is\nsomething essential to any enjoyment of the present moment; and unless\nits separate moments are enjoyed, there is an end of life's happiness\nas a whole. We should always collect that _To-day_ comes only once,\nand never returns. We fancy that it will come again to-morrow; but\n_To-morrow_ is another day, which, in its turn, comes once only.\nWe are apt to forget that every day is an integral, and therefore\nirreplaceable portion of life, and to look upon life as though it\nwere a collective idea or name which does not suffer if one of the\nindividuals it covers is destroyed.\n\nWe should be more likely to appreciate and enjoy the present, if,\nin those good days when we are well and strong, we did not fail to\nreflect how, in sickness and sorrow, every past hour that was free\nfrom pain and privation seemed in our memory so infinitely to be\nenvied--as it were, a lost paradise, or some one who was only then\nseen to have acted as a friend. But we live through our days of\nhappiness without noticing them; it is only when evil comes upon us\nthat we wish them back. A thousand gay and pleasant hours are wasted\nin ill-humor; we let them slip by unenjoyed, and sigh for them in vain\nwhen the sky is overcast. Those present moments that are bearable, be\nthey never so trite and common,--passed by in indifference, or, it may\nbe, impatiently pushed away,--those are the moments we should honor;\nnever failing to remember that the ebbing tide is even how hurrying\nthem into the past, where memory will store them transfigured and\nshining with an imperishable light,--in some after-time, and above\nall, when our days are evil, to raise the veil and present them as the\nobject of our fondest regret.\n\nSECTION 6. _Limitations always make for happiness_. We are happy in\nproportion as our range of vision, our sphere of work, our points of\ncontact with the world, are restricted and circumscribed. We are more\nlikely to feel worried and anxious if these limits are wide; for\nit means that our cares, desires and terrors are increased and\nintensified. That is why the blind are not so unhappy as we might be\ninclined to suppose; otherwise there would not be that gentle and\nalmost serene expression of peace in their faces.\n\nAnother reason why limitation makes for happiness is that the second\nhalf of life proves even more dreary that the first. As the years wear\non, the horizon of our aims and our points of contact with the world\nbecome more extended. In childhood our horizon is limited to\nthe narrowest sphere about us; in youth there is already a very\nconsiderable widening of our view; in manhood it comprises the whole\nrange of our activity, often stretching out over a very distant\nsphere,--the care, for instance, of a State or a nation; in old age it\nembraces posterity.\n\nBut even in the affairs of the intellect, limitation is necessary if\nwe are to be happy. For the less the will is excited, the less we\nsuffer. We have seen that suffering is something positive, and that\nhappiness is only a negative condition. To limit the sphere of outward\nactivity is to relieve the will of external stimulus: to limit the\nsphere of our intellectual efforts is to relieve the will of internal\nsources of excitement. This latter kind of limitation is attended by\nthe disadvantage that it opens the door to boredom, which is a direct\nsource of countless sufferings; for to banish boredom, a man will\nhave recourse to any means that may be handy--dissipation, society,\nextravagance, gaming, and drinking, and the like, which in their turn\nbring mischief, ruin and misery in their train. _Difficiles in otio\nquies_--it is difficult to keep quiet if you have nothing to do. That\nlimitation in the sphere of outward activity is conducive, nay, even\nnecessary to human happiness, such as it is, may be seen in the fact\nthat the only kind of poetry which depicts men in a happy state of\nlife--Idyllic poetry, I mean,--always aims, as an intrinsic part of\nits treatment, at representing them in very simple and restricted\ncircumstances. It is this feeling, too, which is at the bottom of the\npleasure we take in what are called _genre_ pictures.\n\n_Simplicity_, therefore, as far as it can be attained, and even\n_monotony_, in our manner of life, if it does not mean that we\nare bored, will contribute to happiness; just because, under such\ncircumstances, life, and consequently the burden which is the\nessential concomitant of life, will be least felt. Our existence\nwill glide on peacefully like a stream which no waves or whirlpools\ndisturb.\n\nSECTION 7. Whether we are in a pleasant or a painful state depends,\nultimately, upon the kind of matter that pervades and engrosses our\nconsciousness. In this respect, purely intellectual occupation, for\nthe mind that is capable of it, will, as a rule, do much more in the\nway of happiness than any form of practical life, with its constant\nalternations of success and failure, and all the shocks and torments\nit produces. But it must be confessed that for such occupation a\npre-eminent amount of intellectual capacity is necessary. And in this\nconnection it may be noted that, just as a life devoted to outward\nactivity will distract and divert a man from study, and also deprive\nhim of that quiet concentration of mind which is necessary for such\nwork; so, on the other hand, a long course of thought will make\nhim more or less unfit for the noisy pursuits of real life. It\nis advisable, therefore, to suspend mental work for a while, if\ncircumstances happen which demand any degree of energy in affairs of a\npractical nature.\n\nSECTION 8. To live a life that shall be entirely prudent and discreet,\nand to draw from experience all the instruction it contains, it\nis requisite to be constantly thinking back,--to make a kind\nof recapitulation of what we have done, of our impressions and\nsensations, to compare our former with our present judgments--what\nwe set before us and struggle to achieve, with the actual result and\nsatisfaction we have obtained. To do this is to get a repetition of\nthe private lessons of experience,--lessons which are given to every\none.\n\nExperience of the world may be looked upon as a kind of text, to which\nreflection and knowledge form the commentary. Where there is great\ndeal of reflection and intellectual knowledge, and very little\nexperience, the result is like those books which have on each page two\nlines of text to forty lines of commentary. A great deal of experience\nwith little reflection and scant knowledge, gives us books like those\nof the _editio Bipontina_[1] where there are no notes and much that is\nunintelligible.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. A series of Greek, Latin and French\nclassics published at Zweibr\u00e4cken in the Palatinate, from and after\nthe year 1779. Cf. Butter, _Ueber die Bipontiner und die editiones\nBipontinae_.]\n\nThe advice here given is on a par with a rule recommended by\nPythagoras,--to review, every night before going to sleep, what we\nhave done during the day. To live at random, in the hurly-burly of\nbusiness or pleasure, without ever reflecting upon the past,--to go\non, as it were, pulling cotton off the reel of life,--is to have no\nclear idea of what we are about; and a man who lives in this state\nwill have chaos in his emotions and certain confusion in his thoughts;\nas is soon manifest by the abrupt and fragmentary character of his\nconversation, which becomes a kind of mincemeat. A man will be all the\nmore exposed to this fate in proportion as he lives a restless life\nin the world, amid a crowd of various impressions and with a\ncorrespondingly small amount of activity on the part of his own mind.\n\nAnd in this connection it will be in place to observe that, when\nevents and circumstances which have influenced us pass away in the\ncourse of time, we are unable to bring back and renew the particular\nmood or state of feeling which they aroused in us: but we can remember\nwhat we were led to say and do in regard to them; and thus form, as it\nwere, the result, expression and measure of those events. We should,\ntherefore, be careful to preserve the memory of our thoughts at\nimportant points in our life; and herein lies the great advantage of\nkeeping a journal.\n\nSECTION 9. To be self-sufficient, to be all in all to oneself, to\nwant for nothing, to be able to say _omnia mea mecum porto_--that is\nassuredly the chief qualification for happiness. Hence Aristotle's\nremark, [Greek: hae eudaimonia ton autarchon esti][1]--to be happy\nmeans to be self-sufficient--cannot be too often repeated. It is,\nat bottom, the same thought as is present in the very well-turned\nsentence from Chamfort:\n\n_Le bonheur n'est pas chose ais\u00e9e: il est tr\u00e8s difficile de le trouver\nen nous, et impossible de le trouver ailleurs_.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Eudem. Eth_. VII. ii. 37.]\n\nFor while a man cannot reckon with certainty upon anyone but himself,\nthe burdens and disadvantages, the dangers and annoyances, which arise\nfrom having to do with others, are not only countless but unavoidable.\n\nThere is no more mistaken path to happiness than worldliness, revelry,\n_high life_: for the whole object of it is to transform our miserable\nexistence into a succession of joys, delights and pleasures,--a\nprocess which cannot fail to result in disappointment and delusion;\non a par, in this respect, with its _obligato_ accompaniment, the\ninterchange of lies.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: As our body is concealed by the clothes we wear, so our\nmind is veiled in lies. The veil is always there, and it is only\nthrough it that we can sometimes guess at what a man really thinks;\njust as from his clothes we arrive at the general shape of his body.]\n\nAll society necessarily involves, as the first condition of its\nexistence, mutual accommodation and restraint upon the part of its\nmembers. This means that the larger it is, the more insipid will be\nits tone. A man can be _himself_ only so long as he is alone; and if\nhe does not love solitude, he will not love freedom; for it is only\nwhen he is alone that he is really free. Constraint is always present\nin society, like a companion of whom there is no riddance; and in\nproportion to the greatness of a man's individuality, it will be hard\nfor him to bear the sacrifices which all intercourse with others\ndemands, Solitude will be welcomed or endured or avoided, according as\na man's personal value is large or small,--the wretch feeling, when\nhe is alone, the whole burden of his misery; the great intellect\ndelighting in its greatness; and everyone, in short, being just what\nhe is.\n\nFurther, if a man stands high in Nature's lists, it is natural and\ninevitable that he should feel solitary. It will be an advantage to\nhim if his surroundings do not interfere with this feeling; for if he\nhas to see a great deal of other people who are not of like character\nwith himself, they will exercise a disturbing influence upon him,\nadverse to his peace of mind; they will rob him, in fact, of himself,\nand give him nothing to compensate for the loss.\n\nBut while Nature sets very wide differences between man and man in\nrespect both of morality and of intellect, society disregards and\neffaces them; or, rather, it sets up artificial differences in\ntheir stead,--gradations of rank and position, which are very often\ndiametrically opposed to those which Nature establishes. The result of\nthis arrangement is to elevate those whom Nature has placed low,\nand to depress the few who stand high. These latter, then, usually\nwithdraw from society, where, as soon as it is at all numerous,\nvulgarity reigns supreme.\n\nWhat offends a great intellect in society is the equality of rights,\nleading to equality of pretensions, which everyone enjoys; while at\nthe same time, inequality of capacity means a corresponding disparity\nof social power. So-called _good society_ recognizes every kind of\nclaim but that of intellect, which is a contraband article; and people\nare expected to exhibit an unlimited amount of patience towards every\nform of folly and stupidity, perversity and dullness; whilst personal\nmerit has to beg pardon, as it were, for being present, or else\nconceal itself altogether. Intellectual superiority offends by its\nvery existence, without any desire to do so.\n\nThe worst of what is called good society is not only that it offers us\nthe companionship of people who are unable to win either our praise or\nour affection, but that it does not allow of our being that which we\nnaturally are; it compels us, for the sake of harmony, to shrivel up,\nor even alter our shape altogether. Intellectual conversation, whether\ngrave or humorous, is only fit for intellectual society; it is\ndownright abhorrent to ordinary people, to please whom it is\nabsolutely necessary to be commonplace and dull. This demands an act\nof severe self-denial; we have to forfeit three-fourths of ourselves\nin order to become like other people. No doubt their company may be\nset down against our loss in this respect; but the more a man is\nworth, the more he will find that what he gains does not cover what he\nloses, and that the balance is on the debit side of the account; for\nthe people with whom he deals are generally bankrupt,--that is to say,\nthere is nothing to be got from their society which can compensate\neither for its boredom, annoyance and disagreeableness, or for the\nself-denial which it renders necessary. Accordingly, most society is\nso constituted as to offer a good profit to anyone who will exchange\nit for solitude.\n\nNor is this all. By way of providing a substitute for real--I mean\nintellectual--superiority, which is seldom to be met with, and\nintolerable when it is found, society has capriciously adopted a false\nkind of superiority, conventional in its character, and resting upon\narbitrary principles,--a tradition, as it were, handed down in the\nhigher circles, and, like a password, subject to alteration; I refer\nto _bon-ton_ fashion. Whenever this kind of superiority comes into\ncollision with the real kind, its weakness is manifest. Moreover, the\npresence of _good tone_ means the absence of _good sense_.\n\nNo man can be in _perfect accord_ with any one but himself--not even\nwith a friend or the partner of his life; differences of individuality\nand temperament are always bringing in some degree of discord, though\nit may be a very slight one. That genuine, profound peace of mind,\nthat perfect tranquillity of soul, which, next to health, is the\nhighest blessing the earth can give, is to be attained only in\nsolitude, and, as a permanent mood, only in complete retirement; and\nthen, if there is anything great and rich in the man's own self, his\nway of life is the happiest that may be found in this wretched world.\n\nLet me speak plainly. However close the bond of friendship, love,\nmarriage--a man, ultimately, looks to himself, to his own welfare\nalone; at most, to his child's too. The less necessity there is for\nyou to come into contact with mankind in general, in the relations\nwhether of business or of personal intimacy, the better off you are.\nLoneliness and solitude have their evils, it is true; but if you\ncannot feel them all at once, you can at least see where they lie; on\nthe other hand, society is _insidious_ in this respect; as in offering\nyou what appears to be the pastime of pleasing social intercourse, it\nworks great and often irreparable mischief. The young should early be\ntrained to bear being left alone; for it is a source of happiness and\npeace of mind.\n\nIt follows from this that a man is best off if he be thrown upon his\nown resources and can be all in all to himself; and Cicero goes so far\nas to say that a man who is in this condition cannot fail to be very\nhappy--_nemo potest non beatissimus esse qui est totus aptus ex sese,\nquique in se uno ponit omnia._[1] The more a man has in himself, the\nless others can be to him. The feeling of self-sufficiency! it is that\nwhich restrains those whose personal value is in itself great riches,\nfrom such considerable sacrifices as are demanded by intercourse with\nthe world, let alone, then, from actually practicing self-denial by\ngoing out of their way to seek it. Ordinary people are sociable and\ncomplaisant just from the very opposite feeling;--to bear others'\ncompany is easier for them than to bear their own. Moreover, respect\nis not paid in this world to that which has real merit; it is reserved\nfor that which has none. So retirement is at once a proof and a result\nof being distinguished by the possession of meritorious qualities. It\nwill therefore show real wisdom on the part of any one who is worth\nanything in himself, to limit his requirements as may be necessary, in\norder to preserve or extend his freedom, and,--since a man must come\ninto some relations with his fellow-men--to admit them to his intimacy\nas little as possible.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Paradoxa Stoidorum_: II.]\n\nI have said that people are rendered sociable by their ability to\nendure solitude, that is to say, their own society. They become\nsick of themselves. It is this vacuity of soul which drives them to\nintercourse with others,--to travels in foreign countries. Their mind\nis wanting in elasticity; it has no movement of its own, and so they\ntry to give it some,--by drink, for instance. How much drunkenness\nis due to this cause alone! They are always looking for some form of\nexcitement, of the strongest kind they can bear--the excitement of\nbeing with people of like nature with themselves; and if they fail\nin this, their mind sinks by its own weight, and they fall into a\ngrievous lethargy.[1] Such people, it may be said, possess only a\nsmall fraction of humanity in themselves; and it requires a great many\nof them put together to make up a fair amount of it,--to attain any\ndegree of consciousness as men. A man, in the full sense of the\nword,--a man _par excellence_--does not represent a fraction, but a\nwhole number: he is complete in himself.\n\n[Footnote 1: It is a well-known fact, that we can more easily bear up\nunder evils which fall upon a great many people besides ourselves.\nAs boredom seems to be an evil of this kind, people band together to\noffer it a common resistance. The love of life is at bottom only the\nfear of death; and, in the same way, the social impulse does not rest\ndirectly upon the love of society, but upon the fear of solitude; it\nis not alone the charm of being in others' company that people seek,\nit is the dreary oppression of being alone--the monotony of their own\nconsciousness--that they would avoid. They will do anything to escape\nit,--even tolerate bad companions, and put up with the feeling of\nconstraint which all society involves, in this case a very burdensome\none. But if aversion to such society conquers the aversion to being\nalone, they become accustomed to solitude and hardened to its\nimmediate effects. They no longer find solitude to be such a very bad\nthing, and settle down comfortably to it without any hankering after\nsociety;--and this, partly because it is only indirectly that they\nneed others' company, and partly because they have become accustomed\nto the benefits of being alone.]\n\nOrdinary society is, in this respect, very like the kind of music to\nbe obtained from an orchestra composed of Russian horns. Each horn has\nonly one note; and the music is produced by each note coming in just\nat the right moment. In the monotonous sound of a single horn, you\nhave a precise illustration of the effect of most people's minds. How\noften there seems to be only one thought there! and no room for any\nother. It is easy to see why people are so bored; and also why they\nare sociable, why they like to go about in crowds--why mankind is so\n_gregarious_. It is the monotony of his own nature that makes a man\nfind solitude intolerable. _Omnis stultitia laborat fastidio sui_:\nfolly is truly its own burden. Put a great many men together, and you\nmay get some result--some music from your horns!\n\nA man of intellect is like an artist who gives a concert without any\nhelp from anyone else, playing on a single instrument--a piano, say,\nwhich is a little orchestra in itself. Such a man is a little world in\nhimself; and the effect produced by various instruments together, he\nproduces single-handed, in the unity of his own consciousness. Like\nthe piano, he has no place in a symphony: he is a soloist and performs\nby himself,--in solitude, it may be; or, if in company with other\ninstruments, only as principal; or for setting the tone, as in\nsinging. However, those who are fond of society from time to time\nmay profit by this simile, and lay it down as a general rule that\ndeficiency of quality in those we meet may be to some extent\ncompensated by an increase in quantity. One man's company may be quite\nenough, if he is clever; but where you have only ordinary people to\ndeal with, it is advisable to have a great many of them, so that\nsome advantage may accrue by letting them all work together,--on the\nanalogy of the horns; and may Heaven grant you patience for your task!\n\nThat mental vacuity and barrenness of soul to which I have alluded, is\nresponsible for another misfortune. When men of the better class form\na society for promoting some noble or ideal aim, the result almost\nalways is that the innumerable mob of humanity comes crowding in too,\nas it always does everywhere, like vermin--their object being to try\nand get rid of boredom, or some other defect of their nature; and\nanything that will effect that, they seize upon at once, without the\nslightest discrimination. Some of them will slip into that society,\nor push themselves in, and then either soon destroy it altogether, or\nalter it so much that in the end it comes to have a purpose the exact\nopposite of that which it had at first.\n\nThis is not the only point of view from which the social impulse may\nbe regarded. On cold days people manage to get some warmth by crowding\ntogether; and you can warm your mind in the same way--by bringing\nit into contact with others. But a man who has a great deal of\nintellectual warmth in himself will stand in no need of such\nresources. I have written a little fable illustrating this: it may be\nfound elsewhere.[1] As a general rule, it may be said that a man's\nsociability stands very nearly in inverse ratio to his intellectual\nvalue: to say that \"so and so\" is very unsociable, is almost\ntantamount to saying that he is a man of great capacity.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. The passage to which Schopenhauer\nrefers is _Parerga_: vol. ii. \u00a7 413 (4th edition). The fable is of\ncertain porcupines, who huddled together for warmth on a cold day;\nbut as they began to prick one another with their quills, they were\nobliged to disperse. However the cold drove them together again, when\njust the same thing happened. At last, after many turns of huddling\nand dispersing, they discovered that they would be best off by\nremaining at a little distance from one another. In the same way,\nthe need of society drives the human porcupines together--only to be\nmutually repelled by the many prickly and disagreeable qualities of\ntheir nature. The moderate distance which they at last discover to be\nthe only tolerable condition of intercourse, is the code of politeness\nand fine manners; and those who transgress it are roughly told--in\nthe English phrase--_to keep their distance_. By this arrangement the\nmutual need of warmth is only very moderately satisfied,--but then\npeople do not get pricked. A man who has some heat in himself prefers\nto remain outside, where he will neither prick other people nor get\npricked himself.]\n\nSolitude is doubly advantageous to such a man. Firstly, it allows\nhim to be with himself, and, secondly, it prevents him being with\nothers--an advantage of great moment; for how much constraint,\nannoyance, and even danger there is in all intercourse with the world.\n_Tout notre mal_, says La Bruy\u00e8re, _vient de ne pouvoir \u00eatre seul_. It\nis really a very risky, nay, a fatal thing, to be sociable; because\nit means contact with natures, the great majority of which are bad\nmorally, and dull or perverse, intellectually. To be unsociable is not\nto care about such people; and to have enough in oneself to dispense\nwith the necessity of their company is a great piece of good fortune;\nbecause almost all our sufferings spring from having to do with other\npeople; and that destroys the peace of mind, which, as I have said,\ncomes next after health in the elements of happiness. Peace of mind\nis impossible without a considerable amount of solitude. The Cynics\nrenounced all private property in order to attain the bliss of having\nnothing to trouble them; and to renounce society with the same object\nis the wisest thing a man can do. Bernardin de Saint Pierre has the\nvery excellent and pertinent remark that to be sparing in regard\nto food is a means of health; in regard to society, a means of\ntranquillity--_la di\u00e8te des ailmens nous rend la sant\u00e9 du corps, et\ncelle des hommes la tranquillit\u00e9 de l'\u00e2me._ To be soon on friendly, or\neven affectionate, terms with solitude is like winning a gold mine;\nbut this is not something which everybody can do. The prime reason for\nsocial intercourse is mutual need; and as soon as that is satisfied,\nboredom drives people together once more. If it were not for these two\nreasons, a man would probably elect to remain alone; if only because\nsolitude is the sole condition of life which gives full play to\nthat feeling of exclusive importance which every man has in his own\neyes,--as if he were the only person in the world! a feeling which,\nin the throng and press of real life, soon shrivels up to nothing,\ngetting, at every step, a painful _d\u00e9menti_. From this point of view\nit may be said that solitude is the original and natural state of man,\nwhere, like another Adam, he is as happy as his nature will allow.\n\nBut still, had Adam no father or mother? There is another sense in\nwhich solitude is not the natural state; for, at his entrance into the\nworld, a man finds himself with parents, brothers, sisters, that is to\nsay, in society, and not alone. Accordingly it cannot be said that the\nlove of solitude is an original characteristic of human nature; it is\nrather the result of experience and reflection, and these in their\nturn depend upon the development of intellectual power, and increase\nwith the years.\n\nSpeaking generally, sociability stands in inverse ratio with age. A\nlittle child raises a piteous cry of fright if it is left alone for\nonly a few minutes; and later on, to be shut up by itself is a great\npunishment. Young people soon get on very friendly terms with one\nanother; it is only the few among them of any nobility of mind who are\nglad now and then to be alone;--but to spend the whole day thus would\nbe disagreeable. A grown-up man can easily do it; it is little trouble\nto him to be much alone, and it becomes less and less trouble as he\nadvances in years. An old man who has outlived all his friends, and is\neither indifferent or dead to the pleasures of life, is in his proper\nelement in solitude; and in individual cases the special tendency\nto retirement and seclusion will always be in direct proportion to\nintellectual capacity.\n\nFor this tendency is not, as I have said, a purely natural one; it\ndoes not come into existence as a direct need of human nature; it is\nrather the effect of the experience we go through, the product\nof reflection upon what our needs really are; proceeding, more\nespecially, from the insight we attain into the wretched stuff of\nwhich most people are made, whether you look at their morals or their\nintellects. The worst of it all is that, in the individual, moral and\nintellectual shortcomings are closely connected and play into each\nother's hands, so that all manner of disagreeable results are\nobtained, which make intercourse with most people not only unpleasant\nbut intolerable. Hence, though the world contains many things which\nare thoroughly bad, the worst thing in it is society. Even Voltaire,\nthat sociable Frenchman, was obliged to admit that there are\neverywhere crowds of people not worth talking to: _la terre est\ncouverte de gens qui ne m\u00e9ritent pas qu'on leur parle_. And Petrarch\ngives a similar reason for wishing to be alone--that tender spirit! so\nstrong and constant in his love of seclusion. The streams, the plains\nand woods know well, he says, how he has tried to escape the perverse\nand stupid people who have missed the way to heaven:--\n\n  _Cercato ho sempre solitaria vita\n    (Le rive il sanno, e le campagne e i boschi)\n  Per fuggir quest' ingegni storti e loschi\n    Che la strada del ciel' hanno smarrita_.\n\nHe pursues the same strain in that delightful book of his, _DeVita\nSolitaria_, which seems to have given Zimmerman the idea of his\ncelebrated work on _Solitude_. It is the secondary and indirect\ncharacter of the love of seclusion to which Chamfort alludes in the\nfollowing passage, couched in his sarcastic vein: _On dit quelquefois\nd'un homme qui vit seul, il n'aime pas la soci\u00e9t\u00e9. C'est souvent\ncomme si on disait d'un homme qu'il n'aime pas la promenade, sous le\npretexte qu'il ne se prom\u00e8ne pas volontiers le soir dans le for\u00eat de\nBondy_.\n\nYou will find a similar sentiment expressed by the Persian poet Sadi,\nin his _Garden of Roses. Since that time_, he says, _we have taken\nleave of society, preferring the path of seclusion; for there is\nsafety in solitude_. Angelus Silesius,[1] a very gentle and Christian\nwriter, confesses to the same feeling, in his own mythical language.\nHerod, he says, is the common enemy; and when, as with Joseph, God\nwarns us of danger, we fly from the world to solitude, from Bethlehem\nto Egypt; or else suffering and death await us!--\n\n  _Herodes ist ein Feind; der Joseph der Verstand,\n  Dem machte Gott die Gefahr im Traum (in Geist) bekannt;\n  Die Welt ist Bethlehem, Aegypten Einsamkeit,\n  Fleuch, meine Seele! fleuch, sonst stirbest du vor Leid_.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. Angelus Silesius, pseudonym for\nJohannes Scheffler, a physician and mystic poet of the seventeenth\ncentury (1624-77).]\n\nGiordano Bruno also declares himself a friend of seclusion. _Tanti\nuomini_, he says, _che in terra hanno voluto gustare vita\nceleste, dissero con una voce, \"ecce elongavi fugiens et mansi in\nsolitudine_\"--those who in this world have desired a foretaste of the\ndivine life, have always proclaimed with one voice:\n\n  _Lo! then would I wander far off;\n  I would lodge in the wilderness._[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: Psalms, lv. 7.]\n\nAnd in the work from which I have already quoted, Sadi says of\nhimself: _In disgust with my friends at Damascus, I withdrew into\nthe desert about Jerusalem, to seek the society of the beasts of the\nfield_. In short, the same thing has been said by all whom Prometheus\nhas formed out of better clay. What pleasure could they find in the\ncompany of people with whom their only common ground is just what is\nlowest and least noble in their own nature--the part of them that is\ncommonplace, trivial and vulgar? What do they want with people who\ncannot rise to a higher level, and for whom nothing remains but to\ndrag others down to theirs? for this is what they aim at. It is an\naristocratic feeling that is at the bottom of this propensity to\nseclusion and solitude.\n\nRascals are always sociable--more's the pity! and the chief sign that\na man has any nobility in his character is the little pleasure he\ntakes in others' company. He prefers solitude more and more, and, in\ncourse of time, comes to see that, with few exceptions, the world\noffers no choice beyond solitude on one side and vulgarity on the\nother. This may sound a hard thing to say; but even Angelus Silesius,\nwith all his Christian feelings of gentleness and love, was obliged to\nadmit the truth of it. However painful solitude may be, he says, be\ncareful not to be vulgar; for then you may find a desert everywhere:--\n\n  _Die Einsamkeit ist noth: doch sei nur nicht gemein,\n  So kannst du \u00fcberall in einer W\u00fcste sein_.\n\nIt is natural for great minds--the true teachers of humanity--to care\nlittle about the constant company of others; just as little as the\nschoolmaster cares for joining in the gambols of the noisy crowd of\nboys which surround him. The mission of these great minds is to guide\nmankind over the sea of error to the haven of truth--to draw it forth\nfrom the dark abysses of a barbarous vulgarity up into the light of\nculture and refinement. Men of great intellect live in the world\nwithout really belonging to it; and so, from their earliest years,\nthey feel that there is a perceptible difference between them and\nother people. But it is only gradually, with the lapse of years,\nthat they come to a clear understanding of their position. Their\nintellectual isolation is then reinforced by actual seclusion in their\nmanner of life; they let no one approach who is not in some degree\nemancipated from the prevailing vulgarity.\n\nFrom what has been said it is obvious that the love of solitude is\nnot a direct, original impulse in human nature, but rather something\nsecondary and of gradual growth. It is the more distinguishing feature\nof nobler minds, developed not without some conquest of natural\ndesires, and now and then in actual opposition to the promptings of\nMephistopheles--bidding you exchange a morose and soul-destroying\nsolitude for life amongst men, for society; even the worst, he says,\nwill give a sense of human fellowship:--\n\n  _H\u00f6r' auf mit deinem Gram zu spielen,\n  Der, wie ein Geier, dir am Leben frisst:\n  Die schlechteste Gesellschaft l\u00e4sst dich f\u00fchlen\n  Dass du ein Mensch mit Menschen bist.[1]_\n\n[Footnote 1: Goethe's _Faust_, Part I., 1281-5.]\n\nTo be alone is the fate of all great minds--a fate deplored at times,\nbut still always chosen as the less grievous of two evils. As\nthe years increase, it always becomes easier to say, Dare to be\nwise--_sapere aude_. And after sixty, the inclination to be alone\ngrows into a kind of real, natural instinct; for at that age\neverything combines in favor of it. The strongest impulse--the love of\nwoman's society--has little or no effect; it is the sexless condition\nof old age which lays the foundation of a certain self-sufficiency,\nand that gradually absorbs all desire for others' company. A thousand\nillusions and follies are overcome; the active years of life are\nin most cases gone; a man has no more expectations or plans or\nintentions. The generation to which he belonged has passed away, and a\nnew race has sprung up which looks upon him as essentially outside its\nsphere of activity. And then the years pass more quickly as we become\nolder, and we want to devote our remaining time to the intellectual\nrather than to the practical side of life. For, provided that the mind\nretains its faculties, the amount of knowledge and experience we have\nacquired, together with the facility we have gained in the use of our\npowers, makes it then more than ever easy and interesting to us to\npursue the study of any subject. A thousand things become clear which\nwere formerly enveloped in obscurity, and results are obtained which\ngive a feeling of difficulties overcome. From long experience of men,\nwe cease to expect much from them; we find that, on the whole, people\ndo not gain by a nearer acquaintance; and that--apart from a few rare\nand fortunate exceptions--we have come across none but defective\nspecimens of human nature which it is advisable to leave in peace.\nWe are no more subject to the ordinary illusions of life; and as, in\nindividual instances, we soon see what a man is made of, we seldom\nfeel any inclination to come into closer relations with him. Finally,\nisolation--our own society--has become a habit, as it were a second\nnature to us, more especially if we have been on friendly terms with\nit from our youth up. The love of solitude which was formerly indulged\nonly at the expense of our desire for society, has now come to be the\nsimple quality of our natural disposition--the element proper to our\nlife, as water to a fish. This is why anyone who possesses a unique\nindividuality--unlike others and therefore necessarily isolated--feels\nthat, as he becomes older, his position is no longer so burdensome as\nwhen he was young.\n\nFor, as a matter of fact, this very genuine privilege of old age is\none which can be enjoyed only if a man is possessed of a certain\namount of intellect; it will be appreciated most of all where there is\nreal mental power; but in some degree by every one. It is only people\nof very barren and vulgar nature who will be just as sociable in their\nold age as they were in their youth. But then they become troublesome\nto a society to which they are no longer suited, and, at most, manage\nto be tolerated; whereas, they were formerly in great request.\n\nThere is another aspect of this inverse proportion between age and\nsociability--the way in which it conduces to education. The younger\nthat people are, the more in every respect they have to learn; and it\nis just in youth that Nature provides a system of mutual education,\nso that mere intercourse with others, at that time of life, carries\ninstruction with it. Human society, from this point of view, resembles\na huge academy of learning, on the Bell and Lancaster system, opposed\nto the system of education by means of books and schools, as something\nartificial and contrary to the institutions of Nature. It is therefore\na very suitable arrangement that, in his young days, a man should be\na very diligent student at the place of learning provided by Nature\nherself.\n\nBut there is nothing in life which has not some drawback--_nihil est\nab omni parte beatum_, as Horace says; or, in the words of an Indian\nproverb, _no lotus without a stalk_. Seclusion, which has so many\nadvantages, has also its little annoyances and drawbacks, which are\nsmall, however, in comparison with those of society; hence anyone who\nis worth much in himself will get on better without other people than\nwith them. But amongst the disadvantages of seclusion there is one\nwhich is not so easy to see as the rest. It is this: when people\nremain indoors all day, they become physically very sensitive to\natmospheric changes, so that every little draught is enough to make\nthem ill; so with our temper; a long course of seclusion makes it so\nsensitive that the most trivial incidents, words, or even looks, are\nsufficient to disturb or to vex and offend us--little things which are\nunnoticed by those who live in the turmoil of life.\n\nWhen you find human society disagreeable and feel yourself justified\nin flying to solitude, you can be so constituted as to be unable to\nbear the depression of it for any length of time, which will probably\nbe the case if you are young. Let me advise you, then, to form the\nhabit of taking some of your solitude with you into society, to learn\nto be to some extent alone even though you are in company; not to say\nat once what you think, and, on the other hand, not to attach too\nprecise a meaning to what others say; rather, not to expect much of\nthem, either morally or intellectually, and to strengthen yourself in\nthe feeling of indifference to their opinion, which is the surest way\nof always practicing a praiseworthy toleration. If you do that, you\nwill not live so much with other people, though you may appear to move\namongst them: your relation to them will be of a purely objective\ncharacter. This precaution will keep you from too close contact with\nsociety, and therefore secure you against being contaminated or even\noutraged by it.[1] Society is in this respect like a fire--the wise\nman warming himself at a proper distance from it; not coming too\nclose, like the fool, who, on getting scorched, runs away and shivers\nin solitude, loud in his complaint that the fire burns.\n\n[Footnote 1: This restricted, or, as it were, entrenched kind of\nsociability has been dramatically illustrated in a play--well worth\nreading--of Moratin's, entitled _El Caf\u00e9 o sea la Comedia Nuova_ (The\nCafe or the New Comedy), chiefly by one of the characters, Don Pedro\nand especially in the second and third scenes of the first act.]\n\nSECTION 10. _Envy_ is natural to man; and still, it is at once a vice\nand a source of misery.[1] We should treat it as the enemy of our\nhappiness, and stifle it like an evil thought. This is the advice\ngiven by Seneca; as he well puts it, we shall be pleased with what we\nhave, if we avoid the self-torture of comparing our own lot with\nsome other and happier one--_nostra nos sine comparatione delectent;\nnunquam erit felix quem torquebit felicior.[2]_ And again, _quum\nadspexeris quot te antecedent, cogita quot sequantur_[3]--if a great\nmany people appear to be better off than yourself, think how many\nthere are in a worse position. It is a fact that if real calamity\ncomes upon us, the most effective consolation--though it springs from\nthe same source as envy--is just the thought of greater misfortunes\nthan ours; and the next best is the society of those who are in the\nsame luck as we--the partners of our sorrows.\n\n[Footnote 1: Envy shows how unhappy people are; and their constant\nattention to what others do and leave undone, how much they are\nbored.]\n\n[Footnote 2: _De Ira_: iii., 30.]\n\n[Footnote 3: Epist. xv.]\n\nSo much for the envy which we may feel towards others. As regards the\nenvy which we may excite in them, it should always be remembered that\nno form of hatred is so implacable as the hatred that comes from envy;\nand therefore we should always carefully refrain from doing anything\nto rouse it; nay, as with many another form of vice, it is better\naltogether to renounce any pleasure there may be in it, because of the\nserious nature of its consequences.\n\nAristocracies are of three kinds: (1) of birth and rank; (2)\nof wealth; and (3) of intellect. The last is really the most\ndistinguished of the three, and its claim to occupy the first position\ncomes to be recognized, if it is only allowed time to work. So eminent\na king as Frederick the Great admitted it--_les \u00e2mes privilegi\u00e9es\nrangent \u00e0 l'\u00e9gal des souverains_, as he said to his chamberlain, when\nthe latter expressed his surprise that Voltaire should have a seat\nat the table reserved for kings and princes, whilst ministers and\ngenerals were relegated to the chamberlain's.\n\nEvery one of these aristocracies is surrounded by a host of envious\npersons. If you belong to one of them, they will be secretly\nembittered against you; and unless they are restrained by fear, they\nwill always be anxious to let you understand that _you are no better\nthan they_. It is by their anxiety to let you know this, that they\nbetray how greatly they are conscious that the opposite is the truth.\n\nThe line of conduct to be pursued if you are exposed to envy, is to\nkeep the envious persons at a distance, and, as far as possible, avoid\nall contact with them, so that there may be a wide gulf fixed between\nyou and them; if this cannot be done, to bear their attacks with the\ngreatest composure. In the latter case, the very thing that provokes\nthe attack will also neutralize it. This is what appears to be\ngenerally done.\n\nThe members of one of these aristocracies usually get on very well\nwith those of another, and there is no call for envy between them,\nbecause their several privileges effect an equipoise.\n\nSECTION 11. Give mature and repeated consideration to any plan before\nyou proceed to carry it out; and even after you have thoroughly turned\nit over in your mind, make some concession to the incompetency of\nhuman judgment; for it may always happen that circumstances which\ncannot be investigated or foreseen, will come in and upset the whole\nof your calculation. This is a reflection that will always influence\nthe negative side of the balance--a kind of warning to refrain from\nunnecessary action in matters of importance--_quieta non movere._ But\nhaving once made up your mind and begun your work, you must let it\nrun its course and abide the result--not worry yourself by fresh\nreflections on what is already accomplished, or by a renewal of your\nscruples on the score of possible danger: free your mind from the\nsubject altogether, and refuse to go into it again, secure in the\nthought that you gave it mature attention at the proper time. This is\nthe same advice as is given by an Italian proverb--_legala bene e poi\nlascia la andare_--which Goethe has translated thus: See well to your\ngirths, and then ride on boldly.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: It may be observed, in passing, that a great many of\nthe maxims which Goethe puts under the head of _Proverbial_, are\ntranslations from the Italian.]\n\nAnd if, notwithstanding that, you fail, it is because human affairs\nare the sport of chance and error. Socrates, the wisest of men, needed\nthe warning voice of his good genius, or [Greek: daimonion], to enable\nhim to do what was right in regard to his own personal affairs, or at\nany rate, to avoid mistakes; which argues that the human intellect is\nincompetent for the purpose. There is a saying--which is reported to\nhave originated with one of the Popes--that when misfortune happens to\nus, the blame of it, at least in some degree, attaches to ourselves.\nIf this is not true absolutely and in every instance, it is certainly\ntrue in the great majority of cases. It even looks as if this truth\nhad a great deal to do with the effort people make as far as possible\nto conceal their misfortunes, and to put the best face they can upon\nthem, for fear lest their misfortunes may show how much they are to\nblame.\n\nSECTION 12.\n\nIn the case of a misfortune which has already happened and therefore\ncannot be altered, you should not allow yourself to think that it\nmight have been otherwise; still less, that it might have been avoided\nby such and such means; for reflections of this kind will only add\nto your distress and make it intolerable, so that you will become a\ntormentor to yourself--[Greek: heautontimoroumeaeos]. It is better to\nfollow the example of King David; who, as long as his son lay on the\nbed of sickness, assailed Jehovah with unceasing supplications and\nentreaties for his recovery; but when he was dead, snapped his fingers\nand thought no more of it. If you are not light-hearted enough for\nthat, you can take refuge in fatalism, and have the great truth\nrevealed to you that everything which happens is the result of\nnecessity, and therefore inevitable.\n\nHowever good this advice may be, it is one-sided and partial. In\nrelieving and quieting us for the moment, it is no doubt effective\nenough; but when our misfortunes have resulted--as is usually the\ncase--from our own carelessness or folly, or, at any rate, partly by\nour own fault, it is a good thing to consider how they might have\nbeen avoided, and to consider it often in spite of its being a tender\nsubject--a salutary form of self-discipline, which will make us wiser\nand better men for the future. If we have made obvious mistakes, we\nshould not try, as we generally do, to gloss them over, or to find\nsomething to excuse or extenuate them; we should admit to ourselves\nthat we have committed faults, and open our eyes wide to all their\nenormity, in order that we may firmly resolve to avoid them in time to\ncome. To be sure, that means a great deal of self-inflicted pain, in\nthe shape of discontent, but it should be remembered that to spare\nthe rod is to spoil the child--[Greek: ho mae dareis anthropos ou\npaideuetai].[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: Menander. Monost: 422.]\n\nSECTION 13. In all matters affecting our weal or woe, we should be\ncareful not to let our imagination run away with us, and build no\ncastles in the air. In the first place, they are expensive to build,\nbecause we have to pull them down again immediately, and that is\na source of grief. We should be still more on our guard against\ndistressing our hearts by depicting possible misfortunes. If these\nwere misfortunes of a purely imaginary kind, or very remote and\nunlikely, we should at once see, on awaking from our dream, that the\nwhole thing was mere illusion; we should rejoice all the more in\na reality better than our dreams, or at most, be warned against\nmisfortunes which, though very remote, were still possible. These,\nhowever, are not the sort of playthings in which imagination delights;\nit is only in idle hours that we build castles in the air, and they\nare always of a pleasing description. The matter which goes to form\ngloomy dreams are mischances which to some extent really threaten us,\nthough it be from some distance; imagination makes us look larger and\nnearer and more terrible than they are in reality. This is a kind of\ndream which cannot be so readily shaken off on awaking as a pleasant\none; for a pleasant dream is soon dispelled by reality, leaving, at\nmost, a feeble hope lying in the lap of possibility. Once we have\nabandoned ourselves to a fit of the blues, visions are conjured up\nwhich do not so easily vanish again; for it is always just possible\nthat the visions may be realized. But we are not always able to\nestimate the exact degree of possibility: possibility may easily\npass into probability; and thus we deliver ourselves up to torture.\nTherefore we should be careful not to be over-anxious on any\nmatter affecting our weal or our woe, not to carry our anxiety to\nunreasonable or injudicious limits; but coolly and dispassionately to\ndeliberate upon the matter, as though it were an abstract question\nwhich did not touch us in particular. We should give no play to\nimagination here; for imagination is not judgment--it only conjures up\nvisions, inducing an unprofitable and often very painful mood.\n\nThe rule on which I am here insisting should be most carefully\nobserved towards evening. For as darkness makes us timid and apt to\nsee terrifying shapes everywhere, there is something similar in the\neffect of indistinct thought; and uncertainty always brings with it a\nsense of danger. Hence, towards evening, when our powers of thought\nand judgment are relaxed,--at the hour, as it were, of subjective\ndarkness,--the intellect becomes tired, easily confused, and unable\nto get at the bottom of things; and if, in that state, we meditate\non matters of personal interest to ourselves, they soon assume a\ndangerous and terrifying aspect. This is mostly the case at night,\nwhen we are in bed; for then the mind is fully relaxed, and the power\nof judgment quite unequal to its duties; but imagination is still\nawake. Night gives a black look to everything, whatever it may be.\nThis is why our thoughts, just before we go to sleep, or as we lie\nawake through the hours of the night, are usually such confusions and\nperversions of facts as dreams themselves; and when our thoughts at\nthat time are concentrated upon our own concerns, they are generally\nas black and monstrous as possible. In the morning all such nightmares\nvanish like dreams: as the Spanish proverb has it, _noche tinta,\nbianco el dia_--the night is colored, the day is white. But even\ntowards nightfall, as soon as the candles are lit, the mind, like the\neye, no longer sees things so clearly as by day: it is a time unsuited\nto serious meditation, especially on unpleasant subjects. The morning\nis the proper time for that--as indeed for all efforts without\nexception, whether mental or bodily. For the morning is the youth of\nthe day, when everything is bright, fresh, and easy of attainment;\nwe feel strong then, and all our faculties are completely at our\ndisposal. Do not shorten the morning by getting up late, or waste it\nin unworthy occupations or in talk; look upon it as the quintessence\nof life, as to a certain extent sacred. Evening is like old age: we\nare languid, talkative, silly. Each day is a little life: every waking\nand rising a little birth, every fresh morning a little youth, every\ngoing to rest and sleep a little death.\n\nBut condition of health, sleep, nourishment, temperature, weather,\nsurroundings, and much else that is purely external, have, in general,\nan important influence upon our mood and therefore upon our thoughts.\nHence both our view of any matter and our capacity for any work are\nvery much subject to time and place. So it is best to profit by a good\nmood--for how seldom it comes!--\n\n  _Nehmt die gute Stimmung wahr,\n  Denn sie kommt so selten_.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: Goethe.]\n\nWe are not always able to form new ideas about; our surroundings, or\nto command original thoughts: they come if they will, and when they\nwill. And so, too, we cannot always succeed in completely considering\nsome personal matter at the precise time at which we have determined\nbeforehand to consider it, and just when we set ourselves to do\nso. For the peculiar train of thought which is favorable to it may\nsuddenly become active without any special call being made upon\nit, and we may then follow it up with keen interest. In this way\nreflection, too, chooses its own time.\n\nThis reining-in of the imagination which I am recommending, will also\nforbid us to summon up the memory of the past misfortune, to paint\na dark picture of the injustice or harm that has been done us, the\nlosses we have sustained, the insults, slights and annoyances to which\nwe have been exposed: for to do that is to rouse into fresh life all\nthose hateful passions long laid asleep--the anger and resentment\nwhich disturb and pollute our nature. In an excellent parable,\nProclus, the Neoplatonist, points out how in every town the mob dwells\nside by side with those who are rich and distinguished: so, too, in\nevery man, be he never so noble and dignified, there is, in the depth\nof his nature, a mob of low and vulgar desires which constitute him an\nanimal. It will not do to let this mob revolt or even so much as peep\nforth from its hiding-place; it is hideous of mien, and its rebel\nleaders are those flights of imagination which I have been describing.\nThe smallest annoyance, whether it comes from our fellow-men or from\nthe things around us, may swell up into a monster of dreadful aspect,\nputting us at our wits' end--and all because we go on brooding over\nour troubles and painting them in the most glaring colors and on the\nlargest scale. It is much better to take a very calm and prosaic view\nof what is disagreeable; for that is the easiest way of bearing it.\n\nIf you hold small objects close to your eyes, you limit your field of\nvision and shut out the world. And, in the same way, the people or the\nthings which stand nearest, even though they are of the very smallest\nconsequence, are apt to claim an amount of attention much beyond\ntheir due, occupying us disagreeably, and leaving no room for serious\nthoughts and affairs of importance. We ought to work against this\ntendency.\n\nSECTION 14. The sight of things which do not belong to us is very apt\nto raise the thought: _Ah, if that were only mine_! making us sensible\nof our privation. Instead of that we should do better by more\nfrequently putting to ourselves the opposite case: _Ah, if that were\nnot mine_. What I mean is that we should sometimes try to look upon\nour possessions in the light in which they would appear if we had lost\nthem; whatever they may be, property, health, friends, a wife or child\nor someone else we love, our horse or our dog--it is usually only when\nwe have lost them that we begin to find out their value. But if we\ncome to look at things in the way I recommend, we shall be doubly the\ngainers; we shall at once get more pleasure out of them than we did\nbefore, and we shall do everything in our power to prevent the loss\nof them; for instance, by not risking our property, or angering our\nfriends, or exposing our wives to temptation, or being careless about\nour children's health, and so on.\n\nWe often try to banish the gloom and despondency of the present by\nspeculating upon our chances of success in the future; a process which\nleads us to invent a great many chimerical hopes. Every one of them\ncontains the germ of illusion, and disappointment is inevitable when\nour hopes are shattered by the hard facts of life.\n\nIt is less hurtful to take the chances of misfortune as a theme for\nspeculation; because, in doing so, we provide ourselves at once with\nmeasures of precaution against it, and a pleasant surprise when it\nfails to make its appearance. Is it not a fact that we always feel a\nmarked improvement in our spirits when we begin to get over a period\nof anxiety? I may go further and say that there is some use in\noccasionally looking upon terrible misfortunes--such as might happen\nto us--as though they had actually happened, for then the trivial\nreverses which subsequently come in reality, are much easier to\nbear. It is a source of consolation to look back upon those great\nmisfortunes which never happened. But in following out this rule,\ncare must be taken not to neglect what I have said in the preceding\nsection.\n\nSECTION 15. The things which engage our attention--whether they are\nmatters of business or ordinary events--are of such diverse kinds,\nthat, if taken quite separately and in no fixed order or relation,\nthey present a medley of the most glaring contrasts, with nothing in\ncommon, except that they one and all affect us in particular. There\nmust be a corresponding abruptness in the thoughts and anxieties which\nthese various matters arouse in us, if our thoughts are to be in\nkeeping with their various subjects. Therefore, in setting about\nanything, the first step is to withdraw our attention from everything\nelse: this will enable us to attend to each matter at its own time,\nand to enjoy or put up with it, quite apart from any thought of our\nremaining interests. Our thoughts must be arranged, as it were, in\nlittle drawers, so that we may open one without disturbing any of the\nothers.\n\nIn this way we can keep the heavy burden of anxiety from weighing upon\nus so much as to spoil the little pleasures of the present, or from\nrobbing us of our rest; otherwise the consideration of one matter will\ninterfere with every other, and attention to some important business\nmay lead us to neglect many affairs which happen to be of less moment.\nIt is most important for everyone who is capable of higher and nobler\nthoughts to keep their mind from being so completely engrossed with\nprivate affairs and vulgar troubles as to let them take up all his\nattention and crowd out worthier matter; for that is, in a very real\nsense, to lose sight of the true end of life--_propter vitam vivendi\nperdere causas_.\n\nOf course for this--as for so much else--self-control is necessary;\nwithout it, we cannot manage ourselves in the way I have described.\nAnd self-control may not appear so very difficult, if we consider that\nevery man has to submit to a great deal of very severe control on the\npart of his surroundings, and that without it no form of existence\nis possible. Further, a little self-control at the right moment may\nprevent much subsequent compulsion at the hands of others; just as a\nvery small section of a circle close to the centre may correspond to\na part near the circumference a hundred times as large. Nothing\nwill protect us from external compulsion so much as the control of\nourselves; and, as Seneca says, to submit yourself to reason is\nthe way to make everything else submit to you--_si tibi vis omnia\nsubjicere, te subjice rationi_. Self-control, too, is something which\nwe have in our own power; and if the worst comes to the worst, and it\ntouches us in a very sensitive part, we can always relax its severity.\nBut other people will pay no regard to our feelings, if they have\nto use compulsion, and we shall be treated without pity or mercy.\nTherefore it will be prudent to anticipate compulsion by self-control.\n\nSECTION 16. We must set limits to our wishes, curb our desires,\nmoderate our anger, always remembering that an individual can attain\nonly an infinitesimal share in anything that is worth having; and\nthat, on the other hand, everyone must incur many of the ills of life;\nin a word, we must bear and forbear--_abstinere et sustinere_; and\nif we fail to observe this rule, no position of wealth or power will\nprevent us from feeling wretched. This is what Horace means when he\nrecommends us to study carefully and inquire diligently what will\nbest promote a tranquil life--not to be always agitated by fruitless\ndesires and fears and hopes for things, which, after all, are not\nworth very much:--\n\n  _Inter cuncta leges et percontabere doctos\n  Qua ratione queas traducere leniter aevum;\n  Ne te semper inops agitet vexetque cupido,\n  Ne pavor, et rerum mediocriter utilium spes.[1]_\n\n[Footnote 1: Epist. I. xviii. 97.]\n\nSECTION 17. Life consists in movement, says Aristotle; and he is\nobviously right. We exist, physically, because our organism is the\nseat of constant motion; and if we are to exist intellectually, it can\nonly be by means of continual occupation--no matter with what so long\nas it is some form of practical or mental activity. You may see that\nthis is so by the way in which people who have no work or nothing to\nthink about, immediately begin to beat the devil's tattoo with their\nknuckles or a stick or anything that comes handy. The truth is, that\nour nature is essentially _restless_ in its character: we very soon\nget tired of having nothing to do; it is intolerable boredom. This\nimpulse to activity should be regulated, and some sort of method\nintroduced into it, which of itself will enhance the satisfaction we\nobtain. Activity!--doing something, if possible creating something, at\nany rate learning something--how fortunate it is that men cannot exist\nwithout that! A man wants to use his strength, to see, if he can, what\neffect it will produce; and he will get the most complete satisfaction\nof this desire if he can make or construct something--be it a book or\na basket. There is a direct pleasure in seeing work grow under one's\nhands day by day, until at last it is finished. This is the pleasure\nattaching to a work of art or a manuscript, or even mere manual labor;\nand, of course, the higher the work, the greater pleasure it will\ngive.\n\nFrom this point of view, those are happiest of all who are conscious\nof the power to produce great works animated by some significant\npurpose: it gives a higher kind of interest--a sort of rare flavor--to\nthe whole of their life, which, by its absence from the life of the\nordinary man, makes it, in comparison, something very insipid. For\nrichly endowed natures, life and the world have a special interest\nbeyond the mere everyday personal interest which so many others share;\nand something higher than that--a formal interest. It is from life and\nthe world that they get the material for their works; and as soon\nas they are freed from the pressure of personal needs, it is to\nthe diligent collection of material that they devote their whole\nexistence. So with their intellect: it is to some extent of a two-fold\ncharacter, and devoted partly to the ordinary affairs of every\nday--those matters of will which are common to them and the rest of\nmankind, and partly to their peculiar work--the pure and objective\ncontemplation of existence. And while, on the stage of the world, most\nmen play their little part and then pass away, the genius lives a\ndouble life, at once an actor and a spectator.\n\nLet everyone, then, do something, according to the measure of his\ncapacities. To have no regular work, no set sphere of activity--what a\nmiserable thing it is! How often long travels undertaken for pleasure\nmake a man downright unhappy; because the absence of anything that can\nbe called occupation forces him, as it were, out of his right element.\nEffort, struggles with difficulties! that is as natural to a man as\ngrubbing in the ground is to a mole. To have all his wants satisfied\nis something intolerable--the feeling of stagnation which comes\nfrom pleasures that last too long. To overcome difficulties is\nto experience the full delight of existence, no matter where the\nobstacles are encountered; whether in the affairs of life, in commerce\nor business; or in mental effort--the spirit of inquiry that tries\nto master its subject. There is always something pleasurable in the\nstruggle and the victory. And if a man has no opportunity to excite\nhimself, he will do what he can to create one, and according to his\nindividual bent, he will hunt or play Cup and Ball: or led on by this\nunsuspected element in his nature, he will pick a quarrel with some\none, or hatch a plot or intrigue, or take to swindling and rascally\ncourses generally--all to put an end to a state of repose which is\nintolerable. As I have remarked, _difficilis in otio quies_--it is\ndifficult to keep quiet if you have nothing to do.\n\nSECTION 18. A man should avoid being led on by the phantoms of his\nimagination. This is not the same thing as to submit to the guidance\nof ideas clearly thought out: and yet these are rules of life which\nmost people pervert. If you examine closely into the circumstances\nwhich, in any deliberation, ultimately turn the scale in favor of\nsome particular course, you will generally find that the decision is\ninfluenced, not by any clear arrangement of ideas leading to a formal\njudgment, but by some fanciful picture which seems to stand for one of\nthe alternatives in question.\n\nIn one of Voltaire's or Diderot's romances,--I forget the precise\nreference,--the hero, standing like a young Hercules at the parting\nof ways, can see no other representation of Virtue than his old tutor\nholding a snuff-box in his left hand, from which he takes a pinch\nand moralizes; whilst Vice appears in the shape of his mother's\nchambermaid. It is in youth, more especially, that the goal of our\nefforts comes to be a fanciful picture of happiness, which continues\nto hover before our eyes sometimes for half and even for the whole of\nour life--a sort of mocking spirit; for when we think our dream is to\nbe realized, the picture fades away, leaving us the knowledge that\nnothing of what it promised is actually accomplished. How often this\nis so with the visions of domesticity--the detailed picture of what\nour home will be like; or, of life among our fellow-citizens or in\nsociety; or, again, of living in the country--the kind of house we\nshall have, its surroundings, the marks of honor and respect that will\nbe paid to us, and so on,--whatever our hobby may be; _chaque fou a\nsa marotte_. It is often the same, too, with our dreams about one we\nlove. And this is all quite natural; for the visions we conjure up\naffect us directly, as though they were real objects; and so they\nexercise a more immediate influence upon our will than an abstract\nidea, which gives merely a vague, general outline, devoid of details;\nand the details are just the real part of it. We can be only\nindirectly affected by an abstract idea, and yet it is the abstract\nidea alone which will do as much as it promises; and it is the\nfunction of education to teach us to put our trust in it. Of course\nthe abstract idea must be occasionally explained--paraphrased, as it\nwere--by the aid of pictures; but discreetly, _cum grano salis_.\n\nSECTION 19. The preceding rule may be taken as a special case of the\nmore general maxim, that a man should never let himself be mastered\nby the impressions of the moment, or indeed by outward appearances at\nall, which are incomparably more powerful in their effects than the\nmere play of thought or a train of ideas; not because these momentary\nimpressions are rich in virtue of the data they supply,--it is often\njust the contrary,--but because they are something palpable to the\nsenses and direct in their working; they forcibly invade our mind,\ndisturbing our repose and shattering our resolutions.\n\nIt is easy to understand that the thing which lies before our very\neyes will produce the whole of its effect at once, but that time and\nleisure are necessary for the working of thought and the appreciation\nof argument, as it is impossible to think of everything at one and the\nsame moment. This is why we are so allured by pleasure, in spite of\nall our determination to resist it; or so much annoyed by a criticism,\neven though we know that its author it totally incompetent to\njudge; or so irritated by an insult, though it comes from some very\ncontemptible quarter. In the same way, to mention no other instances,\nten reasons for thinking that there is no danger may be outweighed by\none mistaken notion that it is actually at hand. All this shows the\nradical unreason of human nature. Women frequently succumb altogether\nto this predominating influence of present impressions, and there are\nfew men so overweighted with reason as to escape suffering from a\nsimilar cause.\n\nIf it is impossible to resist the effects of some external influence\nby the mere play of thought, the best thing to do is to neutralize it\nby some contrary influence; for example, the effect of an insult may\nbe overcome by seeking the society of those who have a good opinion of\nus; and the unpleasant sensation of imminent danger may be avoided by\nfixing our attention on the means of warding it off.\n\nLeibnitz[1] tells of an Italian who managed to bear up under the\ntortures of the rack by never for a moment ceasing to think of the\ngallows which would have awaited him, had he revealed his secret; he\nkept on crying out: _I see it! I see it_!--afterwards explaining that\nthis was part of his plan.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Nouveaux Essais_. Liv. I. ch. 2. Sec. 11.]\n\nIt is from some such reason as this, that we find it so difficult to\nstand alone in a matter of opinion,--not to be made irresolute by the\nfact that everyone else disagrees with us and acts accordingly, even\nthough we are quite sure that they are in the wrong. Take the case of\na fugitive king who is trying to avoid capture; how much consolation\nhe must find in the ceremonious and submissive attitude of a faithful\nfollower, exhibited secretly so as not to betray his master's strict\n_incognito_; it must be almost necessary to prevent him doubting his\nown existence.\n\nSECTION 20. In the first part of this work I have insisted upon the\ngreat value of _health_ as the chief and most important element in\nhappiness. Let me emphasize and confirm what I have there said by\ngiving a few general rules as to its preservation.\n\nThe way to harden the body is to impose a great deal of labor and\neffort upon it in the days of good health,--to exercise it, both as a\nwhole and in its several parts, and to habituate it to withstand all\nkinds of noxious influences. But on the appearance of an illness or\ndisorder, either in the body as a whole or in many of its parts, a\ncontrary course should be taken, and every means used to nurse the\nbody, or the part of it which is affected, and to spare it any effort;\nfor what is ailing and debilitated cannot be hardened.\n\nThe muscles may be strengthened by a vigorous use of them; but not so\nthe nerves; they are weakened by it. Therefore, while exercising the\nmuscles in every way that is suitable, care should be taken to spare\nthe nerves as much as possible. The eyes, for instance, should be\nprotected from too strong a light,--especially when it is reflected\nlight,--from any straining of them in the dark, or from the\nlong-continued examination of minute objects; and the ears from too\nloud sounds. Above all, the brain should never be forced, or used too\nmuch, or at the wrong time; let it have a rest during digestion; for\nthen the same vital energy which forms thoughts in the brain has a\ngreat deal of work to do elsewhere,--I mean in the digestive organs,\nwhere it prepares chyme and chyle. For similar reasons, the brain\nshould never be used during, or immediately after, violent muscular\nexercise. For the motor nerves are in this respect on a par with the\nsensory nerves; the pain felt when a limb is wounded has its seat in\nthe brain; and, in the same way, it is not really our legs and arms\nwhich work and move,--it is the brain, or, more strictly, that part of\nit which, through the medium of the spine, excites the nerves in the\nlimbs and sets them in motion. Accordingly, when our arms and legs\nfeel tired, the true seat of this feeling is in the brain. This is why\nit is only in connection with those muscles which are set in motion\nconsciously and voluntarily,--in other words, depend for their action\nupon the brain,--that any feeling of fatigue can arise; this is not\nthe case with those muscles which work involuntarily, like the heart.\nIt is obvious, then, that injury is done to the brain if violent\nmuscular exercise and intellectual exertion are forced upon it at the\nsame moment, or at very short intervals.\n\nWhat I say stands in no contradiction with the fact that at the\nbeginning of a walk, or at any period of a short stroll, there often\ncomes a feeling of enhanced intellectual vigor. The parts of the brain\nthat come into play have had no time to become tired; and besides,\nslight muscular exercise conduces to activity of the respiratory\norgans, and causes a purer and more oxydated supply of arterial blood\nto mount to the brain.\n\nIt is most important to allow the brain the full measure of sleep\nwhich is required to restore it; for sleep is to a man's whole nature\nwhat winding up is to a clock.[1] This measure will vary directly with\nthe development and activity of the brain; to overstep the measure is\nmere waste of time, because if that is done, sleep gains only so much\nin length as it loses in depth.[2]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Of. Welt als Wille und Vorstellung_, 4th Edition. Bk.\nII. pp. 236-40.]\n\n[Footnote: 2: _Cf. loc: cit_: p. 275. Sleep is a morsel of death\nborrowed to keep up and renew the part of life which is exhausted by\nthe day--_le sommeil est un emprunt fait \u00e0 la mort_. Or it might be\nsaid that sleep is the interest we have to pay on the capital which is\ncalled in at death; and the higher the rate of interest and the\nmore regularly it is paid, the further the date of redemption is\npostponed.]\n\nIt should be clearly understood that thought is nothing but the\norganic function of the brain; and it has to obey the same laws in\nregard to exertion and repose as any other organic function. The brain\ncan be ruined by overstrain, just like the eyes. As the function of\nthe stomach is to digest, so it is that of the brain to think. The\nnotion of a _soul_,--as something elementary and immaterial, merely\nlodging in the brain and needing nothing at all for the performance\nof its essential function, which consists in always and unweariedly\n_thinking_--has undoubtedly driven many people to foolish practices,\nleading to a deadening of the intellectual powers; Frederick the\nGreat, even, once tried to form the habit of doing without sleep\naltogether. It would be well if professors of philosophy refrained\nfrom giving currency to a notion which is attended by practical\nresults of a pernicious character; but then this is just what\nprofessorial philosophy does, in its old-womanish endeavor to keep on\ngood terms with the catechism. A man should accustom himself to\nview his intellectual capacities in no other light than that of\nphysiological functions, and to manage them accordingly--nursing or\nexercising them as the case may be; remembering that every kind of\nphysical suffering, malady or disorder, in whatever part of the body\nit occurs, has its effect upon the mind. The best advice that I know\non this subject is given by Cabanis in his _Rapports du physique et du\nmoral de l'homme_.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. The work to which Schopenhauer\nhere refers is a series of essays by Cabanis, a French philosopher\n(1757-1808), treating of mental and moral phenomena on a physiological\nbasis. In his later days, Cabanis completely abandoned his\nmaterialistic standpoint.]\n\nThrough neglect of this rule, many men of genius and great scholars\nhave become weak-minded and childish, or even gone quite mad, as they\ngrew old. To take no other instances, there can be no doubt that the\ncelebrated English poets of the early part of this century, Scott,\nWordsworth, Southey, became intellectually dull and incapable towards\nthe end of their days, nay, soon after passing their sixtieth year;\nand that their imbecility can be traced to the fact that, at that\nperiod of life, they were all led on? by the promise of high pay, to\ntreat literature as a trade and to write for money. This seduced them\ninto an unnatural abuse of their intellectual powers; and a man who\nputs his Pegasus into harness, and urges on his Muse with the whip,\nwill have to pay a penalty similar to that which is exacted by the\nabuse of other kinds of power.\n\nAnd even in the case of Kant, I suspect that the second childhood of\nhis last four years was due to overwork in later life, and after he\nhad succeeded in becoming a famous man.\n\nEvery month of the year has its own peculiar and direct influence upon\nhealth and bodily condition generally; nay, even upon the state of the\nmind. It is an influence dependent upon the weather.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nOUR RELATION TO OTHERS.--SECTION 21.\n\n\nIn making his way through life, a man will find it useful to be ready\nand able to do two things: to look ahead and to overlook: the one\nwill protect him from loss and injury, the other from disputes and\nsquabbles.\n\nNo one who has to live amongst men should absolutely discard any\nperson who has his due place in the order of nature, even though he is\nvery wicked or contemptible or ridiculous. He must accept him as an\nunalterable fact--unalterable, because the necessary outcome of an\neternal, fundamental principle; and in bad cases he should\nremember the words of Mephistopheles: _es muss auch solche K\u00e4uze\ngeben[1]_--there must be fools and rogues in the world. If he acts\notherwise, he will be committing an injustice, and giving a challenge\nof life and death to the man he discards. No one can alter his\nown peculiar individuality, his moral character, his intellectual\ncapacity, his temperament or physique; and if we go so far as to\ncondemn a man from every point of view, there will be nothing left him\nbut to engage us in deadly conflict; for we are practically allowing\nhim the right to exist only on condition that he becomes another\nman--which is impossible; his nature forbids it.\n\n[Footnote 1: Goethe's _Faust_, Part I.]\n\nSo if you have to live amongst men, you must allow everyone the right\nto exist in accordance with the character he has, whatever it turns\nout to be: and all you should strive to do is to make use of this\ncharacter in such a way as its kind and nature permit, rather than to\nhope for any alteration in it, or to condemn it off-hand for what it\nis. This is the true sense of the maxim--Live and let live. That,\nhowever, is a task which is difficult in proportion as it is right;\nand he is a happy man who can once for all avoid having to do with a\ngreat many of his fellow creatures.\n\nThe art of putting up with people may be learned by practicing\npatience on inanimate objects, which, in virtue of some mechanical\nor general physical necessity, oppose a stubborn resistance to our\nfreedom of action--a form of patience which is required every day.\nThe patience thus gained may be applied to our dealings with men,\nby accustoming ourselves to regard their opposition, wherever we\nencounter it, as the inevitable outcome of their nature, which sets\nitself up against us in virtue of the same rigid law of necessity as\ngoverns the resistance of inanimate objects. To become indignant at\ntheir conduct is as foolish as to be angry with a stone because it\nrolls into your path. And with many people the wisest thing you can\ndo, is to resolve to make use of those whom you cannot alter.\n\nSECTION 22. It is astonishing how easily and how quickly similarity,\nor difference of mind and disposition, makes itself felt between one\nman and another as soon as they begin to talk: every little trifle\nshows it. When two people of totally different natures are conversing,\nalmost everything said by the one will, in a greater or less degree,\ndisplease the other, and in many cases produce positive annoyance;\neven though the conversation turn upon the most out-of-the-way\nsubject, or one in which neither of the parties has any real interest.\nPeople of similar nature, on the other hand, immediately come to feel\na kind of general agreement; and if they are cast very much in the\nsame mould, complete harmony or even unison will flow from their\nintercourse.\n\nThis explain two circumstances. First of all, it shows why it is that\ncommon, ordinary people are so sociable and find good company wherever\nthey go. Ah! those good, dear, brave people. It is just the contrary\nwith those who are not of the common run; and the less they are so,\nthe more unsociable they become; so that if, in their isolation, they\nchance to come across some one in whose nature they can find even\na single sympathetic chord, be it never so minute, they show\nextraordinary pleasure in his society. For one man can be to another\nonly so much as the other is to him. Great minds are like eagles, and\nbuild their nest in some lofty solitude.\n\nSecondly, we are enabled to understand how it is that people of like\ndisposition so quickly get on with one another, as though they were\ndrawn together by magnetic force--kindred souls greeting each other\nfrom afar. Of course the most frequent opportunity of observing this\nis afforded by people of vulgar tastes and inferior intellect, but\nonly because their name is legion; while those who are better off in\nthis respect and of a rarer nature, are not often to be met with: they\nare called rare because you can seldom find them.\n\nTake the case of a large number of people who have formed themselves\ninto a league for the purpose of carrying out some practical object;\nif there be two rascals among them, they will recognize each other as\nreadily as if they bore a similar badge, and will at once conspire\nfor some misfeasance or treachery. In the same way, if you can\nimagine--_per impossible_--a large company of very intelligent and\nclever people, amongst whom there are only two blockheads, these two\nwill be sure to be drawn together by a feeling of sympathy, and each\nof them will very soon secretly rejoice at having found at least one\nintelligent person in the whole company. It is really quite curious\nto see how two such men, especially if they are morally and\nintellectually of an inferior type, will recognize each other at first\nsight; with what zeal they will strive to become intimate; how affably\nand cheerily they will run to greet each other, just as though they\nwere old friends;--it is all so striking that one is tempted to\nembrace the Buddhist doctrine of metempsychosis and presume that they\nwere on familiar terms in some former state of existence.\n\nStill, in spite of all this general agreement, men are kept apart who\nmight come together; or, in some cases, a passing discord springs up\nbetween them. This is due to diversity of mood. You will hardly\never see two people exactly in the same frame of mind; for that is\nsomething which varies with their condition of life, occupation,\nsurroundings, health, the train of thought they are in at the moment,\nand so on. These differences give rise to discord between persons of\nthe most harmonious disposition. To correct the balance properly, so\nas to remove the disturbance--to introduce, as it were, a uniform\ntemperature,--is a work demanding a very high degree of culture. The\nextent to which uniformity of mood is productive of good-fellowship\nmay be measured by its effects upon a large company. When, for\ninstance, a great many people are gathered together and presented with\nsome objective interest which works upon all alike and influences them\nin a similar way, no matter what it be--a common danger or hope, some\ngreat news, a spectacle, a play, a piece of music, or anything of that\nkind--you will find them roused to a mutual expression of thought,\nand a display of sincere interest. There will be a general feeling\nof pleasure amongst them; for that which attracts their attention\nproduces a unity of mood by overpowering all private and personal\ninterests.\n\nAnd in default of some objective interest of the kind I have\nmentioned, recourse is usually had to something subjective. A bottle\nof wine is not an uncommon means of introducing a mutual feeling of\nfellowship; and even tea and coffee are used for a like end.\n\nThe discord which so easily finds its way into all society as an\neffect of the different moods in which people happen to be for the\nmoment, also in part explains why it is that memory always idealizes,\nand sometimes almost transfigures, the attitude we have taken up at\nany period of the past--a change due to our inability to remember all\nthe fleeting influences which disturbed us on any given occasion.\nMemory is in this respect like the lens of a _camera obscura_: it\ncontracts everything within its range, and so produces a much finer\npicture than the actual landscape affords. And, in the case of a man,\nabsence always goes some way towards securing this advantageous light;\nfor though the idealizing tendency of the memory requires times to\ncomplete its work, it begins it at once. Hence it is a prudent thing\nto see your friends and acquaintances only at considerable intervals\nof time; and on meeting them again, you will observe that memory has\nbeen at work.\n\nSECTION 23. No man can see _over his own height._ Let me explain what\nI mean.\n\nYou cannot see in another man any more than you have in yourself; and\nyour own intelligence strictly determines the extent to which he comes\nwithin its grasp. If your intelligence is of a very low order, mental\nqualities in another, even though they be of the highest kind,\nwill have no effect at all upon you; you will see nothing in their\npossessor except the meanest side of his individuality--in other\nwords, just those parts of his character and disposition which are\nweak and defective. Your whole estimate of the man will be confined to\nhis defects, and his higher mental qualities will no more exist for\nyou than colors exist for those who cannot see.\n\nIntellect is invisible to the man who has none. In any attempt to\ncriticise another's work, the range of knowledge possessed by the\ncritic is as essential a part of his verdict as the claims of the work\nitself.\n\nHence intercourse with others involves a process of leveling down. The\nqualities which are present in one man, and absent in another, cannot\ncome into play when they meet; and the self-sacrifice which this\nentails upon one of the parties, calls forth no recognition from the\nother.\n\nConsider how sordid, how stupid, in a word, how _vulgar_ most men\nare, and you will see that it is impossible to talk to them without\nbecoming vulgar yourself for the time being. Vulgarity is in this\nrespect like electricity; it is easily distributed. You will then\nfully appreciate the truth and propriety of the expression, _to make\nyourself cheap_; and you will be glad to avoid the society of people\nwhose only possible point of contact with you is just that part of\nyour nature of which you have least reason to be proud. So you will\nsee that, in dealing with fools and blockheads, there is only one way\nof showing your intelligence--by having nothing to do with them. That\nmeans, of course, that when you go into society, you may now and then\nfeel like a good dancer who gets an invitation to a ball, and on\narriving, finds that everyone is lame:--with whom is he to dance?\n\nSECTION 24. I feel respect for the man--and he is one in a\nhundred--who, when he is waiting or sitting unoccupied, refrains from\nrattling or beating time with anything that happens to be handy,--his\nstick, or knife and fork, or whatever else it may be. The probability\nis that he is thinking of something.\n\nWith a large number of people, it is quite evident that their power of\nsight completely dominates over their power of thought; they seem to\nbe conscious of existence only when they are making a noise; unless\nindeed they happen to be smoking, for this serves a similar end. It is\nfor the same reason that they never fail to be all eyes and ears for\nwhat is going on around them.\n\nSECTION 25. La Rochefoucauld makes the striking remark that it is\ndifficult to feel deep veneration and great affection for one and the\nsame person. If this is so, we shall have to choose whether it is\nveneration or love that we want from our fellow-men.\n\nTheir love is always selfish, though in very different ways; and the\nmeans used to gain it are not always of a kind to make us proud. A\nman is loved by others mainly in the degree in which he moderates\nhis claim on their good feeling and intelligence: but he must act\ngenuinely in the matter and without dissimulation--not merely out of\nforbearance, which is at bottom a kind of contempt. This calls to mind\na very true observation of Helvetius[1]: _the amount of intellect\nnecessary to please us, is a most accurate measure of the amount of\nintellect we have ourselves_. With these remarks as premises, it is\neasy to draw the conclusion.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. Helvetius, Claude-Adrien (1715-71),\na French philosophical writer much esteemed by Schopenhauer. His chief\nwork, _De l'Esprit_, excited great interest and opposition at the\ntime of its publication, on account of the author's pronounced\nmaterialism.]\n\nNow with veneration the case is just the opposite; it is wrung from\nmen reluctantly, and for that very reason mostly concealed. Hence, as\ncompared with love, veneration gives more real satisfaction; for it is\nconnected with personal value, and the same is not directly true\nof love, which is subjective in its nature, whilst veneration is\nobjective. To be sure, it is more useful to be loved than to be\nvenerated.\n\nSECTION 26. Most men are so thoroughly subjective that nothing really\ninterests them but themselves. They always think of their own case\nas soon as ever any remark is made, and their whole attention is\nengrossed and absorbed by the merest chance reference to anything\nwhich affects them personally, be it never so remote: with the result\nthat they have no power left for forming an objective view of things,\nshould the conversation take that turn; neither can they admit any\nvalidity in arguments which tell against their interest or their\nvanity. Hence their attention is easily distracted. They are so\nreadily offended, insulted or annoyed, that in discussing any\nimpersonal matter with them, no care is too great to avoid letting\nyour remarks bear the slightest possible reference to the very worthy\nand sensitive individuals whom you have before you; for anything you\nmay say will perhaps hurt their feelings. People really care about\nnothing that does not affect them personally. True and striking\nobservations, fine, subtle and witty things are lost upon them: they\ncannot understand or feel them. But anything that disturbs their petty\nvanity in the most remote and indirect way, or reflects prejudicially\nupon their exceedingly precious selves--to that, they are most\ntenderly sensitive. In this respect they are like the little dog whose\ntoes you are so apt to tread upon inadvertently--you know it by the\nshrill bark it sets up: or, again, they resemble a sick man covered\nwith sores and boils, with whom the greatest care must be taken to\navoid unnecessary handling. And in some people this feeling reaches\nsuch a pass that, if they are talking with anyone, and he exhibits, or\ndoes not sufficiently conceal, his intelligence and discernment, they\nlook upon it as a downright insult; although for the moment they hide\ntheir ill will, and the unsuspecting author of it afterwards ruminates\nin vain upon their conduct, and racks his brain to discover what he\ncould possibly have done to excite their malice and hatred.\n\nBut it is just as easy to flatter and win them over; and this is why\ntheir judgment is usually corrupt, and why their opinions are swayed,\nnot by what is really true and right, but by the favor of the party or\nclass to which they belong. And the ultimate reason of it all is, that\nin such people force of will greatly predominates over knowledge; and\nhence their meagre intellect is wholly given up to the service of the\nwill, and can never free itself from that service for a moment.\n\nAstrology furnishes a magnificent proof of this miserable subjective\ntendency in men, which leads them to see everything only as bearing\nupon themselves, and to think of nothing that is not straightway made\ninto a personal matter. The aim of astrology is to bring the motions\nof the celestial bodies into relation with the wretched _Ego_ and to\nestablish a connection between a comet in the sky and squabbles and\nrascalities on earth.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: See, for instance, Stobasus, _Eclog. I_. xxii. 9.]\n\nSECTION 27. When any wrong statement is made, whether in public or\nin society, or in books, and well received--or, at any rate, not\nrefuted--that that is no reason why you should despair or think there\nthe matter will rest. You should comfort yourself with the reflection\nthat the question will be afterwards gradually subjected to\nexamination; light will be thrown upon it; it will be thought over,\nconsidered, discussed, and generally in the end the correct view will\nbe reached; so that, after a time--the length of which will depend\nupon the difficulty of the subject--everyone will come to understand\nthat which a clear head saw at once.\n\nIn the meantime, of course, you must have patience. He who can see\ntruly in the midst of general infatuation is like a man whose watch\nkeeps good time, when all clocks in the town in which he lives are\nwrong. He alone knows the right time; but what use is that to him?\nfor everyone goes by the clocks which speak false, not even excepting\nthose who know that his watch is the only one that is right.\n\nSECTION 28. Men are like children, in that, if you spoil them, they\nbecome naughty.\n\nTherefore it is well not to be too indulgent or charitable with\nanyone. You may take it as a general rule that you will not lose a\nfriend by refusing him a loan, but that you are very likely to do\nso by granting it; and, for similar reasons, you will not readily\nalienate people by being somewhat proud and careless in your\nbehaviour; but if you are very kind and complaisant towards them, you\nwill often make them arrogant and intolerable, and so a breach will\nensue.\n\nThere is one thing that, more than any other, throws people absolutely\noff their balance--the thought that you are dependent upon them. This\nis sure to produce an insolent and domineering manner towards you.\nThere are some people, indeed, who become rude if you enter into any\nkind of relation with them; for instance, if you have occasion to\nconverse with them frequently upon confidential matters, they soon\ncome to fancy that they can take liberties with you, and so they try\nand transgress the laws of politeness. This is why there are so few\nwith whom you care to become more intimate, and why you should avoid\nfamiliarity with vulgar people. If a man comes to think that I am more\ndependent upon him than he is upon me, he at once feels as though I\nhad stolen something from him; and his endeavor will be to have his\nvengeance and get it back. The only way to attain superiority in\ndealing with men, is to let it be seen that you are independent of\nthem.\n\nAnd in this view it is advisable to let everyone of your\nacquaintance--whether man or woman--feel now and then that you\ncould very well dispense with their company. This will consolidate\nfriendship. Nay, with most people there will be no harm in\noccasionally mixing a grain of disdain with your treatment of them;\nthat will make them value your friendship all the more. _Chi non\nistima vien stimato_, as a subtle Italian proverb has it--to disregard\nis to win regard. But if we really think very highly of a person, we\nshould conceal it from him like a crime. This is not a very gratifying\nthing to do, but it is right. Why, a dog will not bear being treated\ntoo kindly, let alone a man!\n\nSECTION 29. It is often the case that people of noble character and\ngreat mental gifts betray a strange lack of worldly wisdom and a\ndeficiency in the knowledge of men, more especially when they are\nyoung; with the result that it is easy to deceive or mislead them; and\nthat, on the other hand, natures of the commoner sort are more ready\nand successful in making their way in the world.\n\nThe reason of this is that, when a man has little or no experience,\nhe must judge by his own antecedent notions; and in matters demanding\njudgment, an antecedent notion is never on the same level as\nexperience. For, with the commoner sort of people, an antecedent\nnotion means just their own selfish point of view. This is not the\ncase with those whose mind and character are above the ordinary; for\nit is precisely in this respect--their unselfishness--that they differ\nfrom the rest of mankind; and as they judge other people's thoughts\nand actions by their own high standard, the result does not always\ntally with their calculation.\n\nBut if, in the end, a man of noble character comes to see, as the\neffect of his own experience, or by the lessons he learns from others,\nwhat it is that may be expected of men in general,--namely, that\nfive-sixths of them are morally and intellectually so constituted\nthat, if circumstances do not place you in relation with them, you had\nbetter get out of their way and keep as far as possible from having\nanything to do with them,--still, he will scarcely ever attain an\nadequate notion of their wretchedly mean and shabby nature: all his\nlife long he will have to be extending and adding to the inferior\nestimate he forms of them; and in the meantime he will commit a great\nmany mistakes and do himself harm.\n\nThen, again, after he has really taken to heart the lessons that have\nbeen taught him, it will occasionally happen that, when he is in the\nsociety of people whom he does not know, he will be surprised to\nfind how thoroughly reasonable they all appear to be, both in their\nconversation and in their demeanor--in fact, quite honest, sincere,\nvirtuous and trustworthy people, and at the same time shrewd and\nclever.\n\nBut that ought not to perplex him. Nature is not like those bad\npoets, who, in setting a fool or a knave before us, do their work so\nclumsily, and with such evident design, that you might almost\nfancy you saw the poet standing behind each of his characters, and\ncontinually disavowing their sentiments, and telling you in a tone of\nwarning: _This is a knave; that is a fool; do not mind what he says_.\nBut Nature goes to work like Shakespeare and Goethe, poets who\nmake every one of their characters--even if it is the devil\nhimself!--appear to be quite in the right for the moment that they\ncome before us in their several parts; the characters are described so\nobjectively that they excite our interest and compel us to sympathize\nwith their point of view; for, like the works of Nature, every one\nof these characters is evolved as the result of some hidden law\nor principle, which makes all they say and do appear natural and\ntherefore necessary. And you will always be the prey or the plaything\nof the devils and fools in this world, if you expect to see them going\nabout with horns or jangling their bells.\n\nAnd it should be borne in mind that, in their intercourse with others,\npeople are like the moon, or like hunchbacks; they show you only one\nof their sides. Every man has an innate talent for mimicry,--for\nmaking a mask out of his physiognomy, so that he can always look as\nif he really were what he pretends to be; and since he makes his\ncalculations always within the lines of his individual nature, the\nappearance he puts on suits him to a nicety, and its effect is\nextremely deceptive. He dons his mask whenever his object is to\nflatter himself into some one's good opinion; and you may pay just as\nmuch attention to it as if it were made of wax or cardboard, never\nforgetting that excellent Italian proverb: _non \u00e9 si tristo cane che\nnon meni la coda_,--there is no dog so bad but that he will wag his\ntail.\n\nIn any case it is well to take care not to form a highly favorable\nopinion of a person whose acquaintance you have only recently made,\nfor otherwise you are very likely to be disappointed; and then you\nwill be ashamed of yourself and perhaps even suffer some injury.\nAnd while I am on the subject, there is another fact that deserves\nmention. It is this. A man shows his character just in the way in\nwhich he deals with trifles,--for then he is off his guard. This will\noften afford a good opportunity of observing the boundless egoism of\nman's nature, and his total lack of consideration for others; and\nif these defects show themselves in small things, or merely in his\ngeneral demeanor, you will find that they also underlie his action in\nmatters of importance, although he may disguise the fact. This is an\nopportunity which should not be missed. If in the little affairs of\nevery day,--the trifles of life, those matters to which the rule _de\nminimis non_ applies,--a man is inconsiderate and seeks only what is\nadvantageous or convenient to himself, to the prejudice of others'\nrights; if he appropriates to himself that which belongs to all alike,\nyou may be sure there is no justice in his heart, and that he would be\na scoundrel on a wholesale scale, only that law and compulsion bind\nhis hands. Do not trust him beyond your door. He who is not afraid\nto break the laws of his own private circle, will break those of the\nState when he can do so with impunity.\n\nIf the average man were so constituted that the good in him outweighed\nthe bad, it would be more advisable to rely upon his sense of justice,\nfairness, gratitude, fidelity, love or compassion, than to work upon\nhis fears; but as the contrary is the case, and it is the bad that\noutweighs the good, the opposite course is the more prudent one.\n\nIf any person with whom we are associated or have to do, exhibits\nunpleasant or annoying qualities, we have only to ask ourselves\nwhether or not this person is of so much value to us that we can put\nup with frequent and repeated exhibitions of the same qualities in a\nsomewhat aggravated form.[1] In case of an affirmative answer to this\nquestion, there will not be much to be said, because talking is very\nlittle use. We must let the matter pass, with or without some notice;\nbut we should nevertheless remember that we are thereby exposing\nourselves to a repetition of the offence. If the answer is in the\nnegative, we must break with our worthy friend at once and forever; or\nin the case of a servant, dismiss him. For he will inevitably repeat\nthe offence, or do something tantamount to it, should the occasion\nreturn, even though for the moment he is deep and sincere in his\nassurances of the contrary. There is nothing, absolutely nothing,\nthat a man cannot forget,--but not _himself, his own character_. For\ncharacter is incorrigible; because all a man's actions emanate from an\ninward principle, in virtue of which he must always do the same thing\nunder like circumstances; and he cannot do otherwise. Let me refer to\nmy prize essay on the so-called _Freedom of the Will_, the perusal\nof which will dissipate any delusions the reader may have on this\nsubject.\n\n[Footnote 1: To _forgive and forget_ means to throw away dearly bought\nexperience.]\n\nTo become reconciled to a friend with whom you have broken, is a form\nof weakness; and you pay the penalty of it when he takes the first\nopportunity of doing precisely the very thing which brought about\nthe breach; nay, he does it the more boldly, because he is secretly\nconscious that you cannot get on without him. This is also applicable\nto servants whom you have dismissed, and then taken into your service\nagain.\n\nFor the same reason, you should just as little expect people to\ncontinue to act in a similar way under altered circumstances. The\ntruth is that men alter their demeanor and sentiments just as fast as\ntheir interest changes; and their resign in this respect is a bill\ndrawn for short payment that the man must be still more short-sighted\nwho accepts the bill without protesting it. Accordingly, suppose you\nwant to know how a man will behave in an office into which you think\nof putting him; you should not build upon expectations, on his\npromises or assurances. For, even allowing that he is quite sincere,\nhe is speaking about a matter of which he has no knowledge. The only\nway to calculate how he will behave, is to consider the circumstances\nin which he will be placed, and the extent to which they will conflict\nwith his character.\n\nIf you wish to get a clear and profound insight--and it is very\nneedful--into the true but melancholy elements of which most men are\nmade, you will find in a very instructive thing to take the way they\nbehave in the pages of literature as a commentary to their doings in\npractical life, and _vice versa._ The experience thus gained will be\nvery useful in avoiding wrong ideas, whether about yourself or about\nothers. But if you come across any special trait of meanness or\nstupidity--in life or in literature,--you must be careful not to let\nit annoy or distress you, but to look upon it merely as an addition to\nyour knowledge--a new fact to be considered in studying the character\nof humanity. Your attitude towards it will be that of the mineralogist\nwho stumbles upon a very characteristic specimen of a mineral.\n\nOf course there are some facts which are very exceptional, and it is\ndifficult to understand how they arise, and how it is that there come\nto be such enormous differences between man and man; but, in general,\nwhat was said long ago is quite true, and the world is in a very bad\nway. In savage countries they eat one another, in civilized they\ndeceive one another; and that is what people call the way of the\nworld! What are States and all the elaborate systems of political\nmachinery, and the rule of force, whether in home or in foreign\naffairs,--what are they but barriers against the boundless iniquity\nof mankind? Does not all history show that whenever a king is firmly\nplanted on a throne, and his people reach some degree of prosperity,\nhe uses it to lead his army, like a band of robbers, against adjoining\ncountries? Are not almost all wars ultimately undertaken for purposes\nof plunder? In the most remote antiquity, and to some extent also in\nthe Middle Ages, the conquered became slaves,--in other words, they\nhad to work for those who conquered them; and where is the difference\nbetween that and paying war-taxes, which represent the product of our\nprevious work?\n\nAll war, says Voltaire, is a matter of robbery; and the Germans should\ntake that as a warning.\n\nSECTION 30. No man is so formed that he can be left entirely to\nhimself, to go his own ways; everyone needs to be guided by a\npreconceived plan, and to follow certain general rules. But if this is\ncarried too far, and a man tries to take on a character which is not\nnatural or innate in him, but it artificially acquired and evolved\nmerely by a process of reasoning, he will very soon discover that\nNature cannot be forced, and that if you drive it out, it will return\ndespite your efforts:--\n\n_Naturam expelles furca, tamen usque recurret_.\n\nTo understand a rule governing conduct towards others, even to\ndiscover it for oneself and to express it neatly, is easy enough; and\nstill, very soon afterwards, the rule may be broken in practice. But\nthat is no reason for despair; and you need not fancy that as it is\nimpossible to regulate your life in accordance with abstract ideas\nand maxims, it is better to live just as you please. Here, as in all\ntheoretical instruction that aims at a practical result, the first\nthing to do is to understand the rule; the second thing is to learn\nthe practice of it. The theory may be understand at once by an effort\nof reason, and yet the practice of it acquired only in course of time.\n\nA pupil may lean the various notes on an instrument of music, or the\ndifferent position in fencing; and when he makes a mistake, as he\nis sure to do, however hard he tries, he is apt to think it will be\nimpossible to observe the rules, when he is set to read music at sight\nor challenged to a furious duel. But for all that, gradual practice\nmakes him perfect, through a long series of slips, blunders and fresh\nefforts. It is just the same in other things; in learning to write and\nspeak Latin, a man will forget the grammatical rules; it is only\nby long practice that a blockhead turns into a courtier, that a\npassionate man becomes shrewd and worldly-wise, or a frank person\nreserved, or a noble person ironical. But though self-discipline of\nthis kind is the result of long habit, it always works by a sort of\nexternal compulsion, which Nature never ceases to resist and sometimes\nunexpectedly overcomes. The difference between action in accordance\nwith abstract principles, and action as the result of original,\ninnate tendency, is the same as that between a work of art, say a\nwatch--where form and movement are impressed upon shapeless and inert\nmatter--and a living organism, where form and matter are one, and each\nis inseparable from the other.\n\nThere is a maxim attributed to the Emperor Napoleon, which expresses\nthis relation between acquired and innate character, and confirms what\nI have said: _everything that is unnatural is imperfect_;--a rule of\nuniversal application, whether in the physical or in the moral sphere.\nThe only exception I can think of to this rule is aventurine,[1] a\nsubstance known to mineralogists, which in its natural state cannot\ncompare with the artificial preparation of it.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. Aventurine is a rare kind of quartz;\nand the same name is given to a brownish-colored glass much resembling\nit, which is manufactured at Murano. It is so called from the fact\nthat the glass was discovered by chance _(arventura)_.]\n\nAnd in this connection let me utter a word of protest against any and\nevery form of _affectation_. It always arouses contempt; in the first\nplace, because it argues deception, and the deception is cowardly,\nfor it is based on fear; and, secondly, it argues self-condemnation,\nbecause it means that a man is trying to appear what he is not, and\ntherefore something which he things better than he actually is. To\naffect a quality, and to plume yourself upon it, is just to confess\nthat you have not got it. Whether it is courage, or learning, or\nintellect, or wit, or success with women, or riches, or social\nposition, or whatever else it may be that a man boasts of, you may\nconclude by his boasting about it that that is precisely the direction\nin which he is rather weak; for if a man really possesses any faculty\nto the full, it will not occur to him to make a great show of\naffecting it; he is quite content to know that he has it. That is the\napplication of the Spanish proverb: _herradura que chacolotea clavo le\nfalta_--a clattering hoof means a nail gone. To be sure, as I said at\nfirst, no man ought to let the reins go quite loose, and show himself\njust as he is; for there are many evil and bestial sides to our nature\nwhich require to be hidden away out of sight; and this justifies the\nnegative attitude of dissimulation, but it does not justify a\npositive feigning of qualities which are not there. It should also be\nremembered that affectation is recognized at once, even before it is\nclear what it is that is being affected. And, finally, affectation\ncannot last very long, and one day the mask will fall off. _Nemo\npotest personam diu ferre fictam_, says Seneca;[1] _ficta cito in\nnaturam suam recidunt_--no one can persevere long in a fictitious\ncharacter; for nature will soon reassert itself.\n\n[Footnote 1: _De Clementia, I_. 1.]\n\nSECTION 31. A man bears the weight of his own body without knowing it,\nbut he soon feels the weight of any other, if he tries to move it; in\nthe same way, a man can see other people's shortcoming's and vices,\nbut he is blind to his own. This arrangement has one advantage: it\nturns other people into a kind of mirror, in which a man can see\nclearly everything that is vicious, faulty, ill-bred and loathsome in\nhis own nature; only, it is generally the old story of the dog barking\nat is own image; it is himself that he sees and not another dog, as he\nfancies.\n\nHe who criticises others, works at the reformation of himself. Those\nwho form the secret habit of scrutinizing other people's general\nbehavior, and passing severe judgment upon what they do and leave\nundone, thereby improve themselves, and work out their own perfection:\nfor they will have sufficient sense of justice, or at any rate enough\npride and vanity, to avoid in their own case that which they condemn\nso harshly elsewhere. But tolerant people are just the opposite,\nand claim for themselves the same indulgence that they extend to\nothers--_hanc veniam damus petimusque vicissim_. It is all very well\nfor the Bible to talk about the mote in another's eye and the beam in\none's own. The nature of the eye is to look not at itself but at other\nthings; and therefore to observe and blame faults in another is a\nvery suitable way of becoming conscious of one's own. We require a\nlooking-glass for the due dressing of our morals.\n\nThe same rule applies in the case of style and fine writing. If,\ninstead of condemning, you applaud some new folly in these matters,\nyou will imitate it. That is just why literary follies have such vogue\nin Germany. The Germans are a very tolerant people--everybody can see\nthat! Their maxim is--_Hanc veniam damns petimusque vicissim._\n\nSECTION 32. When he is young, a man of noble character fancies that\nthe relations prevailing amongst mankind, and the alliances to which\nthese relations lead, are at bottom and essentially, _ideal_ in their\nnature; that is to say, that they rest upon similarity of disposition\nor sentiment, or taste, or intellectual power, and so on.\n\nBut, later on, he finds out that it is a _real_ foundation which\nunderlies these alliances; that they are based upon some _material_\ninterest. This is the true foundation of almost all alliances: nay,\nmost men have no notion of an alliance resting upon any other basis.\nAccordingly we find that a man is always measured by the office he\nholds, or by his occupation, nationality, or family relations--in a\nword, by the position and character which have been assigned him\nin the conventional arrangements of life, where he is ticketed and\ntreated as so much goods. Reference to what he is in himself, as a\nman--to the measure of his own personal qualities--is never made\nunless for convenience' sake: and so that view of a man is something\nexceptional, to be set aside and ignored, the moment that anyone finds\nit disagreeable; and this is what usually happens. But the more of\npersonal worth a man has, the less pleasure he will take in these\nconventional arrangements; and he will try to withdraw from the sphere\nin which they apply. The reason why these arrangements exist at all,\nis simply that in this world of ours misery and need are the chief\nfeatures: therefore it is everywhere the essential and paramount\nbusiness of life to devise the means of alleviating them.\n\nSECTION 33. As paper-money circulates in the world instead of real\ncoin, so, is the place of true esteem and genuine friendship, you have\nthe outward appearance of it--a mimic show made to look as much like\nthe real thing as possible.\n\nOn the other hand, it may be asked whether there are any people who\nreally deserve the true coin. For my own part, I should certainly pay\nmore respect to an honest dog wagging his tail than to a hundred such\ndemonstrations of human regard.\n\nTrue and genuine friendship presupposes a strong sympathy with the\nweal and woe of another--purely objective in its character and quite\ndisinterested; and this in its turn means an absolute identification\nof self with the object of friendship. The egoism of human nature is\nso strongly antagonistic to any such sympathy, that true friendship\nbelongs to that class of things--the sea-serpent, for instance,--with\nregard to which no one knows whether they are fabulous or really exist\nsomewhere or other.\n\nStill, in many cases, there is a grain of true and genuine friendship\nin the relation of man to man, though generally, of course, some\nsecret personal interest is at the bottom of them--some one among the\nmany forms that selfishness can take. But in a world where all is\nimperfect, this grain of true feeling is such an ennobling influence\nthat it gives some warrant for calling those relations by the name of\nfriendship, for they stand far above the ordinary friendships that\nprevail amongst mankind. The latter are so constituted that, were you\nto hear how your dear friends speak of you behind your back, you would\nnever say another word to them.\n\nApart from the case where it would be a real help to you if your\nfriend were to make some great sacrifice to serve you, there is no\nbetter means of testing the genuineness of his feelings than the way\nin which he receives the news of a misfortune that has just happened\nto you. At that moment the expression of his features will either show\nthat his one thought is that of true and sincere sympathy for you; or\nelse the absolute composure of his countenance, or the passing trace\nof something other than sympathy, will confirm the well-known maxim\nof La Rochefoucauld: _Dans l'adversite de nos meilleurs amis, nous\ntrouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous deplait pas_. Indeed, at\nsuch a moment, the ordinary so-called friend will find it hard to\nsuppress the signs of a slight smile of pleasure. There are few ways\nby which you can make more certain of putting people into a good humor\nthan by telling them of some trouble that has recently befallen you,\nor by unreservedly disclosing some personal weakness of yours. How\ncharacteristic this is of humanity!\n\nDistance and long absence are always prejudicial to friendship,\nhowever disinclined a man may be to admit. Our regard for people whom\nwe do not see--even though they be our dearest friends--gradually\ndries up in the course of years, and they become abstract notions;\nso that our interest in them grows to be more and more\nintellectual,--nay, it is kept up only as a kind of tradition; whilst\nwe retain a lively and deep interest in those who are constantly\nbefore our eyes, even if they be only pet animals. This shows how\nmuch men are limited by their senses, and how true is the remark that\nGoethe makes in _Tasso_ about the dominant influence of the present\nmoment:--\n\n  _Die Gegenwart ist eine m\u00e4chtige G\u00f6ttin_[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: Act iv., se. 4.]\n\n_Friends of the house_ are very rightly so called; because they are\nfriends of the house rather than of its master; in other words, they\nare more like cats than dogs.\n\nYour friends will tell you that they are sincere; your enemies are\nreally so. Let your enemies' censure be like a bitter medicine, to be\nused as a means of self-knowledge.\n\nA friend in need, as the saying goes, is rare. Nay, it is just the\ncontrary; no sooner have you made a friend than he is in need, and\nasks for a loan.\n\nSECTION 34. A man must be still a greenhorn in the ways of the\nworld, if he imagines that he can make himself popular in society by\nexhibiting intelligence and discernment. With the immense majority\nof people, such qualities excite hatred and resentment, which are\nrendered all the harder to bear by the fact that people are obliged to\nsuppress--even from themselves--the real reason of their anger.\n\nWhat actually takes place is this. A man feels and perceives that the\nperson with whom he is conversing is intellectually very much his\nsuperior.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: Cf. _Welt als Wills und Vorstellung_, Bk. II. p. 256 (4th\nEdit.), where I quote from Dr. Johnson, and from Merck, the friend\nof Goethe's youth. The former says: _There is nothing by which a man\nexasperates most people more, than by displaying a superior ability of\nbrilliancy in conversation. They seem pleased at the time, but their\nenvy makes them curse him at their hearts._ (Boswells _Life of\nJohnson_ aetat: 74).]\n\nHe thereupon secretly and half unconsciously concludes that his\ninterlocutor must form a proportionately low and limited estimate of\nhis abilities. That is a method of reasoning--an enthymeme--which\nrouses the bitterest feelings of sullen and rancorous hatred. And so\nGracian is quite right in saying that the only way to win affection\nfrom people is to show the most animal-like simplicity of\ndemeanor--_para ser bien quisto, el unico medio vestirse la piel del\nmas simple de los brutos_.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Balthazar Graeian, _Oraculo manual,\ny arte de prudencia_, 240. Gracian (1584-1658) was a Spanish prose\nwriter and Jesuit, whose works deal chiefly with the observation\nof character in the various phenomena of life. Schopenhauer, among\nothers, had a great admiration for his worldly philosophy, and\ntranslated his _Oraculo manual_--a system of rules for the conduct of\nlife--into German. The same book was translated into English towards\nthe close of the seventeenth century.]\n\nTo show your intelligence and discernment is only an indirect way of\nreproaching other people for being dull and incapable. And besides, it\nis natural for a vulgar man to be violently agitated by the sight of\nopposition in any form; and in this case envy comes in as the secret\ncause of his hostility. For it is a matter of daily observation that\npeople take the greatest pleasure in that which satisfies their\nvanity; and vanity cannot be satisfied without comparison with others.\nNow, there is nothing of which a man is prouder than of intellectual\nability, for it is this that gives him his commanding place in the\nanimal world. It is an exceedingly rash thing to let any one see that\nyou are decidedly superior to him in this respect, and to let other\npeople see it too; because he will then thirst for vengeance, and\ngenerally look about for an opportunity of taking it by means of\ninsult, because this is to pass from the sphere of _intellect_ to\nthat of _will_--and there, all are on an equal footing as regards the\nfeeling of hostility. Hence, while rank and riches may always reckon\nupon deferential treatment in society, that is something which\nintellectual ability can never expect; to be ignored is the greatest\nfavor shown to it; and if people notice it at all, it is because they\nregard it as a piece of impertinence, or else as something to which\nits possessor has no legitimate right, and upon which he dares to\npride himself; and in retaliation and revenge for his conduct, people\nsecretly try and humiliate him in some other way; and if they wait to\ndo this, it is only for a fitting opportunity. A man may be as humble\nas possible in his demeanor, and yet hardly ever get people to\noverlook his crime in standing intellectually above them. In the\n_Garden of Roses_, Sadi makes the remark:--_You should know that\nfoolish people are a hundredfold more averse to meeting the wise than\nthe wise are indisposed for the company of the foolish_.\n\nOn the other hand, it is a real recommendation to be stupid. For just\nas warmth is agreeable to the body, so it does the mind good to feel\nits superiority; and a man will seek company likely to give him this\nfeeling, as instinctively as he will approach the fireplace or walk\nin the sun if he wants to get warm. But this means that he will be\ndisliked on account of his superiority; and if a man is to be liked,\nhe must really be inferior in point of intellect; and the same thing\nholds good of a woman in point of beauty. To give proof of real and\nunfeigned inferiority to some of the people you meet--that is a very\ndifficult business indeed!\n\nConsider how kindly and heartily a girl who is passably pretty will\nwelcome one who is downright ugly. Physical advantages are not thought\nso much of in the case of man, though I suppose you would rather a\nlittle man sat next to you than one who was bigger than yourself. This\nis why, amongst men, it is the dull and ignorant, and amongst women,\nthe ugly, who are always popular and in request.[1] It is likely to\nbe said of such people that they are extremely good-natured, because\nevery one wants to find a pretext for caring about them--a pretext\nwhich will blind both himself and other people to the real reason why\nhe likes them. This is also why mental superiority of any sort always\ntends to isolate its possessor; people run away from him out of\npure hatred, and say all manner of bad things about him by way of\njustifying their action. Beauty, in the case of women, has a similar\neffect: very pretty girls have no friends of their own sex, and they\neven find it hard to get another girl to keep them company. A handsome\nwoman should always avoid applying for a position as companion,\nbecause the moment she enters the room, her prospective mistress will\nscowl at her beauty, as a piece of folly with which, both for her own\nand for her daughter's sake, she can very well dispense. But if the\ngirl has advantages of rank, the case is very different; because rank,\nunlike personal qualities which work by the force of mere contrast,\nproduces its effect by a process of reflection; much in the same\nway as the particular hue of a person's complexion depends upon the\nprevailing tone of his immediate surroundings.\n\n[Footnote 1: If you desire to get on in the world, friends and\nacquaintances are by far the best passport to fortune. The possession\nof a great deal of ability makes a man proud, and therefore not apt to\nflatter those who have very little, and from whom, on that account,\nthe possession of great ability should be carefully concealed. The\nconsciousness of small intellectual power has just the opposite\neffect, and is very compatible with a humble, affable and\ncompanionable nature, and with respect for what is mean and wretched.\nThis is why an inferior sort of man has so many friends to befriend\nand encourage him.\n\nThese remarks are applicable not only to advancement in political\nlife, but to all competition for places of honor and dignity, nay,\neven for reputation in the world of science, literature and art. In\nlearned societies, for example, mediocrity--that very acceptable\nquality--is always to the fore, whilst merit meets with tardy\nrecognition, or with none at all. So it is in everything.]\n\nSECTION 35. Our trust in other people often consists in great measure\nof pure laziness, selfishness and vanity on our own part: I say\n_laziness_, because, instead of making inquiries ourselves, and\nexercising an active care, we prefer to trust others; _selfishness_,\nbecause we are led to confide in people by the pressure of our own\naffairs; and _vanity_, when we ask confidence for a matter on which we\nrather pride ourselves. And yet, for all that, we expect people to be\ntrue to the trust we repose in them.\n\nBut we ought not to become angry if people put no trust in us: because\nthat really means that they pay honesty the sincere compliment of\nregarding it as a very rare thing,--so rare, indeed, as to leave us in\ndoubt whether its existence is not merely fabulous.\n\nSECTION 36. _Politeness_,--which the Chinese hold to be a cardinal\nvirtue,--is based upon two considerations of policy. I have explained\none of these considerations in my _Ethics_; the other is as\nfollows:--Politeness is a tacit agreement that people's miserable\ndefects, whether moral or intellectual, shall on either side be\nignored and not made the subject of reproach; and since these defects\nare thus rendered somewhat less obtrusive, the result is mutually\nadvantageous.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--In the passage referred to\n_(Grundlage der Moral_, collected works, Vol. IV., pp. 187 and 198),\nSchopenhauer explains politeness as a conventional and systematic\nattempt to mask the egoism of human nature in the small affairs of\nlife,--an egoism so repulsive that some such device is necessary for\nthe purpose of concealing its ugliness. The relation which politeness\nbears to the true love of one's neighbor is analogous to that existing\nbetween justice as an affair of legality, and justice as the real\nintegrity of the heart.]\n\nIt is a wise thing to be polite; consequently, it is a stupid thing\nto be rude. To make enemies by unnecessary and willful incivility,\nis just as insane a proceeding as to set your house on fire. For\npoliteness is like a counter--an avowedly false coin, with which it is\nfoolish to be stingy. A sensible man will be generous in the use\nof it. It is customary in every country to end a letter with\nthe words:--_your most obedient servant_--_votre tr\u00e8s-humble\nserviteur_--_suo devotissimo servo_. (The Germans are the only people\nwho suppress the word _servant_--_Diener_--because, of course, it is\nnot true!) However, to carry politeness to such an extent as to damage\nyour prospects, is like giving money where only counters are expected.\n\nWax, a substance naturally hard and brittle, can be made soft by the\napplication of a little warmth, so that it will take any shape you\nplease. In the same way, by being polite and friendly, you can make\npeople pliable and obliging, even though they are apt to be crabbed\nand malevolent. Hence politeness is to human nature what warmth is to\nwax.\n\nOf course, it is no easy matter to be polite; in so far, I mean, as it\nrequires us to show great respect for everybody, whereas most people\ndeserve none at all; and again in so far as it demands that we should\nfeign the most lively interest in people, when we must be very glad\nthat we have nothing to do with them. To combine politeness with pride\nis a masterpiece of wisdom.\n\nWe should be much less ready to lose our temper over an\ninsult,--which, in the strict sense of the word, means that we have\nnot been treated with respect,--if, on the one hand, we have not such\nan exaggerated estimate of our value and dignity--that is to say, if\nwe were not so immensely proud of ourselves; and, on the other hand,\nif we had arrived at any clear notion of the judgment which, in his\nheart, one man generally passes upon another. If most people resent\nthe slightest hint that any blame attaches to them, you may imagine\ntheir feelings if they were to overhear what their acquaintance say\nabout them. You should never lose sight of the fact that ordinary\npoliteness is only a grinning mask: if it shifts its place a little,\nor is removed for a moment, there is no use raising a hue and cry.\nWhen a man is downright rude, it is as though he had taken off all his\nclothes, and stood before you in _puris naturalibus_. Like most men in\nthis condition, he does not present a very attractive appearance.\n\nSECTION 37. You ought never to take any man as a model for what you\nshould do or leave undone; because position and circumstances are in\nno two cases alike, and difference of character gives a peculiar,\nindividual tone to what a man does. Hence _duo cum faciunt idem, non\nest idem_--two persons may do the same thing with a different result.\nA man should act in accordance with his own character, as soon as he\nhas carefully deliberated on what he is about to do.\n\nThe outcome of this is that _originality_ cannot be dispensed with in\npractical matters: otherwise, what a man does will not accord with\nwhat he is.\n\nSECTION 38. Never combat any man's opinion; for though you reached the\nage of Methuselah, you would never have done setting him right upon\nall the absurd things that he believes.\n\nIt is also well to avoid correcting people's mistakes in conversation,\nhowever good your intentions may be; for it is easy to offend people,\nand difficult, if not impossible, to mend them.\n\nIf you feel irritated by the absurd remarks of two people whose\nconversation you happen to overhear, you should imagine that you are\nlistening to a dialogue of two fools in a comedy. _Probatum est._\n\nThe man who comes into the world with the notion that he is really\ngoing to instruct in matters of the highest importance, may thank his\nstars if he escapes with a whole skin.\n\nSECTION 39. If you want your judgment to be accepted, express it\ncoolly and without passion. All violence has its seat in the _will_;\nand so, if your judgment is expressed with vehemence, people will\nconsider it an effort of will, and not the outcome of knowledge, which\nis in its nature cold and unimpassioned. Since the will is the primary\nand radical element in human nature, and _intellect_ merely supervenes\nas something secondary, people are more likely to believe that the\nopinion you express with so much vehemence is due to the excited state\nof your will, rather than that the excitement of the will comes only\nfrom the ardent nature of your opinion.\n\nSECTION 40. Even when you are fully justified in praising yourself,\nyou should never be seduced into doing so. For vanity is so very\ncommon, and merit so very uncommon, that even if a man appears to be\npraising himself, though very indirectly, people will be ready to lay\na hundred to one that he is talking out of pure vanity, and that he\nhas not sense enough to see what a fool he is making of himself.\n\nStill, for all that, there may be some truth in Bacon's remark that,\nas in the case of calumny, if you throw enough dirt, some of it will\nstick, so it it also in regard to self-praise; with the conclusion\nthat self-praise, in small doses, is to be recommended.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Schopenhauer alludes to the\nfollowing passage in Bacon's _De Augmentis Scientiarum_, Bk. viii.,\nch. 2: _Sicut enim dici solet de calumnia_, audacter calumniare,\nsemper aliquid haeret; _sic dici potest de jactantia, (nisi plane\ndeformis fuerit et ridicula_), audacter te vendita, semper aliquid\nhaeret. _Haerebit certe apud populum, licet prudentiores subrideant.\nItaque existimatio parta apud plurimos paucorum fastidium abunde\ncompensabit._]\n\nSECTION 41. If you have reason to suspect that a person is telling you\na lie, look as though you believed every word he said. This will give\nhim courage to go on; he will become more vehement in his assertions,\nand in the end betray himself.\n\nAgain, if you perceive that a person is trying to conceal something\nfrom you, but with only partial success, look as though you did not\nbelieve him, This opposition on your part will provoke him into\nleading out his reserve of truth and bringing the whole force of it to\nbear upon your incredulity.\n\nSECTION 42. You should regard all your private affairs as secrets,\nand, in respect of them, treat your acquaintances, even though you\nare on good terms with them, as perfect strangers, letting them know\nnothing more than they can see for themselves. For in course of time,\nand under altered circumstances, you may find it a disadvantage that\nthey know even the most harmless things about you.\n\nAnd, as a general rule, it is more advisable to show your intelligence\nby saying nothing than by speaking out; for silence is a matter\nof prudence, whilst speech has something in it of vanity. The\nopportunities for displaying the one or the other quality occur\nequally often; but the fleeting satisfaction afforded by speech is\noften preferred to the permanent advantage secured by silence.\n\nThe feeling of relief which lively people experience in speaking aloud\nwhen no one is listening, should not be indulged, lest it grow into a\nhabit; for in this way thought establishes such very friendly terms\nwith speech, that conversation is apt to become a process of thinking\naloud. Prudence exacts that a wide gulf should be fixed between what\nwe think and what we say.\n\nAt times we fancy that people are utterly unable to believe in the\ntruth of some statement affecting us personally, whereas it never\noccurs to them to doubt it; but if we give them the slightest\nopportunity of doubting it, they find it absolutely impossible\nto believe it any more. We often betray ourselves into revealing\nsomething, simply because we suppose that people cannot help noticing\nit,--just as a man will throw himself down from a great height because\nhe loses his head, in other words, because he fancies that he cannot\nretain a firm footing any longer; the torment of his position is so\ngreat, that he thinks it better to put an end to it at once. This is\nthe kind of insanity which is called _acrophobia_.\n\nBut it should not be forgotten how clever people are in regard\nto affairs which do not concern them, even though they show no\nparticularly sign of acuteness in other matters. This is a kind of\nalgebra in which people are very proficient: give them a single fact\nto go upon, and they will solve the most complicated problems. So,\nif you wish to relate some event that happened long ago, without\nmentioning any names, or otherwise indicating the persons to whom you\nrefer, you should be very careful not to introduce into your narrative\nanything that might point, however distantly, to some definite fact,\nwhether it is a particular locality, or a date, or the name of some\none who was only to a small extent implicated, or anything else that\nwas even remotely connected with the event; for that at once gives\npeople something positive to go upon, and by the aid of their talent\nfor this sort of algebra, they will discover all the rest. Their\ncuriosity in these matters becomes a kind of enthusiasm: their will\nspurs on their intellect, and drives it forward to the attainment\nof the most remote results. For however unsusceptible and different\npeople may be to general and universal truths, they are very ardent in\nthe matter of particular details.\n\nIn keeping with what I have said, it will be found that all those\nwho profess to give instructions in the wisdom of life are specially\nurgent in commending the practice of silence, and assign manifold\nreasons why it should be observed; so it is not necessary for me to\nenlarge upon the subject any further. However, I may just add one or\ntwo little known Arabian proverbs, which occur to me as peculiarly\nappropriate:--\n\n_Do not tell a friend anything that you would conceal from an enemy_.\n\n_A secret is in my custody, if I keep it; but should it escape me, it\nis I who am the prisoner_.\n\n_The tree of silence bears the fruit of peace_.\n\nSECTION 43. Money is never spent to so much advantage as when you have\nbeen cheated out of it; for at one stroke you have purchased prudence.\n\nSECTION 44. If possible, no animosity should be felt for anyone. But\ncarefully observe and remember the manner in which a man conducts\nhimself, so that you may take the measure of his value,--at any\nrate in regard to yourself,--and regulate your bearing towards\nhim accordingly; never losing sight of the fact that character\nis unalterable, and that to forget the bad features in a man's\ndisposition is like throwing away hard-won money. Thus you will\nprotect yourself against the results of unwise intimacy and foolish\nfriendship.\n\n_Give way neither to love nor to hate_, is one-half of worldly wisdom:\n_say nothing and believe nothing_, the other half. Truly, a world\nwhere there is need of such rules as this and the following, is one\nupon which a man may well turn his back.\n\nSECTION 45. To speak angrily to a person, to show your hatred by\nwhat you say or by the way you look, is an unnecessary\nproceeding--dangerous, foolish, ridiculous, and vulgar.\n\nAnger and hatred should never be shown otherwise than in what you do;\nand feelings will be all the more effective in action, in so far\nas you avoid the exhibition of them in any other way. It is only\ncold-blooded animals whose bite is poisonous.\n\nSECTION 46. To speak without emphasizing your words--_parler sans\naccent_--is an old rule with those who are wise in the world's ways.\nIt means that you should leave other people to discover what it is\nthat you have said; and as their minds are slow, you can make your\nescape in time. On the other hand, to emphasize your meaning--_parler\navec accent_--is to address their feelings; and the result is always\nthe opposite of what you expect. If you are polite enough in your\nmanner and courteous in your tone there are many people whom you may\nabuse outright, and yet run no immediate risk of offending them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV,\n\nWORLDLY FORTUNE.--SECTION 47.\n\n\nHowever varied the forms that human destiny may take, the same\nelements are always present; and so life is everywhere much of a\npiece, whether it passed in the cottage or in the palace, in the\nbarrack or in the cloister. Alter the circumstance as much as you\nplease! point to strange adventures, successes, failures! life is like\na sweet-shop, where there is a great variety of things, odd in shape\nand diverse in color--one and all made from the same paste. And when\nmen speak of some one's success, the lot of the man who has failed is\nnot so very different as it seems. The inequalities in the world are\nlike the combinations in a kaleidoscope; at every turn a fresh picture\nstrikes the eye; and yet, in reality, you see only the same bits of\nglass as you saw before.\n\nSECTION 48. An ancient writer says, very truly, that there are three\ngreat powers in the world; _Sagacity, Strength_, and _Luck_,--[Greek:\nsunetos, kratos, tuchu.] I think the last is the most efficacious.\n\nA man's life is like the voyage of a ship, where luck--_secunda aut\nadversa fortuna_--acts the part of the wind, and speeds the vessel on\nits way or drives it far out of its course. All that the man can do\nfor himself is of little avail; like the rudder, which, if worked hard\nand continuously, may help in the navigation of the ship; and yet all\nmay be lost again by a sudden squall. But if the wind is only in the\nright quarter, the ship will sail on so as not to need any steering.\nThe power of luck is nowhere better expressed than in a certain\nSpanish proverb: _Da Ventura a tu hijo, y echa lo en el mar_--give\nyour son luck and throw him into the sea.\n\nStill, chance, it may be said, is a malignant power, and as little\nas possible should be left to its agency. And yet where is there any\ngiver who, in dispensing gifts, tells us quite clearly that we have no\nright to them, and that we owe them not to any merit on our part,\nbut wholly to the goodness and grace of the giver--at the same time\nallowing us to cherish the joyful hope of receiving, in all humility,\nfurther undeserved gifts from the same hands--where is there any giver\nlike that, unless it be _Chance_? who understands the kingly art of\nshowing the recipient that all merit is powerless and unavailing\nagainst the royal grace and favor.\n\nOn looking back over the course of his life,--that _labyrinthine way\nof error_,--a man must see many points where luck failed him and\nmisfortune came; and then it is easy to carry self-reproach to an\nunjust excess. For the course of a man's life is in no wise entirely\nof his own making; it is the product of two factors--the series of\nthings that happened, and his own resolves in regard to them, and\nthese two are constantly interacting upon and modifying each other.\nAnd besides these, another influence is at work in the very limited\nextent of a man's horizon, whether it is that he cannot see very far\nahead in respect of the plans he will adopt, or that he is still less\nable to predict the course of future events: his knowledge is strictly\nconfined to present plans and present events. Hence, as long as a\nman's goal is far off, he cannot steer straight for it; he must be\ncontent to make a course that is approximately right; and in following\nthe direction in which he thinks he ought to go, he will often have\noccasion to tack.\n\nAll that a man can do is to form such resolves as from time to time\naccord with the circumstances in which he is placed, in the hope of\nthus managing to advance a step nearer towards the final goal. It is\nusually the case that the position in which we stand, and the object\nat which we aim, resemble two tendencies working with dissimilar\nstrength in different directions; and the course of our life is\nrepresented by their diagonal, or resultant force.\n\nTerence makes the remark that life is like a game at dice, where if\nthe number that turns up is not precisely the one you want, you can\nstill contrive to use it equally:--_in vita est hominum quasi cum\nludas tesseris; si illud quod maxime opus est jactu non cadit, illud\nquod cecidit forte, id arte ut corrigas_.[1] Or, to put the matter\nmore shortly, life is a game of cards, when the cards are shuffled and\ndealt by fate. But for my present purpose, the most suitable simile\nwould be that of a game of chess, where the plan we determined to\nfollow is conditioned by the play of our rival,--in life, by the\ncaprice of fate. We are compelled to modify our tactics, often to such\nan extent that, as we carry them out, hardly a single feature of the\noriginal plan can be recognized.\n\n[Footnote 1: He seems to have been referring to a game something like\nbackgammon.]\n\nBut above and beyond all this, there is another influence that makes\nitself felt in our lives. It is a trite saying--only too frequently\ntrue--that we are often more foolish than we think. On the other hand,\nwe are often wiser than we fancy ourselves to be. This, however, is a\ndiscovery which only those can make, of whom it is really true; and it\ntakes them a long time to make it. Our brains are not the wisest\npart of us. In the great moments of life, when a man decides upon\nan important step, his action is directed not so much by any clear\nknowledge of the right thing to do, as by an inner impulse--you may\nalmost call it an instinct--proceeding from the deepest foundations of\nhis being. If, later on, he attempts to criticise his action by the\nlight of hard and fast ideas of what is right in the abstract--those\nunprofitable ideas which are learnt by rote, or, it may be, borrowed\nfrom other people; if he begins to apply general rules, the principles\nwhich have guided others, to his own case, without sufficiently\nweighing the maxim that one man's meat is another's poison, then he\nwill run great risk of doing himself an injustice. The result will\nshow where the right course lay. It is only when a man has reached\nthe happy age of wisdom that he is capable of just judgment in regard\neither to his own actions or to those of others.\n\nIt may be that this impulse or instinct is the unconscious effect of a\nkind of prophetic dream which is forgotten when we awake--lending\nour life a uniformity of tone, a dramatic unity, such as could never\nresult from the unstable moments of consciousness, when we are so\neasily led into error, so liable to strike a false note. It is in\nvirtue of some such prophetic dream that a man feels himself called to\ngreat achievements in a special sphere, and works in that direction\nfrom his youth up out of an inner and secret feeling that that is his\ntrue path, just as by a similar instinct the bee is led to build up\nits cells in the comb. This is the impulse which Balthazar Gracian\ncalls _la gran sind\u00e9resis_[1]--the great power of moral discernment:\nit is something that a man instinctively feels to be his salvation\nwithout which he were lost.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--This obscure word appears to be\nderived from the Greek _sugtaereo_ (N.T. and Polyb.) meaning \"to\nobserve strictly.\" It occurs in _The Doctor and Student_, a series of\ndialogues between a doctor of divinity and a student on the laws of\nEngland, first published in 1518; and is there (Dialog. I. ch. 13)\nexplained as \"a natural power of the soule, set in the highest part\nthereof, moving and stirring it to good, and abhoring evil.\" This\npassage is copied into Milton's Commonplace Book, edit. _Horwood_, \u00a7\n79. The word is also found in the Dictionary of the Spanish Academy\n(vol. vi. of the year 1739) in the sense of an innate discernment\nof moral principles, where a quotation is given from Madre Maria de\nJesus, abbess of the convent of the Conception at Agreda, a mystical\nwriter of the seventeenth century, frequently consulted by Philip\nIV.,--and again in the Bolognese Dictionary of 1824, with a similar\nmeaning, illustrated from the writings of Salvini (1653-1729). For\nthese references I am indebted to the kindness of Mr. Norman Maccoll.]\n\nTo act in accordance with abstract principles is a difficult matter,\nand a great deal of practice will be required before you can be even\noccasionally successful; it of tens happens that the principles do not\nfit in with your particular case. But every man has certain innate\n_concrete principles_--a part, as it were, of the very blood that\nflows in his veins, the sum or result, in fact, of all his thoughts,\nfeelings and volitions. Usually he has no knowledge of them in any\nabstract form; it is only when he looks back upon the course his life\nhas taken, that he becomes aware of having been always led on by\nthem--as though they formed an invisible clue which he had followed\nunawares.\n\nSECTION 49. That Time works great changes, and that all things are\nin their nature fleeting--these are truths that should never be\nforgotten. Hence, in whatever case you may be, it is well to picture\nto yourself the opposite: in prosperity, to be mindful of misfortune;\nin friendship, of enmity; in good weather, of days when the sky is\novercast; in love, of hatred; in moments of trust, to imagine the\nbetrayal that will make you regret your confidence; and so, too, when\nyou are in evil plight, to have a lively sense of happier times--what\na lasting source of true worldly wisdom were there! We should then\nalways reflect, and not be so very easily deceived; because, in\ngeneral, we should anticipate the very changes that the years will\nbring.\n\nPerhaps in no form of knowledge is personal experience so\nindispensable as in learning to see that all things are unstable and\ntransitory in this world. There is nothing that, in its own place and\nfor the time it lasts, is not a product of necessity, and therefore\ncapable of being fully justified; and it is this fact that makes\ncircumstances of every year, every month, even of every day, seem as\nthough they might maintain their right to last to all eternity. But we\nknow that this can never be the case, and that in a world where all is\nfleeting, change alone endures. He is a prudent man who is not only\nundeceived by apparent stability, but is able to forecast the lines\nupon which movement will take place.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Chance_ plays so great a part in all human affairs that\nwhen a man tries to ward off a remote danger by present sacrifice, the\ndanger often vanishes under some new and unforeseen development of\nevents; and then the sacrifice, in addition to being a complete loss,\nbrings about such an altered state of things as to be in itself a\nsource of positive danger in the face of this new development. In\ntaking measures of precaution, then, it is well not to look too far\nahead, but to reckon with chance; and often to oppose a courageous\nfront to a danger, in the hope that, like many a dark thunder-cloud,\nit may pass away without breaking.]\n\nBut people generally think that present circumstances will last, and\nthat matters will go on in the future as they have clone in the past.\nTheir mistakes arises from the fact that they do not understand the\ncause of the things they see--causes which, unlike the effects they\nproduce, contain in themselves the germ of future change. The\neffects are all that people know, and they hold fast to them on the\nsupposition that those unknown causes, which were sufficient to bring\nthem about, will also be able to maintain them as they are. This is a\nvery common error; and the fact that it is common is not without its\nadvantage, for it means that people always err in unison; and hence\nthe calamity which results from the error affects all alike, and is\ntherefore easy to bear; whereas, if a philosopher makes a mistake, he\nis alone in his error, and so at a double disadvantage.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: I may remark, parenthetically, that all this is a\nconfirmation of the principle laid down in _Die Welt als Wille und\nVorstellung_ (Bk. I. p. 94: 4th edit.), that error always consists in\nmaking _a wrong inference_, that is, in ascribing a given effect to\nsomething that did not cause it.]\n\nBut in saying that we should anticipate the effects of time, I mean\nthat we should mentally forecast what they are likely to be; I do\nnot mean that we should practically forestall them, by demanding the\nimmediate performance of promises which time alone can fulfill. The\nman who makes his demand will find out that there is no worse or more\nexacting usurer than Time; and that, if you compel Time to give money\nin advance, you will have to pay a rate of interest more ruinous than\nany Jew would require. It is possible, for instance, to make a tree\nburst forth into leaf, blossom, or even bear fruit within a few days,\nby the application of unslaked lime and artificial heat; but after\nthat the tree will wither away. So a young man may abuse his\nstrength--it may be only for a few weeks--by trying to do at nineteen\nwhat he could easily manage at thirty, and Time may give him the loan\nfor which he asks; but the interest he will have to pay comes out of\nthe strength of his later years; nay, it is part of his very life\nitself.\n\nThere are some kinds of illness in which entire restoration to health\nis possible only by letting the complaint run its natural course;\nafter which it disappears without leaving any trace of its existence.\nBut if the sufferer is very impatient, and, while he is still\naffected, insists that he is completely well, in this case, too,\nTime will grant the loan, and the complaint may be shaken off; but\nlife-long weakness and chronic mischief will be the interest paid upon\nit.\n\nAgain, in time of war or general disturbance, a man may require ready\nmoney at once, and have to sell out his investments in land or consols\nfor a third or even a still smaller fraction of the sum he would have\nreceived from them, if he could have waited for the market to right\nitself, which would have happened in due course; but he compels Time\nto grant him a loan, and his loss is the interest he has to pay. Or\nperhaps he wants to go on a long journey and requires the money: in\none or two years he could lay by a sufficient sum out of his income,\nbut he cannot afford to wait; and so he either borrows it or deducts\nit from his capital; in other words, he gets Time to lend him the\nmoney in advance. The interest he pays is a disordered state of his\naccounts, and permanent and increasing deficits, which he can never\nmake good.\n\nSuch is Time's usury; and all who cannot wait are its victims. There\nis no more thriftless proceeding than to try and mend the measured\npace of Time. Be careful, then, not to become its debtor.\n\nSECTION 50. In the daily affairs of life, you will have very many\nopportunities of recognizing a characteristic difference between\nordinary people of prudence and discretion. In estimating the\npossibility of danger in connection with any undertaking, an ordinary\nman will confine his inquiries to the kind of risk that has already\nattended such undertakings in the past; whereas a prudent person will\nlook ahead, and consider everything that might possibly happen in the\nfuture, having regard to a certain Spanish maxim: _lo que no acaece en\nun ano, acaece en un rato_--a thing may not happen in a year, and yet\nmay happen within two minutes.\n\nThe difference in question is, of course, quite natural; for it\nrequires some amount of discernment to calculate possibilities; but\na man need only have his senses about him to see what has already\nhappened.\n\nDo not omit to sacrifice to evil spirits. What I mean is, that a man\nshould not hesitate about spending time, trouble, and money, or giving\nup his comfort, or restricting his aims and denying himself, if he\ncan thereby shut the door on the possibility of misfortune. The most\nterrible misfortunes are also the most improbable and remote--the\nleast likely to occur. The rule I am giving is best exemplified in\nthe practice of insurance,--a public sacrifice made on the altar of\nanxiety. Therefore take out your policy of insurance!\n\nSECTION 51. Whatever fate befalls you, do not give way to great\nrejoicings or great lamentations; partly because all things are full\nof change, and your fortune may turn at any moment; partly because men\nare so apt to be deceived in their judgment as to what is good or bad\nfor them.\n\nAlmost every one in his turn has lamented over something which\nafterwards turned out to be the very best thing for him that could\nhave happened--or rejoiced at an event which became the source of his\ngreatest sufferings. The right state of mind has been finely portrayed\nby Shakespeare:\n\n_I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief That the first face of\nneither, on the start, Can woman me unto't_.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _All's Well that Ends Well, Act. ii. Sc. 2_.]\n\nAnd, in general, it may be said that, if a man takes misfortunes\nquietly, it is because he knows that very many dreadful things may\nhappen in the course of life; and so he looks upon the trouble of the\nmoment as only a very small part of that which might come. This is\nthe Stoic temper--never to be unmindful of the sad fate of\nhumanity--_condicionis humanoe oblitus_; but always to remember that\nour existence is full of woe and misery: and that the ills to which we\nare exposed are innumerable. Wherever he be, a man need only cast a\nlook around, to revive the sense of human misery: there before his\neyes he can see mankind struggling and floundering in torment,--all\nfor the sake of a wretched existence, barren and unprofitable!\n\nIf he remembers this, a man will not expect very much from life, but\nlearn to accommodate himself to a world where all is relative and no\nperfect state exists;--always looking misfortune in the face, and if\nhe cannot avoid it, meeting it with courage.\n\nIt should never be forgotten that misfortune, be it great or small, is\nthe element in which we live. But that is no reason why a man should\nindulge in fretful complaints, and, like Beresford,[1] pull a long\nface over the _Miseries of Human Life_,--and not a single hour is free\nfrom them; or still less, call upon the Deity at every flea-bite--_in\npulicis morsu Deum invocare_. Our aim should be to look well about us,\nto ward off misfortune by going to meet it, to attain such perfection\nand refinement in averting the disagreeable things of life,--whether\nthey come from our fellow-men or from the physical world,--that, like\na clever fox, we may slip out of the way of every mishap, great or\nsmall; remembering that a mishap is generally only our own awkwardness\nin disguise.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Rev. James Beresford (1764-1840),\nmiscellaneous writer. The full title of this, his chief work, is \"The\nMiseries of Human Life; or the last groans of Timothy Testy and Samuel\nSensitive, with a few supplementary sighs from Mrs. Testy.\"]\n\nThe main reason why misfortune falls less heavily upon us, if we have\nlooked upon its occurrence as not impossible, and, as the saying is,\nprepared ourselves for it, may be this: if, before this misfortune\ncomes, we have quietly thought over it as something which may or may\nnot happen, the whole of its extent and range is known to us, and we\ncan, at least, determine how far it will affect us; so that, if it\nreally arrives, it does not depress us unduly--its weight is not felt\nto be greater than it actually is. But if no preparation has been\nmade to meet it, and it comes unexpectedly, the mind is in a state of\nterror for the moment and unable to measure the full extent of the\ncalamity; it seems so far-reaching in its effects that the victim\nmight well think there was no limit to them; in any case, its range is\nexaggerated. In the same way, darkness and uncertainty always increase\nthe sense of danger. And, of course, if we have thought over the\npossibility of misfortune, we have also at the same time considered\nthe sources to which we shall look for help and consolation; or, at\nany rate, we have accustomed ourselves to the idea of it.\n\nThere is nothing that better fits us to endure the misfortunes of\nlife with composure, than to know for certain that _everything\nthat happens--from the smallest up to the greatest facts of\nexistence--happens of necessity._[1] A man soon accommodates himself\nto the inevitable--to something that must be; and if he knows that\nnothing can happen except of necessity, he will see that things cannot\nbe other that they are, and that even the strangest chances in the\nworld are just as much a product of necessity as phenomena which obey\nwell-known rules and turn out exactly in accordance with expectation.\nLet me here refer to what I have said elsewhere on the soothing effect\nof the knowledge that all things are inevitable and a product of\nnecessity.[2]\n\n[Footnote 1: This is a truth which I have firmly established in my\nprize-essay on the _Freedom of the Will_, where the reader will find a\ndetailed explanation of the grounds on which it rests. Cf. especially\np. 60. [Schopenhauer's Works, 4th Edit., vol. iv.--_Tr_.]]\n\n[Footnote 2: Cf. _Welt als Wille und Vorstellung_, Bk. I. p. 361 (4th\nedit.).]\n\nIf a man is steeped in the knowledge of this truth, he will, first of\nall, do what he can, and then readily endure what he must.\n\nWe may regard the petty vexations of life that are constantly\nhappening, as designed to keep us in practice for bearing great\nmisfortunes, so that we may not become completely enervated by a\ncareer of prosperity. A man should be as Siegfried, armed _cap-\u00e0-pie_,\ntowards the small troubles of every day--those little differences we\nhave with our fellow-men, insignificant disputes, unbecoming conduct\nin other people, petty gossip, and many other similar annoyances of\nlife; he should not feel them at all, much less take them to heart and\nbrood over them, but hold them at arm's length and push them out of\nhis way, like stones that lie in the road, and upon no account think\nabout them and give them a place in his reflections.\n\nSECTION 52. What people commonly call _Fate_ is, as a general rule,\nnothing but their own stupid and foolish conduct. There is a fine\npassage in Homer,[1] illustrating the truth of this remark, where\nthe poet praises [GREEK: maetis]--shrewd council; and his advice\nis worthy of all attention. For if wickedness is atoned for only in\nanother world, stupidity gets its reward here--although, now and then,\nmercy may be shown to the offender.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Iliad_, xxiii. 313, sqq.]\n\nIt is not ferocity but cunning that strikes fear into the heart\nand forebodes danger; so true it is that the human brain is a more\nterrible weapon than the lion's paw.\n\nThe most finished man of the world would be one who was never\nirresolute and never in a hurry.\n\nSECTION 53. _Courage_ comes next to prudence as a quality of mind very\nessential to happiness. It is quite true that no one can endow himself\nwith either, since a man inherits prudence from his mother and courage\nfrom his father; still, if he has these qualities, he can do much to\ndevelop them by means of resolute exercise.\n\nIn this world, _where the game is played with loaded dice_, a man must\nhave a temper of iron, with armor proof to the blows of fate, and\nweapons to make his way against men. Life is one long battle; we have\nto fight at every step; and Voltaire very rightly says that if we\nsucceed, it is at the point of the sword, and that we die with the\nweapon in our hand--on _ne r\u00e9ussit dans ce monde qua la pointe de\nl'\u00e9pee, et on meurt les armes \u00e0 la main_. It is a cowardly soul that\nshrinks or grows faint and despondent as soon as the storm begins to\ngather, or even when the first cloud appears on the horizon. Our motto\nshould be _No Surrender_; and far from yielding to the ills of life,\nlet us take fresh courage from misfortune:--\n\n_Tu ne cede malis sed contra audentior ito_.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: Virgil, _Aeneid_, vi. 95.]\n\nAs long as the issue of any matter fraught with peril is still in\ndoubt, and there is yet some possibility left that all may come right,\nno one should ever tremble or think of anything but resistance,--just\nas a man should not despair of the weather if he can see a bit of blue\nsky anywhere. Let our attitude be such that we should not quake even\nif the world fell in ruins about us:--\n\n  _Si fractus illabatur orbis\n  Impavidum ferient ruinae_.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: Horace, Odes iii. 3.]\n\nOur whole life itself--let alone its blessings--would not be worth\nsuch a cowardly trembling and shrinking of the heart. Therefore, let\nus face life courageously and show a firm front to every ill:--\n\n_Quocirca vivite fortes Fortiaque adversis opponite pectora rebus_.\n\nStill, it is possible for courage to be carried to an excess and to\ndegenerate into rashness. It may even be said that some amount of fear\nis necessary, if we are to exist at all in the world, and cowardice\nis only the exaggerated form of it. This truth has been very well\nexpressed by Bacon, in his account of _Terror Panicus_; and the\netymological account which he gives of its meaning, is very superior\nto the ancient explanation preserved for us by Plutarch.[1] He\nconnects the expression with _Pan_ the personification of Nature;[2]\nand observes that fear is innate in every living thing, and, in fact,\ntends to its preservation, but that it is apt to come into play\nwithout due cause, and that man is especially exposed to it. The chief\nfeature of this _Panie Terror_ is that there is no clear notion of any\ndefinite danger bound up with it; that it presumes rather than knows\nthat danger exists; and that, in case of need, it pleads fright itself\nas the reason for being afraid.\n\n[Footnote 1: _De Iside et Osiride_ ch. 14.]\n\n[Footnote 2: _De Sapientia Veterum_, C. 6. _Natura enim rerum omnibus\nviventibus indidit mentum ac formidinem, vitae atque essentiae suae\nconservatricem, ac mala ingruentia vitantem et depellentem. Verumtamen\neaden natura modum tenere nescia est: sed timoribus salutaribus semper\nvanos et innanes admiscet; adeo ut omnia (si intus conspici darentur)\nPanicis terroribus plenissima sint praesertim humana_.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nTHE AGES OF LIFE.\n\n\nThere is a very fine saying of Voltaire's to the effect that every age\nof life has its own peculiar mental character, and that a man will\nfeel completely unhappy if his mind is not in accordance with his\nyears:--\n\n  _Qui n'a pas l'esprit de son \u00e2ge,\n  De son \u00e2ge atout le malheur_.\n\nIt will, therefore, be a fitting close to our speculations upon the\nnature of happiness, if we glance at the chances which the various\nperiods of life produce in us.\n\nOur whole life long it is _the present_, and the present alone, that\nwe actually possess: the only difference is that at the beginning of\nlife we look forward to a long future, and that towards the end we\nlook back upon a long past; also that our temperament, but not our\ncharacter, undergoes certain well-known changes, which make _the\npresent_ wear a different color at each period of life.\n\nI have elsewhere stated that in childhood we are more given to using\nour _intellect_ than our _will_; and I have explained why this is\nso.[1] It is just for this reason that the first quarter of life is so\nhappy: as we look back upon it in after years, it seems a sort of lost\nparadise. In childhood our relations with others are limited, our\nwants are few,--in a word, there is little stimulus for the will;\nand so our chief concern is the extension of our knowledge. The\nintellect--like the brain, which attains its full size in the seventh\nyear,[2] is developed early, though it takes time to mature; and it\nexplores the whole world of its surroundings in its constant search\nfor nutriment: it is then that existence is in itself an ever fresh\ndelight, and all things sparkle with the charm of novelty.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Schopenhauer refers to _Die Welt\nals Wille und Vorstellung_, Bk. II. c, 31, p. 451 (4th edit.), where\nhe explains that this is due to the fact that at that period of life\nthe brain and nervous system are much more developed than any other\npart of the organism.]\n\n[Footnote 2: _Translator's Note_.--This statement is not quite\ncorrect. The weight of the brain increases rapidly up to the seventh\nyear, more slowly between the sixteenth and the twentieth year, still\nmore slowly till between thirty and forty years of age, when it\nattains its maximum. At each decennial period after this, it is\nsupposed to decrease in weight on the average, an ounce for every ten\nyears.]\n\nThis is why the years of childhood are like a long poem. For the\nfunction of poetry, as of all art, is to grasp the _Idea_--in the\nPlatonic sense; in other words, to apprehend a particular object in\nsuch a way as to perceive its essential nature, the characteristics\nit has in common with all other objects of the same kind; so that\na single object appears as the representative of a class, and the\nresults of one experience hold good for a thousand.\n\nIt may be thought that my remarks are opposed to fact, and that the\nchild is never occupied with anything beyond the individual objects or\nevents which are presented to it from time to time, and then only in\nso far as they interest and excite its will for the moment; but this\nis not really the case. In those early years, life--in the full\nmeaning of the word, is something so new and fresh, and its sensations\nare so keen and unblunted by repetition, that, in the midst of all its\npursuits and without any clear consciousness of what it is doing,\nthe child is always silently occupied in grasping the nature of life\nitself,--in arriving at its fundamental character and general outline\nby means of separate scenes and experiences; or, to use Spinoza's\nphraseology, the child is learning to see the things and persons\nabout it _sub specie aeternitatis_,--as particular manifestations of\nuniversal law.\n\nThe younger we are, then, the more does every individual object\nrepresent for us the whole class to which it belongs; but as the years\nincrease, this becomes less and less the case. That is the reason why\nyouthful impressions are so different from those of old age. And that\nit also why the slight knowledge and experience gained in childhood\nand youth afterwards come to stand as the permanent rubric, or\nheading, for all the knowledge acquired in later life,--those early\nforms of knowledge passing into categories, as it were, under which\nthe results of subsequent experience are classified; though a clear\nconsciousness of what is being done, does not always attend upon the\nprocess.\n\nIn this way the earliest years of a man's life lay the foundation of\nhis view of the world, whether it be shallow or deep; and although\nthis view may be extended and perfected later on, it is not materially\naltered. It is an effect of this purely objective and therefore\npoetical view of the world,--essential to the period of childhood\nand promoted by the as yet undeveloped state of the volitional\nenergy--that, as children, we are concerned much more with the\nacquisition of pure knowledge than with exercising the power of will.\nHence that grave, fixed look observable in so many children, of which\nRaphael makes such a happy use in his depiction of cherubs, especially\nin the picture of the _Sistine Madonna_. The years of childhood are\nthus rendered so full of bliss that the memory of them is always\ncoupled with longing and regret.\n\nWhile we thus eagerly apply ourselves to learning the outward aspect\nof things, as the primitive method of understanding the objects about\nus, education aims at instilling into us _ideas_. But ideas furnish no\ninformation as to the real and essential nature of objects, which, as\nthe foundation and true content of all knowledge, can be reached only\nby the process called _intuition_. This is a kind of knowledge which\ncan in no wise be instilled into us from without; we must arrive at it\nby and for ourselves.\n\nHence a man's intellectual as well as his moral qualities proceed\nfrom the depths of his own nature, and are not the result of external\ninfluences; and no educational scheme--of Pestalozzi, or of any one\nelse--can turn a born simpleton into a man of sense. The thing is\nimpossible! He was born a simpleton, and a simpleton he will die.\n\nIt is the depth and intensity of this early intuitive knowledge of the\nexternal world that explain why the experiences of childhood take such\na firm hold on the memory. When we were young, we were completely\nabsorbed in our immediate surroundings; there was nothing to distract\nour attention from them; we looked upon the objects about us as though\nthey were the only ones of their kind, as though, indeed, nothing else\nexisted at all. Later on, when we come to find out how many things\nthere are in the world, this primitive state of mind vanishes, and\nwith it our patience.\n\nI have said elsewhere[1] that the world, considered as _object_,--in\nother words, as it is _presented_ to us objectively,--wears in\ngeneral a pleasing aspect; but that in the world, considered as\n_subject_,--that is, in regard to its inner nature, which is\n_will_,--pain and trouble predominate. I may be allowed to express the\nmatter, briefly, thus: _the world is glorious to look at, but dreadful\nin reality_.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung_, Bk. II. c. 31, p.\n426-7 (4th Edit.), to which the reader is referred for a detailed\nexplanation of my meaning.]\n\nAccordingly, we find that, in the years of childhood, the world is\nmuch better known to us on its outer or objective side, namely, as the\npresentation of will, than on the side of its inner nature, namely, as\nthe will itself. Since the objective side wears a pleasing aspect, and\nthe inner or subjective side, with its tale of horror, remains as yet\nunknown, the youth, as his intelligence develops, takes all the forms\nof beauty that he sees, in nature and in art, for so many objects of\nblissful existence; they are so beautiful to the outward eye that, on\ntheir inner side, they must, he thinks, be much more beautiful still.\nSo the world lies before him like another Eden; and this is the\nArcadia in which we are all born.\n\nA little later, this state of mind gives birth to a thirst for real\nlife--the impulse to do and suffer--which drives a man forth into\nthe hurly-burly of the world. There he learns the other side of\nexistence--the inner side, the will, which is thwarted at every step.\nThen comes the great period of disillusion, a period of very gradual\ngrowth; but once it has fairly begun, a man will tell you that he has\ngot over all his false notions--_l'\u00e2ge des illusions est pass\u00e9_; and\nyet the process is only beginning, and it goes on extending its sway\nand applying more and more to the whole of life.\n\nSo it may be said that in childhood, life looks like the scenery in\na theatre, as you view it from a distance; and that in old age it is\nlike the same scenery when you come up quite close to it.\n\nAnd, lastly, there is another circumstance that contributes to the\nhappiness of childhood. As spring commences, the young leaves on the\ntrees are similar in color and much the same in shape; and in the\nfirst years of life we all resemble one another and harmonize very\nwell. But with puberty divergence begins; and, like the radii of a\ncircle, we go further and further apart.\n\nThe period of youth, which forms the remainder of this earlier half of\nour existence--and how many advantages it has over the later half!--is\ntroubled and made miserable by the pursuit of happiness, as though\nthere were no doubt that it can be met with somewhere in life,--a hope\nthat always ends in failure and leads to discontent. An illusory\nimage of some vague future bliss--born of a dream and shaped by\nfancy--floats before our eyes; and we search for the reality in\nvain. So it is that the young man is generally dissatisfied with the\nposition in which he finds himself, whatever it may be; he ascribes\nhis disappointment solely to the state of things that meets him on\nhis first introduction to life, when he had expected something very\ndifferent; whereas it is only the vanity and wretchedness of human\nlife everywhere that he is now for the first time experiencing.\n\nIt would be a great advantage to a young man if his early training\ncould eradicate the idea that the world has a great deal to offer him.\nBut the usual result of education is to strengthen this delusion; and\nour first ideas of life are generally taken from fiction rather than\nfrom fact.\n\nIn the bright dawn of our youthful days, the poetry of life spreads\nout a gorgeous vision before us, and we torture ourselves by longing\nto see it realized. We might as well wish to grasp the rainbow! The\nyouth expects his career to be like an interesting romance; and there\nlies the germ of that disappointment which I have been describing.[1]\nWhat lends a charm to all these visions is just the fact that they are\nvisionary and not real, and that in contemplating them we are in the\nsphere of pure knowledge, which is sufficient in itself and free from\nthe noise and struggle of life. To try and realize those visions is\nto make them an object of _will_--a process which always involves\npain.[2]\n\n[Footnote 1: Cf. loc. cit., p. 428.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Let me refer the reader, if he is interested in the\nsubject, to the volume already cited, chapter 37.]\n\nIf the chief feature of the earlier half of life is a never-satisfied\nlonging after happiness, the later half is characterized by the dread\nof misfortune. For, as we advance in years, it becomes in a greater or\nless degree clear that all happiness is chimerical in its nature,\nand that pain alone is real. Accordingly, in later years, we, or, at\nleast, the more prudent amongst us, are more intent upon eliminating\nwhat is painful from our lives and making our position secure, than on\nthe pursuit of positive pleasure. I may observe, by the way, that in\nold age, we are better able to prevent misfortunes from coming, and in\nyouth better able to bear them when they come.\n\nIn my young days, I was always pleased to hear a ring at my door: ah!\nthought I, now for something pleasant. But in later life my feelings\non such occasions were rather akin to dismay than to pleasure: heaven\nhelp me! thought I, what am I to do? A similar revulsion of feeling in\nregard to the world of men takes place in all persons of any talent\nor distinction. For that very reason they cannot be said properly to\nbelong to the world; in a greater or less degree, according to the\nextent of their superiority, they stand alone. In their youth they\nhave a sense of being abandoned by the world; but later on, they feel\nas though they had escaped it. The earlier feeling is an unpleasant\none, and rests upon ignorance; the second is pleasurable--for in the\nmeantime they have come to know what the world is.\n\nThe consequence of this is that, as compared with the earlier, the\nlater half of life, like the second part of a musical period, has less\nof passionate longing and more restfulness about it. And why is this\nthe case Simply because, in youth, a man fancies that there is a\nprodigious amount of happiness and pleasure to be had in the world,\nonly that it is difficult to come by it; whereas, when he becomes\nold, he knows that there is nothing of the kind; he makes his mind\ncompletely at ease on the matter, enjoys the present hour as well as\nhe can, and even takes a pleasure in trifles.\n\nThe chief result gained by experience of life is _clearness of view_.\nThis is what distinguishes the man of mature age, and makes the world\nwear such a different aspect from that which it presented in his youth\nor boyhood. It is only then that he sees things quite plain, and takes\nthem for that which they really are: while in earlier years he saw a\nphantom-world, put together out of the whims and crotchets of his own\nmind, inherited prejudice and strange delusion: the real world was\nhidden from him, or the vision of it distorted. The first thing\nthat experience finds to do is to free us from the phantoms of the\nbrain--those false notions that have been put into us in youth.\n\nTo prevent their entrance at all would, of course, be the best form of\neducation, even though it were only negative in aim: but it would be a\ntask full of difficulty. At first the child's horizon would have to be\nlimited as much as possible, and yet within that limited sphere none\nbut clear and correct notions would have to be given; only after the\nchild had properly appreciated everything within it, might the sphere\nbe gradually enlarged; care being always taken that nothing was left\nobscure, or half or wrongly understood. The consequence of this\ntraining would be that the child's notions of men and things would\nalways be limited and simple in their character; but, on the other\nhand, they would be clear and correct, and only need to be extended,\nnot to be rectified. The same line might be pursued on into the period\nof youth. This method of education would lay special stress upon the\nprohibition of novel reading; and the place of novels would be taken\nby suitable biographical literature--the life of Franklin, for\ninstance, or Moritz' _Anton Reiser_.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Moritz was a miscellaneous writer\nof the last century (1757-93). His _Anton Reiser_, composed in the\nform of a novel, is practically an autobiography.]\n\nIn our early days we fancy that the leading events in our life, and\nthe persons who are going to play an important part in it, will make\ntheir entrance to the sound of drums and trumpets; but when, in old\nage, we look back, we find that they all came in quite quietly,\nslipped in, as it were, by the side-door, almost unnoticed.\n\nFrom the point of view we have been taking up until now, life may be\ncompared to a piece of embroidery, of which, during the first half of\nhis time, a man gets a sight of the right side, and during the second\nhalf, of the wrong. The wrong side is not so pretty as the right, but\nit is more instructive; it shows the way in which the threads have\nbeen worked together.\n\nIntellectual superiority, even if it is of the highest kind, will not\nsecure for a man a preponderating place in conversation until after he\nis forty years of age. For age and experience, though they can never\nbe a substitute for intellectual talent, may far outweigh it; and even\nin a person of the meanest capacity, they give a certain counterpoise\nto the power of an extremely intellectual man, so long as the latter\nis young. Of course I allude here to personal superiority, not to the\nplace a man may gain by his works.\n\nAnd on passing his fortieth year, any man of the slightest power of\nmind--any man, that is, who has more than the sorry share of intellect\nwith which Nature has endowed five-sixths of mankind--will hardly fail\nto show some trace of misanthropy. For, as is natural, he has by that\ntime inferred other people's character from an examination of his own;\nwith the result that he has been gradually disappointed to find that\nin the qualities of the head or in those of the heart--and usually in\nboth--he reaches a level to which they do not attain; so he gladly\navoids having anything more to do with them. For it may be said, in\ngeneral, that every man will love or hate solitude--in other Words,\nhis own society--just in proportion as he is worth anything in\nhimself. Kant has some remarks upon this kind of misanthropy in his\n_Critique of the Faculty of Judgment_.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Kritik der Urtheilskraft_, Part I, \u00a729, Note ad fin.]\n\nIn a young man, it is a bad sign, as well from an intellectual as from\na moral point of view, if he is precocious in understanding the ways\nof the world, and in adapting himself to its pursuits; if he at once\nknows how to deal with men, and enters upon life, as it were, fully\nprepared. It argues a vulgar nature. On the other hand, to be\nsurprised and astonished at the way people act, and to be clumsy and\ncross-grained in having to do with them, indicates a character of the\nnobler sort.\n\nThe cheerfulness and vivacity of youth are partly due to the fact\nthat, when we are ascending the hill of life, death is not visible: it\nlies down at the bottom of the other side. But once we have crossed\nthe top of the hill, death comes in view--death--which, until then,\nwas known to us only by hearsay. This makes our spirits droop, for at\nthe same time we begin to feel that our vital powers are on the ebb.\nA grave seriousness now takes the place of that early extravagance of\nspirit; and the change is noticeable even in the expression of a man's\nface. As long as we are young, people may tell us what they please! we\nlook upon life as endless and use our time recklessly; but the older\nwe become, the more we practice economy. For towards the close of\nlife, every day we live gives us the same kind of sensation as the\ncriminal experiences at every step on his way to be tried.\n\nFrom the standpoint of youth, life seems to stretch away into an\nendless future; from the standpoint of old age, to go back but a\nlittle way into the past; so that, at the beginning, life presents us\nwith a picture in which the objects appear a great way off, as though\nwe had reversed our telescope; while in the end everything seems so\nclose. To see how short life is, a man must have grown old, that is to\nsay, he must have lived long.\n\nOn the other hand, as the years increase, things look smaller, one and\nall; and Life, which had so firm and stable a base in the days of our\nyouth, now seems nothing but a rapid flight of moments, every one of\nthem illusory: we have come to see that the whole world is vanity!\n\nTime itself seems to go at a much slower pace when we are young; so\nthat not only is the first quarter of life the happiest, it is also\nthe longest of all; it leaves more memories behind it. If a man were\nput to it, he could tell you more out of the first quarter of his life\nthan out of two of the remaining periods. Nay, in the spring of\nlife, as in the spring of the year, the days reach a length that is\npositively tiresome; but in the autumn, whether of the year or of\nlife, though they are short, they are more genial and uniform.\n\nBut why is it that to an old man his past life appears so short? For\nthis reason: his memory is short; and so he fancies that his life has\nbeen short too. He no longer remembers the insignificant parts of it,\nand much that was unpleasant is now forgotten; how little, then,\nthere is left! For, in general, a man's memory is as imperfect as his\nintellect; and he must make a practice of reflecting upon the lessons\nhe has learned and the events he has experienced, if he does not want\nthem both to sink gradually into the gulf of oblivion. Now, we are\nunaccustomed to reflect upon matters of no importance, or, as a rule,\nupon things that we have found disagreeable, and yet that is necessary\nif the memory of them is to be preserved. But the class of things that\nmay be called insignificant is continually receiving fresh additions:\nmuch that wears an air of importance at first, gradually becomes of no\nconsequence at all from the fact of its frequent repetition; so that\nin the end we actually lose count of the number of times it happens.\nHence we are better able to remember the events of our early than of\nour later years. The longer we live, the fewer are the things that\nwe can call important or significant enough to deserve further\nconsideration, and by this alone can they be fixed in the memory; in\nother words, they are forgotten as soon as they are past. Thus it is\nthat time runs on, leaving always fewer traces of its passage.\n\nFurther, if disagreeable things have happened to us, we do not care\nto ruminate upon them, least of all when they touch our vanity, as is\nusually the case; for few misfortunes fall upon us for which we can\nbe held entirely blameless. So people are very ready to forget many\nthings that are disagreeable, as well as many that are unimportant.\n\nIt is from this double cause that our memory is so short; and a man's\nrecollection of what has happened always becomes proportionately\nshorter, the more things that have occupied him in life. The things\nwe did in years gone by, the events that happened long ago, are like\nthose objects on the coast which, to the seafarer on his outward\nvoyage, become smaller every minute, more unrecognizable and harder to\ndistinguish.\n\nAgain, it sometimes happens that memory and imagination will call up\nsome long past scene as vividly as if it had occurred only yesterday;\nso that the event in question seems to stand very near to the present\ntime. The reason of this is that it is impossible to call up all the\nintervening period in the same vivid way, as there is no one figure\npervading it which can be taken in at a glance; and besides, most of\nthe things that happened in that period are forgotten, and all that\nremains of it is the general knowledge that we have lived through\nit--a mere notion of abstract existence, not a direct vision of some\nparticular experience. It is this that causes some single event\nof long ago to appear as though it took place but yesterday: the\nintervening time vanishes, and the whole of life looks incredibly\nshort. Nay, there are occasional moments in old age when we can\nscarcely believe that we are so advanced in years, or that the long\npast lying behind us has had any real existence--a feeling which is\nmainly due to the circumstance that the present always seems fixed and\nimmovable as we look at it. These and similar mental phenomena are\nultimately to be traced to the fact that it is not our nature in\nitself, but only the outward presentation of it, that lies in time,\nand that the present is the point of contact between the world as\nsubject and the world as object.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--By this remark Schopenhauer means\nthat _will_, which, as he argues, forms the inner reality underlying\nall the phenomena of life and nature, is not in itself affected\nby time; but that, on the other hand, time is necessary for the\nobjectification of the will, for the will as presented in the passing\nphenomena of the world. Time is thus definable as the condition of\nchange, and the present time as the only point of contact between\nreality and appearance.]\n\nAgain, why is it that in youth we can see no end to the years that\nseem to lie before us? Because we are obliged to find room for all\nthe things we hope to attain in life. We cram the years so full of\nprojects that if we were to try and carry them all out, death would\ncome prematurely though we reached the age of Methuselah.\n\nAnother reason why life looks so long when we are young, is that we\nare apt to measure its length by the few years we have already\nlived. In those early years things are new to us, and so they appear\nimportant; we dwell upon them after they have happened and often call\nthem to mind; and thus in youth life seems replete with incident, and\ntherefore of long duration.\n\nSometimes we credit ourselves with a longing to be in some distant\nspot, whereas, in truth, we are only longing to have the time back\nagain which we spent there--days when we were younger and fresher than\nwe are now. In those moments Time mocks us by wearing the mask of\nspace; and if we travel to the spot, we can see how much we have been\ndeceived.\n\nThere are two ways of reaching a great age, both of which presuppose\na sound constitution as a _conditio sine qu\u00e2 non_. They may be\nillustrated by two lamps, one of which burns a long time with very\nlittle oil, because it has a very thin wick; and the other just as\nlong, though it has a very thick one, because there is plenty of oil\nto feed it. Here, the oil is the vital energy, and the difference in\nthe wick is the manifold way in which the vital energy is used.\n\nUp to our thirty-sixth year, we may be compared, in respect of the way\nin which we use our vital energy, to people who live on the interest\nof their money: what they spend to-day, they have again to-morrow. But\nfrom the age of thirty-six onwards, our position is like that of the\ninvestor who begins to entrench upon his capital. At first he hardly\nnotices any difference at all, as the greater part of his expenses is\ncovered by the interest of his securities; and if the deficit is\nbut slight, he pays no attention to it. But the deficit goes on\nincreasing, until he awakes to the fact that it is becoming more\nserious every day: his position becomes less and less secure, and he\nfeels himself growing poorer and poorer, while he has no expectation\nof this drain upon his resources coming to an end. His fall from\nwealth to poverty becomes faster every moment--like the fall of a\nsolid body in space, until at last he has absolutely nothing left.\nA man is truly in a woeful plight if both the terms of this\ncomparison--his vital energy and his wealth--really begin to melt away\nat one and the same time. It is the dread of this calamity that makes\nlove of possession increase with age.\n\nOn the other hand, at the beginning of life, in the years before we\nattain majority, and for some little time afterwards--the state of our\nvital energy puts us on a level with those who each year lay by a part\nof their interest and add it to their capital: in other words, not\nonly does their interest come in regularly, but the capital is\nconstantly receiving additions. This happy condition of affairs is\nsometimes brought about--with health as with money--under the watchful\ncare of some honest guardian. O happy youth, and sad old age!\n\nNevertheless, a man should economize his strength even when he is\nyoung. Aristotle[1] observes that amongst those who were victors at\nOlympia only two or three gained a prize at two different periods,\nonce in boyhood and then again when they came to be men; and the\nreason of this was that the premature efforts which the training\ninvolved, so completely exhausted their powers that they failed to\nlast on into manhood. As this is true of muscular, so it is still more\ntrue of nervous energy, of which all intellectual achievements are the\nmanifestation. Hence, those infant prodigies--_ingenia praecoda_--the\nfruit of a hot-house education, who surprise us by their cleverness as\nchildren, afterwards turn out very ordinary folk. Nay, the manner in\nwhich boys are forced into an early acquaintance with the ancient\ntongues may, perhaps, be to blame for the dullness and lack of\njudgment which distinguish so many learned persons.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Politics_.]\n\nI have said that almost every man's character seems to be specially\nsuited to some one period of life, so that on reaching it the man is\nat his best. Some people are charming so long as they are young, and\nafterwards there is nothing attractive about them; others are vigorous\nand active in manhood, and then lose all the value they possess as\nthey advance in years; many appear to best advantage in old age, when\ntheir character assumes a gentler tone, as becomes men who have seen\nthe world and take life easily. This is often the case with the\nFrench.\n\nThis peculiarity must be due to the fact that the man's character\nhas something in it akin to the qualities of youth or manhood or old\nage--something which accords with one or another of these periods of\nlife, or perhaps acts as a corrective to its special failings.\n\nThe mariner observes the progress he makes only by the way in which\nobjects on the coast fade away into the distance and apparently\ndecrease in size. In the same way a man becomes conscious that he is\nadvancing in years when he finds that people older than himself begin\nto seem young to him.\n\nIt has already been remarked that the older a man becomes, the\nfewer are the traces left in his mind by all that he sees, does or\nexperiences, and the cause of this has been explained. There is thus\na sense in which it may be said that it is only in youth that a man\nlives with a full degree of consciousness, and that he is only half\nalive when he is old. As the years advance, his consciousness of what\ngoes on about him dwindles, and the things of life hurry by without\nmaking any impression upon him, just as none is made by a work of art\nseen for the thousandth time. A man does what his hand finds to do,\nand afterwards he does not know whether he has done it or not.\n\nAs life becomes more and more unconscious, the nearer it approaches\nthe point at which all consciousness ceases, the course of time\nitself seems to increase in rapidity. In childhood all the things and\ncircumstances of life are novel; and that is sufficient to awake us to\nthe full consciousness of existence: hence, at that age, the day seems\nof such immense length. The same thing happens when we are traveling:\none month seems longer then than four spent at home. Still, though\ntime seems to last longer when we are young or on a journey, the sense\nof novelty does not prevent it from now and then in reality hanging\nheavily upon our hands under both these circumstances, at any rate\nmore than is the case when we are old or staying at home. But the\nintellect gradually becomes so rubbed down and blunted by long\nhabituation to such impressions that things have a constant tendency\nto produce less and less impression upon us as they pass by; and this\nmakes time seem increasingly less important, and therefore shorter in\nduration: the hours of the boy are longer than the days of the old\nman. Accordingly, time goes faster and faster the longer we live,\nlike a ball rolling down a hill. Or, to take another example: as in\na revolving disc, the further a point lies from the centre, the more\nrapid is its rate of progression, so it is in the wheel of life; the\nfurther you stand from the beginning, the faster time moves for you.\nHence it may be said that as far as concerns the immediate sensation\nthat time makes upon our minds, the length of any given year is in\ndirect proportion to the number of times it will divide our whole\nlife: for instance, at the age of fifty the year appears to us only\none-tenth as long as it did at the age of five.\n\nThis variation in the rate at which time appears to move, exercises a\nmost decided influence upon the whole nature of our existence at\nevery period of it. First of all, it causes childhood--even though it\nembrace only a span of fifteen years--to seem the longest period of\nlife, and therefore the richest in reminiscences. Next, it brings it\nabout that a man is apt to be bored just in proportion as he is young.\nConsider, for instance, that constant need of occupation--whether it\nis work or play--that is shown by children: if they come to an end\nof both work and play, a terrible feeling of boredom ensues. Even in\nyouth people are by no means free from this tendency, and dread the\nhours when they have nothing to do. As manhood approaches, boredom\ndisappears; and old men find the time too short when their days fly\npast them like arrows from a bow. Of course, I must be understood to\nspeak of _men_, not of decrepit _brutes_. With this increased rapidity\nof time, boredom mostly passes away as we advance in life; and as\nthe passions with all their attendant pain are then laid asleep, the\nburden of life is, on the whole, appreciably lighter in later years\nthan in youth, provided, of course, that health remains. So it is that\nthe period immediately preceding the weakness and troubles of old age,\nreceives the name of a man's _best years_.\n\nThat may be a true appellation, in view of the comfortable feeling\nwhich those years bring; but for all that the years of youth, when our\nconsciousness is lively and open to every sort of impression, have\nthis privilege--that then the seeds are sown and the buds come forth;\nit is the springtime of the mind. Deep truths may be perceived, but\ncan never be excogitated--that is to say, the first knowledge of\nthem is immediate, called forth by some momentary impression. This\nknowledge is of such a kind as to be attainable only when the\nimpressions are strong, lively and deep; and if we are to be\nacquainted with deep truths, everything depends upon a proper use of\nour early years. In later life, we may be better able to work upon\nother people,--upon the world, because our natures are then finished\nand rounded off, and no more a prey to fresh views; but then the\nworld is less able to work upon us. These are the years of action\nand achievement; while youth is the time for forming fundamental\nconceptions, and laying down the ground-work of thought.\n\nIn youth it is the outward aspect of things that most engages us;\nwhile in age, thought or reflection is the predominating quality\nof the mind. Hence, youth is the time for poetry, and age is more\ninclined to philosophy. In practical affairs it is the same: a man\nshapes his resolutions in youth more by the impression that the\noutward world makes upon him; whereas, when he is old, it is thought\nthat determines his actions. This is partly to be explained by the\nfact that it is only when a man is old that the results of outward\nobservation are present in sufficient numbers to allow of their being\nclassified according to the ideas they represent,--a process which in\nits turn causes those ideas to be more fully understood in all their\nbearings, and the exact value and amount of trust to be placed in\nthem, fixed and determined; while at the same time he has grown\naccustomed to the impressions produced by the various phenomena\nof life, and their effects on him are no longer what they were.\nContrarily, in youth, the impressions that things make, that is to\nsay, the outward aspects of life, are so overpoweringly strong,\nespecially in the case of people of lively and imaginative\ndisposition, that they view the world like a picture; and their chief\nconcern is the figure they cut in it, the appearance they present;\nnay, they are unaware of the extent to which this is the case. It is\na quality of mind that shows itself--if in no other way--in that\npersonal vanity, and that love of fine clothes, which distinguish\nyoung people.\n\nThere can be no doubt that the intellectual powers are most capable\nof enduring great and sustained efforts in youth, up to the age of\nthirty-five at latest; from which period their strength begins to\ndecline, though very gradually. Still, the later years of life, and\neven old age itself, are not without their intellectual compensation.\nIt is only then that a man can be said to be really rich in experience\nor in learning; he has then had time and opportunity enough to enable\nhim to see and think over life from all its sides; he has been able to\ncompare one thing with another, and to discover points of contact and\nconnecting links, so that only then are the true relations of things\nrightly understood. Further, in old age there comes an increased depth\nin the knowledge that was acquired in youth; a man has now many more\nillustrations of any ideas he may have attained; things which he\nthought he knew when he was young, he now knows in reality. And\nbesides, his range of knowledge is wider; and in whatever direction it\nextends, it is thorough, and therefore formed into a consistent and\nconnected whole; whereas in youth knowledge is always defective and\nfragmentary.\n\nA complete and adequate notion of life can never be attained by any\none who does not reach old age; for it is only the old man who\nsees life whole and knows its natural course; it is only he who is\nacquainted--and this is most important--not only with its entrance,\nlike the rest of mankind, but with its exit too; so that he alone has\na full sense of its utter vanity; whilst the others never cease to\nlabor under the false notion that everything will come right in the\nend.\n\nOn the other hand, there is more conceptive power in youth, and at\nthat time of life a man can make more out of the little that he knows.\nIn age, judgment, penetration and thoroughness predominate. Youth is\nthe time for amassing the material for a knowledge of the world that\nshall be distinctive and peculiar,--for an original view of life, in\nother words, the legacy that a man of genius leaves to his fellow-men;\nit is, however, only in later years that he becomes master of his\nmaterial. Accordingly it will be found that, as a rule, a great writer\ngives his best work to the world when he is about fifty years of age.\nBut though the tree of knowledge must reach its full height before it\ncan bear fruit, the roots of it lie in youth.\n\nEvery generation, no matter how paltry its character, thinks itself\nmuch wiser than the one immediately preceding it, let alone those that\nare more remote. It is just the same with the different periods in a\nman's life; and yet often, in the one case no less than in the other,\nit is a mistaken opinion. In the years of physical growth, when\nour powers of mind and our stores of knowledge are receiving daily\nadditions, it becomes a habit for to-day to look down with contempt\nupon yesterday. The habit strikes root, and remains even after the\nintellectual powers have begun to decline,--when to-day should rather\nlook up with respect to yesterday. So it is that we often unduly\ndepreciate the achievements as well as the judgments of our youth.\nThis seems the place for making the general observation, that,\nalthough in its main qualities a man's _intellect_ or _head_, as well\nas his _character_ or _heart_, is innate, yet the former is by no\nmeans so unalterable in its nature as the latter. The fact is that the\nintellect is subject to very many transformations, which, as a rule,\ndo not fail to make their actual appearance; and this is so, partly\nbecause the intellect has a deep foundation in the physique,\nand partly because the material with which it deals is given in\nexperience. And so, from a physical point of view, we find that if a\nman has any peculiar power, it first gradually increases in strength\nuntil it reaches its acme, after which it enters upon a path of slow\ndecadence, until it ends in imbecility. But, on the other hand,\nwe must not lose sight of the fact that the material which gives\nemployment to a man's powers and keeps them in activity,--the\nsubject-matter of thought and knowledge, experience, intellectual\nattainments, the practice of seeing to the bottom of things, and so a\nperfect mental vision, form in themselves a mass which continues to\nincrease in size, until the time comes when weakness shows itself,\nand the man's powers suddenly fail. The way in which these two\ndistinguishable elements combine in the same nature,--the one\nabsolutely unalterable, and the other subject to change in two\ndirections opposed to each other--explains the variety of mental\nattitude and the dissimilarity of value which attach to a man at\ndifferent periods of life.\n\nThe same truth may be more broadly expressed by saying that the first\nforty years of life furnish the text, while the remaining thirty\nsupply the commentary; and that without the commentary we are unable\nto understand aright the true sense and coherence of the text,\ntogether with the moral it contains and all the subtle application of\nwhich it admits.\n\nTowards the close of life, much the same thing happens as at the end\nof a _bal masqu\u00e9_--the masks are taken off. Then you can see who\nthe people really are, with whom you have come into contact in your\npassage through the world. For by the end of life characters have come\nout in their true light, actions have borne fruit, achievements have\nbeen rightly appreciated, and all shams have fallen to pieces. For\nthis, Time was in every case requisite.\n\nBut the most curious fact is that it is also only towards the close\nof life than a man really recognizes and understands his own true\nself,--the aims and objects he has followed in life, more especially\nthe kind of relation in which he has stood to other people and to the\nworld. It will often happen that as a result of this knowledge, a man\nwill have to assign himself a lower place than he formerly thought\nwas his due. But there are exceptions to this rule; and it will\noccasionally be the case that he will take a higher position than he\nhad before. This will be owing to the fact that he had no adequate\nnotion of the _baseness_ of the world, and that he set up a higher aim\nfor himself than was followed by the rest of mankind.\n\nThe progress of life shows a man the stuff of which he is made.\n\nIt is customary to call youth the happy, and age the sad part of life.\nThis would be true if it were the passions that made a man happy.\nYouth is swayed to and fro by them; and they give a great deal of pain\nand little pleasure. In age the passions cool and leave a man at rest,\nand then forthwith his mind takes a contemplative tone; the intellect\nis set free and attains the upper hand. And since, in itself,\nintellect is beyond the range of pain, and man feels happy just in so\nfar as his intellect is the predominating part of him.\n\nIt need only be remembered that all pleasure is negative, and that\npain is positive in its nature, in order to see that the passions can\nnever be a source of happiness, and that age is not the less to be\nenvied on the ground that many pleasures are denied it. For every sort\nof pleasure is never anything more than the quietive of some need or\nlonging; and that pleasure should come to an end as soon as the need\nceases, is no more a subject of complaint than that a man cannot go on\neating after he has had his dinner, or fall asleep again after a good\nnight's rest.\n\nSo far from youth being the happiest period of life, there is much\nmore truth in the remark made by Plato, at the beginning of the\n_Republic_, that the prize should rather be given to old age, because\nthen at last a man is freed from the animal passion which has hitherto\nnever ceased to disquiet him. Nay, it may even be said that the\ncountless and manifold humors which have their source in this passion,\nand the emotions that spring from it, produce a mild state of madness;\nand this lasts as long as the man is subject to the spell of\nthe impulse--this evil spirit, as it were, of which there is no\nriddance--so that he never really becomes a reasonable being until the\npassion is extinguished.\n\nThere is no doubt that, in general, and apart from individual\ncircumstances and particular dispositions, youth is marked by a\ncertain melancholy and sadness, while genial sentiments attach to old\nage; and the reason for this is nothing but the fact that the young\nman is still under the service, nay, the forced labor, imposed by that\nevil spirit, which scarcely ever leaves him a moment to himself. To\nthis source may be traced, directly or indirectly, almost all and\nevery ill that befalls or menaces mankind. The old man is genial and\ncheerful because, after long lying in the bonds of passion, he can now\nmove about in freedom.\n\nStill, it should not be forgotten that, when this passion is\nextinguished, the true kernel of life is gone, and nothing remains but\nthe hollow shell; or, from another point of view, life then becomes\nlike a comedy, which, begun by real actors, is continued and brought\nto an end by automata dressed in their clothes.\n\nHowever that may be, youth is the period of unrest, and age of repose;\nand from that very circumstance, the relative degree of pleasure\nbelonging to each may be inferred. The child stretches out its little\nhands in the eager desire to seize all the pretty things that meet its\nsight, charmed by the world because all its senses are still so young\nand fresh. Much the same thing happens with the youth, and he displays\ngreater energy in his quest. He, too, is charmed by all the pretty\nthings and the many pleasing shapes that surround him; and forthwith\nhis imagination conjures up pleasures which the world can never\nrealize. So he is filled with an ardent desire for he knows not what\ndelights--robbing him of all rest and making happiness impossible.\nBut when old age is reached, all this is over and done with, partly\nbecause the blood runs cooler and the senses are no longer so easily\nallured; partly because experience has shown the true value of things\nand the futility of pleasure, whereby illusion has been gradually\ndispelled, and the strange fancies and prejudices which previously\nconcealed or distorted a free and true view of the world, have been\ndissipated and put to flight; with the result that a man can now get\na juster and clearer view, and see things as they are, and also in a\nmeasure attain more or less insight into the nullity of all things on\nthis earth.\n\nIt is this that gives almost every old man, no matter how ordinary his\nfaculties may be, a certain tincture of wisdom, which distinguishes\nhim from the young. But the chief result of all this change is the\npeace of mind that ensues--a great element in happiness, and, in fact,\nthe condition and essence of it. While the young man fancies that\nthere is a vast amount of good things in the world, if he could only\ncome at them, the old man is steeped in the truth of the Preacher's\nwords, that _all things are vanity_--knowing that, however gilded the\nshell, the nut is hollow.\n\nIn these later years, and not before, a man comes to a true\nappreciation of Horace's maxim: _Nil admirari._ He is directly and\nsincerely convinced of the vanity of everything and that all the\nglories of the world are as nothing: his illusions are gone. He is\nno more beset with the idea that there is any particular amount of\nhappiness anywhere, in the palace or in the cottage, any more than he\nhimself enjoys when he is free from bodily or mental pain. The worldly\ndistinctions of great and small, high and low, exist for him no\nlonger; and in this blissful state of mind the old man may look down\nwith a smile upon all false notions. He is completely undeceived, and\nknows that whatever may be done to adorn human life and deck it out in\nfinery, its paltry character will soon show through the glitter of its\nsurroundings; and that, paint and be jewel it as one may, it remains\neverywhere much the same,--an existence which has no true value except\nin freedom from pain, and is never to be estimated by the presence of\npleasure, let alone, then, of display.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: Cf. Horace, _Epist_. I. 12, I-4.]\n\nDisillusion is the chief characteristic of old age; for by that time\nthe fictions are gone which gave life its charm and spurred on the\nmind to activity; the splendors of the world have been proved null and\nvain; its pomp, grandeur and magnificence are faded. A man has then\nfound out that behind most of the things he wants, and most of the\npleasures he longs for, there is very little after all; and so he\ncomes by degrees to see that our existence is all empty and void. It\nis only when he is seventy years old that he quite understands the\nfirst words of the Preacher; and this again explains why it is that\nold men are sometimes fretful and morose.\n\nIt is often said that the common lot of old age is disease and\nweariness of life. Disease is by no means essential to old age;\nespecially where a really long span of years is to be attained; for\nas life goes on, the conditions of health and disorder tend to\nincrease--_crescente vita, crescit sanitas et morbus_. And as far as\nweariness or boredom is concerned, I have stated above why old age is\neven less exposed to that form of evil than youth. Nor is boredom by\nany means to be taken as a necessary accompaniment of that solitude,\nwhich, for reasons that do not require to be explained, old age\ncertainly cannot escape; it is rather the fate that awaits those who\nhave never known any other pleasures but the gratification of the\nsenses and the delights of society--who have left their minds\nunenlightened and their faculties unused. It is quite true that the\nintellectual faculties decline with the approach of old age; but where\nthey were originally strong, there will always be enough left to\ncombat the onslaught of boredom. And then again, as I have said,\nexperience, knowledge, reflection, and skill in dealing with men,\ncombine to give an old man an increasingly accurate insight into the\nways of the world; his judgment becomes keen and he attains a coherent\nview of life: his mental vision embraces a wider range. Constantly\nfinding new uses for his stores of knowledge and adding to them at\nevery opportunity, he maintains uninterrupted that inward process of\nself-education, which gives employment and satisfaction to the mind,\nand thus forms the due reward of all its efforts.\n\nAll this serves in some measure as a compensation for decreased\nintellectual power. And besides, Time, as I have remarked, seems to go\nmuch more quickly when we are advanced in years; and this is in itself\na preventive of boredom. There is no great harm in the fact that\na man's bodily strength decreases in old age, unless, indeed, he\nrequires it to make a living. To be poor when one is old, is a great\nmisfortune. If a man is secure from that, and retains his health, old\nage may be a very passable time of life. Its chief necessity is to be\ncomfortable and well off; and, in consequence, money is then prized\nmore than ever, because it is a substitute for failing strength.\nDeserted by Venus, the old man likes to turn to Bacchus to make him\nmerry. In the place of wanting to see things, to travel and learn,\ncomes the desire to speak and teach. It is a piece of good fortune if\nthe old man retains some of his love of study or of music or of the\ntheatre,--if, in general, he is still somewhat susceptible to the\nthings about him; as is, indeed, the case with some people to a very\nlate age. At that time of life, _what a man has in himself_ is of\ngreater advantage to him that ever it was before.\n\nThere can be no doubt that most people who have never been anything\nbut dull and stupid, become more and more of automata as they grow\nold. They have always thought, said and done the same things as their\nneighbors; and nothing that happens now can change their disposition,\nor make them act otherwise. To talk to old people of this kind is like\nwriting on the sand; if you produce any impression at all, it is gone\nalmost immediately; old age is here nothing but the _caput mortuum_\nof life--all that is essential to manhood is gone. There are cases\nin which nature supplies a third set of teeth in old age, thereby\napparently demonstrating the fact that that period of life is a second\nchildhood.\n\nIt is certainly a very melancholy thing that all a man's faculties\ntend to waste away as he grows old, and at a rate that increases\nin rapidity: but still, this is a necessary, nay, a beneficial\narrangement, as otherwise death, for which it is a preparation, would\nbe too hard to bear. So the greatest boon that follows the attainment\nof extreme old age is _euthanasia_,--an easy death, not ushered in by\ndisease, and free from all pain and struggle.[1] For let a man live as\nlong as he may, he is never conscious of any moment but the present,\none and indivisible; and in those late years the mind loses more every\nday by sheer forgetfulness than ever it gains anew.\n\n[Footnote 1: See _Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung_, Bk. II. ch. 41,\nfor a further description of this happy end to life.]\n\nThe main difference between youth and age will always be that youth\nlooks forward to life, and old age to death; and that while the one\nhas a short past and a long future before it, the case is just the\nopposite with the other. It is quite true that when a man is old, to\ndie is the only thing that awaits him; while if he is young, he may\nexpect to live; and the question arises which of the two fates is the\nmore hazardous, and if life is not a matter which, on the whole, it is\nbetter to have behind one than before? Does not the Preacher say:\n_the day of death [is better] than the day of one's birth_.[1] It is\ncertainly a rash thing to wish for long life;[2] for as the Spanish\nproverb has it, it means to see much evil,--_Quien larga vida vive\nmucho mal vide_.\n\n[Footnote 1: Ecclesiastes vii. 1.]\n\n[Footnote 2: The life of man cannot, strictly speaking, be called\neither _long_ or _short_, since it is the ultimate standard by which\nduration of time in regard to all other things is measured.\n\nIn one of the Vedic _Upanishads (Oupnekhat_, II.) _the natural length_\nof human life is put down at one hundred years. And I believe this to\nbe right. I have observed, as a matter of fact, that it is only people\nwho exceed the age of ninety who attain _euthanasia_,--who die, that\nis to say, of no disease, apoplexy or convulsion, and pass away\nwithout agony of any sort; nay, who sometimes even show no pallor, but\nexpire generally in a sitting attitude, and often after a meal,--or,\nI may say, simply cease to live rather than die. To come to one's end\nbefore the age of ninety, means to die of disease, in other words,\nprematurely.\n\nNow the Old Testament (Psalms xc. 10) puts the limit of human life at\nseventy, and if it is very long, at eighty years; and what is more\nnoticeable still, Herodotus (i. 32 and iii. 22) says the same thing.\nBut this is wrong; and the error is due simply to a rough and\nsuperficial estimate of the results of daily experience. For if the\nnatural length of life were from seventy to eighty years, people would\ndie, about that time, of mere old age. Now this is certainly not the\ncase. If they die then, they die, like younger people, _of disease_;\nand disease is something abnormal. Therefore it is not natural to die\nat that age. It is only when they are between ninety and a hundred\nthat people die of old age; die, I mean, without suffering from any\ndisease, or showing any special signs of their condition, such as a\nstruggle, death-rattle, convulsion, pallor,--the absence of all which\nconstitutes _euthanasia_. The natural length of human life is a\nhundred years; and in assigning that limit the Upanishads are right\nonce more.]\n\nA man's individual career is not, as Astrology wishes to make out, to\nbe predicted from observation of the planets; but the course of human\nlife in general, as far as the various periods of it are concerned,\nmay be likened to the succession of the planets: so that we may be\nsaid to pass under the influence of each one of them in turn.\n\nAt ten, _Mercury_ is in the ascendant; and at that age, a youth, like\nthis planet, is characterized by extreme mobility within a narrow\nsphere, where trifles have a great effect upon him; but under the\nguidance of so crafty and eloquent a god, he easily makes great\nprogress. _Venus_ begins her sway during his twentieth year, and then\na man is wholly given up to the love of women. At thirty, _Mars_\ncomes to the front, and he is now all energy and strength,--daring,\npugnacious and arrogant.\n\nWhen a man reaches the age of forty, he is under the rule of the\nfour _Asteroids_; that is to say, his life has gained something in\nextension. He is frugal; in other words, by the help of _Ceres_, he\nfavors what is useful; he has his own hearth, by the influence of\n_Vesta_; _Pallas_ has taught him that which is necessary for him to\nknow; and his wife--his _Juno_--rules as the mistress of his house.\n\nBut at the age of fifty, _Jupiter_ is the dominant influence. At that\nperiod a man has outlived most of his contemporaries, and he can feel\nhimself superior to the generation about him. He is still in the full\nenjoyment of his strength, and rich in experience and knowledge;\nand if he has any power and position of his own, he is endowed with\nauthority over all who stand in his immediate surroundings. He is no\nmore inclined to receive orders from others; he wants to take command\nhimself. The work most suitable to him now is to guide and rule within\nhis own sphere. This is the point where Jupiter culminates, and where\nthe man of fifty years is at his best.\n\nThen comes _Saturn_, at about the age of sixty, a weight as of _lead_,\ndull and slow:--\n\n  _But old folks, many feign as they were dead;\n  Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead_.\nLast of all, _Uranus_; or, as the saying is, a man goes to heaven.\n\nI cannot find a place for _Neptune_, as this planet has been very\nthoughtlessly named; because I may not call it as it should be\ncalled--_Eros_. Otherwise I should point out how Beginning and End\nmeet together, and how closely and intimately Eros is connected with\nDeath: how Orcus, or Amenthes, as the Egyptians called him, is not\nonly the receiver but the giver of all things--[Greek: lambanon kai\ndidous]. Death is the great reservoir of Life. Everything comes from\nOrcus; everything that is alive now was once there. Could we but\nunderstand the great trick by which that is done, all would be clear!","title":"The Essays of Arthur Schopenhauer; Counsels and Maxims","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":45501}