{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_10731/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_10731","id":"gutenberg_10731","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10731","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Debates and debating","Logic"],"text":"THE ESSAYS OF ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER: THE ART OF CONTROVERSY\n\nTRANSLATED BY\n\nT. BAILEY SAUNDERS, M.A.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n  THE ART OF CONTROVERSY--\n  1. PRELIMINARY: LOGIC AND DIALECTIC\n  2. THE BASIS OF ALL DIALECTIC\n  3. STRATAGEMS\n     ON THE COMPARATIVE PLACE OF INTEREST AND BEAUTY IN WORKS OF ART\n     PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS\n     ON THE WISDOM OF LIFE: APHORISMS\n     GENIUS AND VIRTUE\n\n\n\n\nTRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.\n\nThe volume now before the reader is a tardy addition to a series in\nwhich I have endeavoured to present Schopenhauer's minor writings in\nan adequate form.\n\nIts contents are drawn entirely from his posthumous papers. A\nselection of them was given to the world some three of four years\nafter his death by his friend and literary executor, Julius\nFrauenst\u00e4dt, who for this and other offices of piety, has received\nless recognition than he deserves. The papers then published have\nrecently been issued afresh, with considerable additions and\ncorrections, by Dr. Eduard Grisebach, who is also entitled to\ngratitude for the care with which he has followed the text of the\nmanuscripts, now in the Royal Library at Berlin, and for having drawn\nattention--although in terms that are unnecessarily severe--to a\nnumber of faults and failings on the part of the previous editor.\n\nThe fact that all Schopenhauer's works, together with a volume of his\ncorrespondence, may now be obtained in a certain cheap collection of\nthe best national and foreign literature displayed in almost every\nbookshop in Germany, is sufficient evidence that in his own country\nthe writer's popularity is still very great; nor does the demand for\ntranslations indicate that his fame has at all diminished abroad. The\nfavour with which the new edition of his posthumous papers has been\nreceived induces me, therefore, to resume a task which I thought, five\nyears ago, that I had finally completed; and it is my intention to\nbring out one more volume, selected partly from these papers and\npartly from his _Parerga_.\n\nA small part of the essay on _The Art of Controversy_ was published in\nSchopenhauer's lifetime, in the chapter of the _Parerga_ headed _Zur\nLogik und Dialektik_. The intelligent reader will discover that a good\ndeal of its contents is of an ironical character. As regards the last\nthree essays I must observe that I have omitted such passages\nas appear to be no longer of any general interest or otherwise\nunsuitable. I must also confess to having taken one or two liberties\nwith the titles, in order that they may the more effectively fulfil\nthe purpose for which titles exist. In other respects I have adhered\nto the original with the kind of fidelity which aims at producing\nan impression as nearly as possible similar to that produced by the\noriginal.\n\nT.B.S.\n\nFebruary, 1896\n\n\n\n\nTHE ART OF CONTROVERSY.\n\n\nPRELIMINARY: LOGIC AND DIALECTIC.\n\nBy the ancients, Logic and Dialectic were used as synonymous terms;\nalthough [Greek: logizesthai], \"to think over, to consider, to\ncalculate,\" and [Greek: dialegesthai], \"to converse,\" are two very\ndifferent things.\n\nThe name Dialectic was, as we are informed by Diogenes Laertius, first\nused by Plato; and in the _Phaedrus, Sophist, Republic_, bk. vii., and\nelsewhere, we find that by Dialectic he means the regular employment\nof the reason, and skill in the practice of it. Aristotle also uses\nthe word in this sense; but, according to Laurentius Valla, he was\nthe first to use Logic too in a similar way.[1] Dialectic, therefore,\nseems to be an older word than Logic. Cicero and Quintilian use the\nwords in the same general signification.[2]\n\n[Footnote 1: He speaks of [Greek: dyscherelai logicai], that is,\n\"difficult points,\" [Greek: protasis logicae aporia logicae]]\n\n[Footnote 2: Cic. _in Lucullo: Dialecticam inventam esse, veri et\nfalsi quasi disceptatricem. Topica_, c. 2: _Stoici enim judicandi vias\ndiligenter persecuti sunt, ea scientia, quam_ Dialecticen _appellant_.\nQuint., lib. ii., 12: _Itaque haec pars dialecticae, sive illam\ndisputatricem dicere malimus_; and with him this latter word appears\nto be the Latin equivalent for Dialectic. (So far according to \"Petri\nRami dialectica, Audomari Talaei praelectionibus illustrata.\" 1569.)]\n\nThis use of the words and synonymous terms lasted through the Middle\nAges into modern times; in fact, until the present day. But more\nrecently, and in particular by Kant, Dialectic has often been employed\nin a bad sense, as meaning \"the art of sophistical controversy\";\nand hence Logic has been preferred, as of the two the more innocent\ndesignation. Nevertheless, both originally meant the same thing; and\nin the last few years they have again been recognised as synonymous.\n\nIt is a pity that the words have thus been used from of old, and that\nI am not quite at liberty to distinguish their meanings. Otherwise, I\nshould have preferred to define _Logic_ (from [Greek: logos], \"word\"\nand \"reason,\" which are inseparable) as \"the science of the laws of\nthought, that is, of the method of reason\"; and _Dialectic_ (from\n[Greek: dialegesthai], \"to converse\"--and every conversation\ncommunicates either facts or opinions, that is to say, it is\nhistorical or deliberative) as \"the art of disputation,\" in the modern\nsense of the word. It it clear, then, that Logic deals with a subject\nof a purely _\u00e0 priori_ character, separable in definition from\nexperience, namely, the laws of thought, the process of reason or the\n[Greek: logos], the laws, that is, which reason follows when it is\nleft to itself and not hindered, as in the case of solitary thought on\nthe part of a rational being who is in no way misled. Dialectic, on\nthe other hand, would treat of the intercourse between two rational\nbeings who, because they are rational, ought to think in common, but\nwho, as soon as they cease to agree like two clocks keeping exactly\nthe same time, create a disputation, or intellectual contest. Regarded\nas purely rational beings, the individuals would, I say, necessarily\nbe in agreement, and their variation springs from the difference\nessential to individuality; in other words, it is drawn from\nexperience.\n\nLogic, therefore, as the science of thought, or the science of the\nprocess of pure reason, should be capable of being constructed _\u00e0\npriori_. Dialectic, for the most part, can be constructed only _\u00e0\nposteriori_; that is to say, we may learn its rules by an experiential\nknowledge of the disturbance which pure thought suffers through the\ndifference of individuality manifested in the intercourse between\ntwo rational beings, and also by acquaintance with the means which\ndisputants adopt in order to make good against one another their own\nindividual thought, and to show that it is pure and objective. For\nhuman nature is such that if A. and B. are engaged in thinking in\ncommon, and are communicating their opinions to one another on any\nsubject, so long as it is not a mere fact of history, and A. perceives\nthat B.'s thoughts on one and the same subject are not the same as his\nown, he does not begin by revising his own process of thinking, so as\nto discover any mistake which he may have made, but he assumes that\nthe mistake has occurred in B.'s. In other words, man is naturally\nobstinate; and this quality in him is attended with certain results,\ntreated of in the branch of knowledge which I should like to call\nDialectic, but which, in order to avoid misunderstanding, I shall call\nControversial or Eristical Dialectic. Accordingly, it is the branch\nof knowledge which treats of the obstinacy natural to man. Eristic is\nonly a harsher name for the same thing.\n\nControversial Dialectic is the art of disputing, and of disputing in\nsuch a way as to hold one's own, whether one is in the right or the\nwrong--_per fas et nefas_.[1] A man may be objectively in the right,\nand nevertheless in the eyes of bystanders, and sometimes in his own,\nhe may come off worst. For example, I may advance a proof of some\nassertion, and my adversary may refute the proof, and thus appear to\nhave refuted the assertion, for which there may, nevertheless, be\nother proofs. In this case, of course, my adversary and I change\nplaces: he comes off best, although, as a matter of fact, he is in the\nwrong.\n\n[Footnote 1: According to Diogenes Laertius, v., 28, Aristotle put\nRhetoric and Dialectic together, as aiming at persuasion, [Greek: to\npithanon]; and Analytic and Philosophy as aiming at truth. Aristotle\ndoes, indeed, distinguish between (1) _Logic_, or Analytic, as the\ntheory or method of arriving at true or apodeictic conclusions; and\n(2) _Dialectic_ as the method of arriving at conclusions that are\naccepted or pass current as true, [Greek: endoxa] _probabilia_;\nconclusions in regard to which it is not taken for granted that they\nare false, and also not taken for granted that they are true in\nthemselves, since that is not the point. What is this but the art of\nbeing in the right, whether one has any reason for being so or not, in\nother words, the art of attaining the appearance of truth, regardless\nof its substance? That is, then, as I put it above.\n\nAristotle divides all conclusions into logical and dialectical, in the\nmanner described, and then into eristical. (3) _Eristic_ is the method\nby which the form of the conclusion is correct, but the premisses, the\nmaterials from which it is drawn, are not true, but only appear to be\ntrue. Finally (4) _Sophistic_ is the method in which the form of the\nconclusion is false, although it seems correct. These three last\nproperly belong to the art of Controversial Dialectic, as they have\nno objective truth in view, but only the appearance of it, and pay\nno regard to truth itself; that is to say, they aim at victory.\nAristotle's book on _Sophistic Conclusions_ was edited apart from the\nothers, and at a later date. It was the last book of his _Dialectic_.]\n\nIf the reader asks how this is, I reply that it is simply the\nnatural baseness of human nature. If human nature were not base, but\nthoroughly honourable, we should in every debate have no other aim\nthan the discovery of truth; we should not in the least care whether\nthe truth proved to be in favour of the opinion which we had begun by\nexpressing, or of the opinion of our adversary. That we should\nregard as a matter of no moment, or, at any rate, of very secondary\nconsequence; but, as things are, it is the main concern. Our\ninnate vanity, which is particularly sensitive in reference to our\nintellectual powers, will not suffer us to allow that our first\nposition was wrong and our adversary's right. The way out of this\ndifficulty would be simply to take the trouble always to form a\ncorrect judgment. For this a man would have to think before he spoke.\nBut, with most men, innate vanity is accompanied by loquacity and\ninnate dishonesty. They speak before they think; and even though they\nmay afterwards perceive that they are wrong, and that what they assert\nis false, they want it to seem the contrary. The interest in truth,\nwhich may be presumed to have been their only motive when they stated\nthe proposition alleged to be true, now gives way to the interests of\nvanity: and so, for the sake of vanity, what is true must seem false,\nand what is false must seem true.\n\nHowever, this very dishonesty, this persistence in a proposition which\nseems false even to ourselves, has something to be said for it. It\noften happens that we begin with the firm conviction of the truth\nof our statement; but our opponent's argument appears to refute it.\nShould we abandon our position at once, we may discover later on\nthat we were right after all; the proof we offered was false, but\nnevertheless there was a proof for our statement which was true. The\nargument which would have been our salvation did not occur to us at\nthe moment. Hence we make it a rule to attack a counter-argument, even\nthough to all appearances it is true and forcible, in the belief that\nits truth is only superficial, and that in the course of the dispute\nanother argument will occur to us by which we may upset it, or succeed\nin confirming the truth of our statement. In this way we are almost\ncompelled to become dishonest; or, at any rate, the temptation to do\nso is very great. Thus it is that the weakness of our intellect and\nthe perversity of our will lend each other mutual support; and that,\ngenerally, a disputant fights not for truth, but for his proposition,\nas though it were a battle _pro aris et focis_. He sets to work _per\nfas et nefas_; nay, as we have seen, he cannot easily do otherwise.\nAs a rule, then, every man will insist on maintaining whatever he\nhas said, even though for the moment he may consider it false or\ndoubtful.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: Machiavelli recommends his Prince to make use of every\nmoment that his neighbour is weak, in order to attack him; as\notherwise his neighbour may do the same. If honour and fidelity\nprevailed in the world, it would be a different matter; but as these\nare qualities not to be expected, a man must not practise them\nhimself, because he will meet with a bad return. It is just the same\nin a dispute: if I allow that my opponent is right as soon as he seems\nto be so, it is scarcely probable that he will do the same when the\nposition is reversed; and as he acts wrongly, I am compelled to act\nwrongly too. It is easy to say that we must yield to truth, without\nany prepossession in favour of our own statements; but we cannot\nassume that our opponent will do it, and therefore we cannot do\nit either. Nay, if I were to abandon the position on which I had\npreviously bestowed much thought, as soon as it appeared that he was\nright, it might easily happen that I might be misled by a momentary\nimpression, and give up the truth in order to accept an error.]\n\nTo some extent every man is armed against such a procedure by his own\ncunning and villainy. He learns by daily experience, and thus comes\nto have his own _natural Dialectic_, just as he has his own _natural\nLogic_. But his Dialectic is by no means as safe a guide as his Logic.\nIt is not so easy for any one to think or draw an inference contrary\nto the laws of Logic; false judgments are frequent, false conclusions\nvery rare. A man cannot easily be deficient in natural Logic, but he\nmay very easily be deficient in natural Dialectic, which is a gift\napportioned in unequal measure. In so far natural Dialectic resembles\nthe faculty of judgment, which differs in degree with every man; while\nreason, strictly speaking, is the same. For it often happens that in\na matter in which a man is really in the right, he is confounded or\nrefuted by merely superficial arguments; and if he emerges victorious\nfrom a contest, he owes it very often not so much to the correctness\nof his judgment in stating his proposition, as to the cunning and\naddress with which he defended it.\n\nHere, as in all other cases, the best gifts are born with a man;\nnevertheless, much may be done to make him a master of this art by\npractice, and also by a consideration of the tactics which may be used\nto defeat an opponent, or which he uses himself for a similar purpose.\nTherefore, even though Logic may be of no very real, practical use,\nDialectic may certainly be so; and Aristotle, too, seems to me to\nhave drawn up his Logic proper, or Analytic, as a foundation and\npreparation for his Dialectic, and to have made this his chief\nbusiness. Logic is concerned with the mere form of propositions;\nDialectic, with their contents or matter--in a word, with their\nsubstance. It was proper, therefore, to consider the general form of\nall propositions before proceeding to particulars.\n\nAristotle does not define the object of Dialectic as exactly as I\nhave done it here; for while he allows that its principal object\nis disputation, he declares at the same time that it is also the\ndiscovery of truth.[1] Again, he says, later on, that if, from the\nphilosophical point of view, propositions are dealt with according to\ntheir truth, Dialectic regards them according to their plausibility,\nor the measure in which they will win the approval and assent of\nothers.[2] He is aware that the objective truth of a proposition must\nbe distinguished and separated from the way in which it is pressed\nhome, and approbation won for it; but he fails to draw a sufficiently\nsharp distinction between these two aspects of the matter, so as to\nreserve Dialectic for the latter alone.[3] The rules which he often\ngives for Dialectic contain some of those which properly belong to\nLogic; and hence it appears to me that he has not provided a clear\nsolution of the problem.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Topica_, bk. i., 2.]\n\n[Footnote 2: _Ib_., 12.]\n\n[Footnote 3: On the other hand, in his book _De Sophisticis Elenchis_,\nhe takes too much trouble to separate _Dialectic_ from _Sophistic_\nand _Eristic_, where the distinction is said to consist in this, that\ndialectical conclusions are true in their form and their contents,\nwhile sophistical and eristical conclusions are false.\n\nEristic so far differs from Sophistic that, while the master of\nEristic aims at mere victory, the Sophist looks to the reputation,\nand with it, the monetary rewards which he will gain. But whether a\nproposition is true in respect of its contents is far too uncertain a\nmatter to form the foundation of the distinction in question; and\nit is a matter on which the disputant least of all can arrive at\ncertainty; nor is it disclosed in any very sure form even by the\nresult of the disputation. Therefore, when Aristotle speaks of\n_Dialectic_, we must include in it Sophistic, Eristic, and Peirastic,\nand define it as \"the art of getting the best of it in a dispute,\" in\nwhich, unquestionably, the safest plan is to be in the right to begin\nwith; but this in itself is not enough in the existing disposition\nof mankind, and, on the other hand, with the weakness of the human\nintellect, it is not altogether necessary. Other expedients are\nrequired, which, just because they are unnecessary to the attainment\nof objective truth, may also be used when a man is objectively in the\nwrong; and whether or not this is the case, is hardly ever a matter of\ncomplete certainty.\n\nI am of opinion, therefore, that a sharper distinction should be drawn\nbetween Dialectic and Logic than Aristotle has given us; that to Logic\nwe should assign objective truth as far as it is merely formal, and\nthat Dialectic should be confined to the art of gaining one's point,\nand contrarily, that Sophistic and Eristic should not be distinguished\nfrom Dialectic in Aristotle's fashion, since the difference which he\ndraws rests on objective and material truth; and in regard to what\nthis is, we cannot attain any clear certainty before discussion; but\nwe are compelled, with Pilate, to ask, _What is truth_? For truth\nis in the depths, [Greek: en butho hae halaetheia] (a saying of\nDemocritus, _Diog. Laert_., ix., 72). Two men often engage in a warm\ndispute, and then return to their homes each of the other's opinion,\nwhich he has exchanged for his own. It is easy to say that in every\ndispute we should have no other aim than the advancement of truth; but\nbefore dispute no one knows where it is, and through his opponent's\narguments and his own a man is misled.]\n\nWe must always keep the subject of one branch of knowledge quite\ndistinct from that of any other. To form a clear idea of the province\nof Dialectic, we must pay no attention to objective truth, which is an\naffair of Logic; we must regard it simply as _the art of getting the\nbest of it in a dispute_, which, as we have seen, is all the easier if\nwe are actually in the right. In itself Dialectic has nothing to do\nbut to show how a man may defend himself against attacks of every\nkind, and especially against dishonest attacks; and, in the\nsame fashion, how he may attack another man's statement without\ncontradicting himself, or generally without being defeated. The\ndiscovery of objective truth must be separated from the art of winning\nacceptance for propositions; for objective truth is an entirely\ndifferent matter: it is the business of sound judgment, reflection and\nexperience, for which there is no special art.\n\nSuch, then, is the aim of Dialectic. It has been defined as the Logic\nof appearance; but the definition is a wrong one, as in that case it\ncould only be used to repel false propositions. But even when a man\nhas the right on his side, he needs Dialectic in order to defend and\nmaintain it; he must know what the dishonest tricks are, in order to\nmeet them; nay, he must often make use of them himself, so as to beat\nthe enemy with his own weapons.\n\nAccordingly, in a dialectical contest we must put objective truth\naside, or, rather, we must regard it as an accidental circumstance,\nand look only to the defence of our own position and the refutation of\nour opponent's.\n\nIn following out the rules to this end, no respect should be paid to\nobjective truth, because we usually do not know where the truth lies.\nAs I have said, a man often does not himself know whether he is in the\nright or not; he often believes it, and is mistaken: both sides often\nbelieve it. Truth is in the depths. At the beginning of a contest each\nman believes, as a rule, that right is on his side; in the course of\nit, both become doubtful, and the truth is not determined or confirmed\nuntil the close.\n\nDialectic, then, need have nothing to do with truth, as little as the\nfencing master considers who is in the right when a dispute leads to a\nduel. Thrust and parry is the whole business. Dialectic is the art of\nintellectual fencing; and it is only when we so regard it that we can\nerect it into a branch of knowledge. For if we take purely objective\ntruth as our aim, we are reduced to mere Logic; if we take the\nmaintenance of false propositions, it is mere Sophistic; and in either\ncase it would have to be assumed that we were aware of what was true\nand what was false; and it is seldom that we have any clear idea of\nthe truth beforehand. The true conception of Dialectic is, then, that\nwhich we have formed: it is the art of intellectual fencing used for\nthe purpose of getting the best of it in a dispute; and, although the\nname _Eristic_ would be more suitable, it is more correct to call it\ncontroversial Dialectic, _Dialectica eristica_.\n\nDialectic in this sense of the word has no other aim but to reduce\nto a regular system and collect and exhibit the arts which most men\nemploy when they observe, in a dispute, that truth is not on their\nside, and still attempt to gain the day. Hence, it would be very\ninexpedient to pay any regard to objective truth or its advancement in\na science of Dialectic; since this is not done in that original and\nnatural Dialectic innate in men, where they strive for nothing but\nvictory. The science of Dialectic, in one sense of the word, is mainly\nconcerned to tabulate and analyse dishonest stratagems, in order that\nin a real debate they may be at once recognised and defeated. It is\nfor this very reason that Dialectic must admittedly take victory, and\nnot objective truth, for its aim and purpose.\n\nI am not aware that anything has been done in this direction,\nalthough I have made inquiries far and wide.[1] It is, therefore, an\nuncultivated soil. To accomplish our purpose, we must draw from our\nexperience; we must observe how in the debates which often arise in\nour intercourse with our fellow-men this or that stratagem is employed\nby one side or the other. By finding out the common elements in tricks\nrepeated in different forms, we shall be enabled to exhibit certain\ngeneral stratagems which may be advantageous, as well for our own use,\nas for frustrating others if they use them.\n\n[Footnote 1: Diogenes Laertes tells us that among the numerous\nwritings on Rhetoric by Theophrastus, all of which have been lost,\nthere was one entitled [Greek: Agonistikon taes peri tous eristikous\ngogous theorias.] That would have been just what we want.]\n\nWhat follows is to be regarded as a first attempt.\n\n\nTHE BASIS OF ALL DIALECTIC.\n\nFirst of all, we must consider the essential nature of every dispute:\nwhat it is that really takes place in it.\n\nOur opponent has stated a thesis, or we ourselves,--it is all one.\nThere are two modes of refuting it, and two courses that we may\npursue.\n\nI. The modes are (1) _ad rem_, (2) _ad hominem_ or _ex concessis_.\nThat is to say: We may show either that the proposition is not in\naccordance with the nature of things, i.e., with absolute, objective\ntruth; or that it is inconsistent with other statements or admissions\nof our opponent, i.e., with truth as it appears to him. The latter\nmode of arguing a question produces only a relative conviction, and\nmakes no difference whatever to the objective truth of the matter.\n\nII. The two courses that we may pursue are (1) the direct, and (2) the\nindirect refutation. The direct attacks the reason for the thesis; the\nindirect, its results. The direct refutation shows that the thesis is\nnot true; the indirect, that it cannot be true.\n\nThe direct course admits of a twofold procedure. Either we may\nshow that the reasons for the statement are false (_nego majorem,\nminorem_); or we may admit the reasons or premisses, but show that the\nstatement does not follow from them (_nego consequentiam)_; that is,\nwe attack the conclusion or form of the syllogism.\n\nThe direct refutation makes use either of the _diversion_ or of the\n_instance_.\n\n_(a)_ The _diversion_.--We accept our opponent's proposition as true,\nand then show what follows from it when we bring it into connection\nwith some other proposition acknowledged to be true. We use the two\npropositions as the premisses of a syllogism giving a conclusion which\nis manifestly false, as contradicting either the nature of things,[1]\nor other statements of our opponent himself; that is to say, the\nconclusion is false either _ad rem_ or _ad hominem_.[2] Consequently,\nour opponent's proposition must have been false; for, while true\npremisses can give only a true conclusion, false premisses need not\nalways give a false one.\n\n[Footnote 1: If it is in direct contradiction with a perfectly\nundoubted, truth, we have reduced our opponent's position _ad\nabsurdum_.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Socrates, in _Hippia Maj. et alias_.]\n\n\n_(b) The instance_, or the example to the contrary.--This consists in\nrefuting the general proposition by direct reference to particular\ncases which are included in it in the way in which it is stated, but\nto which it does not apply, and by which it is therefore shown to be\nnecessarily false.\n\nSuch is the framework or skeleton of all forms of disputation; for to\nthis every kind of controversy may be ultimately reduced. The whole of\na controversy may, however, actually proceed in the manner described,\nor only appear to do so; and it may be supported by genuine or\nspurious arguments. It is just because it is not easy to make out\nthe truth in regard to this matter, that debates are so long and so\nobstinate.\n\nNor can we, in ordering the argument, separate actual from apparent\ntruth, since even the disputants are not certain about it beforehand.\nTherefore I shall describe the various tricks or stratagems without\nregard to questions of objective truth or falsity; for that is a\nmatter on which we have no assurance, and which cannot be determined\npreviously. Moreover, in every disputation or argument on any subject\nwe must agree about something; and by this, as a principle, we must be\nwilling to judge the matter in question. We cannot argue with those\nwho deny principles: _Contra negantem principia non est disputandum_.\n\n\nSTRATAGEMS.\n\nI.\n\nThe _Extension_.--This consists in carrying your opponent's\nproposition beyond its natural limits; in giving it as general a\nsignification and as wide a sense as possible, so as to exaggerate it;\nand, on the other hand, in giving your own proposition as restricted\na sense and as narrow limits as you can, because the more general a\nstatement becomes, the more numerous are the objections to which it is\nopen. The defence consists in an accurate statement of the point or\nessential question at issue.\n\nExample 1.--I asserted that the English were supreme in drama. My\nopponent attempted _to_ give an instance to the contrary, and replied\nthat it was a well-known fact that in music, and consequently in\nopera, they could do nothing at all. I repelled the attack by\nreminding him that music was not included in dramatic art, which\ncovered tragedy and comedy alone. This he knew very well. What he had\ndone was to try to generalise my proposition, so that it would apply\nto all theatrical representations, and, consequently, to opera and\nthen to music, in order to make certain of defeating me. Contrarily,\nwe may save our proposition by reducing it within narrower limits\nthan we had first intended, if our way of expressing it favours this\nexpedient.\n\nExample 2.--A. declares that the Peace of 1814 gave back their\nindependence to all the German towns of the Hanseatic League. B. gives\nan instance to the contrary by reciting the fact that Dantzig, which\nreceived its independence from Buonaparte, lost it by that Peace. A.\nsaves himself thus: \"I said 'all German towns,' and Dantzig was in\nPoland.\"\n\nThis trick was mentioned by Aristotle in the _Topica_ (bk. viii., cc.\n11, 12).\n\nExample 3.--Lamarck, in his _Philosophic Zoologique_ (vol. i., p.\n208), states that the polype has no feeling, because it has no nerves.\nIt is certain, however, that it has some sort of perception; for it\nadvances towards light by moving in an ingenious fashion from branch\nto branch, and it seizes its prey. Hence it has been assumed that its\nnervous system is spread over the whole of its body in equal measure,\nas though it were blended with it; for it is obvious that the polype\npossesses some faculty of perception without having any separate\norgans of sense. Since this assumption refutes Lamarck's position, he\nargues thus: \"In that case all parts of its body must be capable of\nevery kind of feeling, and also of motion, of will, of thought. The\npolype would have all the organs of the most perfect animal in every\npoint of its body; every point could see, smell, taste, hear, and so\non; nay, it could think, judge, and draw conclusions; every particle\nof its body would be a perfect animal and it would stand higher than\nman, as every part of it would possess all the faculties which man\npossesses only in the whole of him. Further, there would be no reason\nfor not extending what is true of the polype to all monads, the most\nimperfect of all creatures, and ultimately to the plants, which are\nalso alive, etc., etc.\" By using dialectical tricks of this kind a\nwriter betrays that he is secretly conscious of being in the wrong.\nBecause it was said that the creature's whole body is sensitive to\nlight, and is therefore possessed of nerves, he makes out that its\nwhole body is capable of thought.\n\n\nII.\n\nThe _Homonymy_.--This trick is to extend a proposition to something\nwhich has little or nothing in common with the matter in question but\nthe similarity of the word; then to refute it triumphantly, and so\nclaim credit for having refuted the original statement.\n\nIt may be noted here that synonyms are two words for the same\nconception; homonyms, two conceptions which are covered by the same\nword. (See Aristotle, _Topica_, bk. i., c. 13.) \"Deep,\" \"cutting,\"\n\"high,\" used at one moment of bodies at another of tones, are\nhomonyms; \"honourable\" and \"honest\" are synonyms.\n\nThis is a trick which may be regarded as identical with the sophism\n_ex homonymia_; although, if the sophism is obvious, it will deceive\nno one.\n\n  _Every light can be extinguished.\n  The intellect is a light.\n  Therefore it can be extinguished_.\n\nHere it is at once clear that there are four terms in the syllogism,\n\"light\" being used both in a real and in a metaphorical sense. But if\nthe sophism takes a subtle form, it is, of course, apt to mislead,\nespecially where the conceptions which are covered by the same word\nare related, and inclined to be interchangeable. It is never subtle\nenough to deceive, if it is used intentionally; and therefore cases of\nit must be collected from actual and individual experience.\n\nIt would be a very good thing if every trick could receive some short\nand obviously appropriate name, so that when a man used this or that\nparticular trick, he could be at once reproached for it.\n\nI will give two examples of the homonymy.\n\nExample 1.--A.: \"You are not yet initiated into the mysteries of the\nKantian philosophy.\"\n\nB.: \"Oh, if it's mysteries you're talking of, I'll have nothing to do\nwith them.\"\n\nExample 2.--I condemned the principle involved in the word _honour_\nas a foolish one; for, according to it, a man loses his honour by\nreceiving an insult, which he cannot wipe out unless he replies with a\nstill greater insult, or by shedding his adversary's blood or his own.\nI contended that a man's true honour cannot be outraged by what he\nsuffers, but only and alone by what he does; for there is no saying\nwhat may befall any one of us. My opponent immediately attacked\nthe reason I had given, and triumphantly proved to me that when a\ntradesman was falsely accused of misrepresentation, dishonesty, or\nneglect in his business, it was an attack upon his honour, which in\nthis case was outraged solely by what he suffered, and that he could\nonly retrieve it by punishing his aggressor and making him retract.\n\nHere, by a homonymy, he was foisting _civic honour_, which is\notherwise called _good name_, and which may be outraged by libel and\nslander, on to the conception of _knightly honour_, also called _point\nd'honneur_, which may be outraged by insult. And since an attack on\nthe former cannot be disregarded, but must be repelled by public\ndisproof, so, with the same justification, an attack on the latter\nmust not be disregarded either, but it must be defeated by still\ngreater insult and a duel. Here we have a confusion of two essentially\ndifferent things through the homonymy in the word _honour_, and a\nconsequent alteration of the point in dispute.\n\n\nIII.\n\nAnother trick is to take a proposition which is laid down relatively,\nand in reference to some particular matter, as though it were uttered\nwith a general or absolute application; or, at least, to take it in\nsome quite different sense, and then refute it. Aristotle's example is\nas follows:\n\nA Moor is black; but in regard to his teeth he is white; therefore, he\nis black and not black at the same moment. This is an obvious sophism,\nwhich will deceive no one. Let us contrast it with one drawn from\nactual experience.\n\nIn talking of philosophy, I admitted that my system upheld the\nQuietists, and commended them. Shortly afterwards the conversation\nturned upon Hegel, and I maintained that his writings were mostly\nnonsense; or, at any rate, that there were many passages in them where\nthe author wrote the words, and it was left to the reader to find a\nmeaning for them. My opponent did not attempt to refute this assertion\n_ad rem_, but contented himself by advancing the _argumentum ad\nhominem_, and telling me that I had just been praising the Quietists,\nand that they had written a good deal of nonsense too.\n\nThis I admitted; but, by way of correcting him, I said that I had\npraised the Quietists, not as philosophers and writers, that is to\nsay, for their achievements in the sphere of _theory_, but only as\nmen, and for their conduct in mere matters of _practice_; and that in\nHegel's case we were talking of theories. In this way I parried the\nattack.\n\nThe first three tricks are of a kindred character. They have this\nin common, that something different is attacked from that which was\nasserted. It would therefore be an _ignoratio elenchi_ to allow\noneself to be disposed of in such a manner.\n\nFor in all the examples that I have given, what the opponent says is\ntrue, but it stands in apparent and not in real contradiction with the\nthesis. All that the man whom he is attacking has to do is to deny the\nvalidity of his syllogism; to deny, namely, the conclusion which he\ndraws, that because his proposition is true, ours is false. In this\nway his refutation is itself directly refuted by a denial of his\nconclusion, _per negationem consequentiae_. Another trick is to refuse\nto admit true premisses because of a foreseen conclusion. There are\ntwo ways of defeating it, incorporated in the next two sections.\n\n\nIV.\n\nIf you want to draw a conclusion, you must not let it be foreseen, but\nyou must get the premisses admitted one by one, unobserved, mingling\nthem here and there in your talk; otherwise, your opponent will\nattempt all sorts of chicanery. Or, if it is doubtful whether your\nopponent will admit them, you must advance the premisses of these\npremisses; that is to say, you must draw up pro-syllogisms, and get\nthe premisses of several of them admitted in no definite order.\nIn this way you conceal your game until you have obtained all the\nadmissions that are necessary, and so reach your goal by making a\ncircuit. These rules are given by Aristotle in his _Topica_, bk.\nviii., c. 1. It is a trick which needs no illustration.\n\n\nV.\n\nTo prove the truth of a proposition, you may also employ previous\npropositions that are not true, should your opponent refuse to admit\nthe true ones, either because he fails to perceive their truth, or\nbecause he sees that the thesis immediately follows from them. In that\ncase the plan is to take propositions which are false in themselves\nbut true for your opponent, and argue from the way in which he thinks,\nthat is to say, _ex concessis_. For a true conclusion may follow\nfrom false premisses, but not _vice vers\u00e2_. In the same fashion\nyour opponent's false propositions may be refuted by other false\npropositions, which he, however, takes to be true; for it is with him\nthat you have to do, and you must use the thoughts that he uses. For\ninstance, if he is a member of some sect to which you do not belong,\nyou may employ the declared, opinions of this sect against him, as\nprinciples.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: Aristotle, _Topica_ bk. viii., chap. 2.]\n\n\nVI.\n\nAnother plan is to beg the question in disguise by postulating what\nhas to be proved, either (1) under another name; for instance, \"good\nrepute\" instead of \"honour\"; \"virtue\" instead of \"virginity,\" etc.;\nor by using such convertible terms as \"red-blooded animals\" and\n\"vertebrates\"; or (2) by making a general assumption covering the\nparticular point in dispute; for instance, maintaining the uncertainty\nof medicine by postulating the uncertainty of all human knowledge. (3)\nIf, _vice vers\u00e2_, two things follow one from the other, and one is to\nbe proved, you may postulate the other. (4) If a general proposition\nis to be proved, you may get your opponent to admit every one of the\nparticulars. This is the converse of the second.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Idem_, chap. 11. The last chapter of this work contains\nsome good rules for the practice of Dialectics.]\n\n\nVII.\n\nShould the disputation be conducted on somewhat strict and formal\nlines, and there be a desire to arrive at a very clear understanding,\nhe who states the proposition and wants to prove it may proceed\nagainst his opponent by question, in order to show the truth of the\nstatement from his admissions. The erotematic, or Socratic, method was\nespecially in use among the ancients; and this and some of the tricks\nfollowing later on are akin to it.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: They are all a free version of chap. 15 of Aristotle's\n_De Sophistici Elenchis_.]\n\nThe plan is to ask a great many wide-reaching questions at once, so as\nto hide what you want to get admitted, and, on the other hand, quickly\npropound the argument resulting from the admissions; for those who are\nslow of understanding cannot follow accurately, and do not notice any\nmistakes or gaps there may be in the demonstration.\n\n\nVIII.\n\nThis trick consists in making your opponent angry; for when he is\nangry he is incapable of judging aright, and perceiving where\nhis advantage lies. You can make him angry by doing him repeated\ninjustice, or practising some kind of chicanery, and being generally\ninsolent.\n\n\nIX.\n\nOr you may put questions in an order different from that which the\nconclusion to be drawn from them requires, and transpose them, so\nas not to let him know at what you are aiming. He can then take no\nprecautions. You may also use his answers for different or even\nopposite conclusions, according to their character. This is akin to\nthe trick of masking your procedure.\n\n\nX.\n\nIf you observe that your opponent designedly returns a negative answer\nto the questions which, for the sake of your proposition, you want\nhim to answer in the affirmative, you must ask the converse of the\nproposition, as though it were that which you were anxious to see\naffirmed; or, at any rate, you may give him his choice of both, so\nthat he may not perceive which of them you are asking him to affirm.\n\n\nXL.\n\nIf you make an induction, and your opponent grants you the particular\ncases by which it is to be supported, you must refrain from asking him\nif he also admits the general truth which issues from the particulars,\nbut introduce it afterwards as a settled and admitted fact; for, in\nthe meanwhile, he will himself come to believe that he has admitted\nit, and the same impression will be received by the audience, because\nthey will remember the many questions as to the particulars, and\nsuppose that they must, of course, have attained their end.\n\n\nXII.\n\nIf the conversation turns upon some general conception which has\nno particular name, but requires some figurative or metaphorical\ndesignation, you must begin by choosing a metaphor that is favourable\nto your proposition. For instance, the names used to denote the two\npolitical parties in Spain, _Serviles_ and _Liberates_, are obviously\nchosen by the latter. The name _Protestants_ is chosen by themselves,\nand also the name _Evangelicals_; but the Catholics call them\n_heretics_. Similarly, in regard to the names of things which admit\nof a more exact and definite meaning: for example, if your opponent\nproposes an _alteration_, you can call it an _innovation_, as this is\nan invidious word. If you yourself make the proposal, it will be the\nconverse. In the first case, you can call the antagonistic principle\n\"the existing order,\" in the second, \"antiquated prejudice.\" What an\nimpartial man with no further purpose to serve would call \"public\nworship\" or a \"system of religion,\" is described by an adherent as\n\"piety,\" \"godliness\": and by an opponent as \"bigotry,\" \"superstition.\"\nThis is, at bottom, a subtle _petitio principii_. What is sought to be\nproved is, first of all, inserted in the definition, whence it is then\ntaken by mere analysis. What one man calls \"placing in safe custody,\"\nanother calls \"throwing into prison.\" A speaker often betrays his\npurpose beforehand by the names which he gives to things. One man\ntalks of \"the clergy\"; another, of \"the priests.\"\n\nOf all the tricks of controversy, this is the most frequent, and it is\nused instinctively. You hear of \"religious zeal,\" or \"fanaticism\"; a\n\"_faux pas_\" a \"piece of gallantry,\" or \"adultery\"; an \"equivocal,\" or\na \"bawdy\" story; \"embarrassment,\" or \"bankruptcy\"; \"through influence\nand connection,\" or by \"bribery and nepotism\"; \"sincere gratitude,\" or\n\"good pay.\"\n\n\nXIII.\n\nTo make your opponent accept a proposition, you must give him the\ncounter-proposition as well, leaving him his choice of the two; and\nyou must render the contrast as glaring as you can, so that to avoid\nbeing paradoxical he will accept the proposition, which is thus made\nto look quite probable. For instance, if you want to make him admit\nthat a boy must do everything that his father tells him to do, ask him\n\"whether in all things we must obey or disobey our parents.\" Or, if\na thing is said to occur \"often,\" ask whether by \"often\" you are to\nunderstand few or many cases; and he will say \"many.\" It is as though\nyou were to put grey next black, and call it white; or next white, and\ncall it black.\n\n\nXIV.\n\nThis, which is an impudent trick, is played as follows: When your\nopponent has answered several of your questions without the answers\nturning out favourable to the conclusion at which you are aiming,\nadvance the desired conclusion,--although it does not in the least\nfollow,--as though it had been proved, and proclaim it in a tone of\ntriumph. If your opponent is shy or stupid, and you yourself possess\na great deal of impudence and a good voice, the trick may easily\nsucceed. It is akin to the fallacy _non causae ut causae_.\n\n\nXV.\n\nIf you have advanced a paradoxical proposition and find a difficulty\nin proving it, you may submit for your opponent's acceptance or\nrejection some true proposition, the truth of which, however, is not\nquite palpable, as though you wished to draw your proof from it.\nShould he reject it because he suspects a trick, you can obtain your\ntriumph by showing how absurd he is; should he accept it> you have got\nreason on your side for the moment, and must now look about you; or\nelse you can employ the previous trick as well, and maintain that your\nparadox is proved by the proposition which he has accepted. For this\nan extreme degree of impudence is required; but experience shows cases\nof it, and there are people who practise it by instinct.\n\n\nXVI.\n\nAnother trick is to use arguments _ad hominem_, or _ex concessis_[1]\nWhen your opponent makes a proposition, you must try to see whether it\nis not in some way--if needs be, only apparently--inconsistent with\nsome other proposition which he has made or admitted, or with the\nprinciples of a school or sect which he has commended and approved, or\nwith the actions of those who support the sect, or else of those who\ngive it only an apparent and spurious support, or with his own actions\nor want of action. For example, should he defend suicide, you may at\nonce exclaim, \"Why don't you hang yourself?\" Should he maintain that\nBerlin is an unpleasant place to live in, you may say, \"Why don't you\nleave by the first train?\" Some such claptrap is always possible.\n\n[Footnote 1: The truth from which I draw my proof may he either (1) of\nan objective and universally valid character; in that case my proof is\nveracious, _secundum veritatem_; and it is such proof alone that has\nany genuine validity. Or (2) it may be valid only for the person to\nwhom I wish to prove my proposition, and with whom I am disputing. He\nhas, that is to say, either taken up some position once for all as a\nprejudice, or hastily admitted it in the course of the dispute; and\non this I ground my proof. In that case, it is a proof valid only for\nthis particular man, _ad kominem. I_ compel my opponent to grant\nmy proposition, but I fail to establish it as a truth of universal\nvalidity. My proof avails for my opponent alone, but for no one else.\nFor example, if my opponent is a devotee of Kant's, and I ground my\nproof on some utterance of that philosopher, it is a proof which in\nitself is only _ad hominem_. If he is a Mohammedan, I may prove my\npoint by reference to a passage in the Koran, and that is sufficient\nfor him; but here it is only a proof _ad hominem_,]\n\n\nXVII.\n\nIf your opponent presses you with a counter-proof, you will often be\nable to save yourself by advancing some subtle distinction, which, it\nis true, had not previously occurred to you; that is, if the matter\nadmits of a double application, or of being taken in any ambiguous\nsense.\n\n\nXVIII.\n\nIf you observe that your opponent has taken up a line of argument\nwhich will end in your defeat, you must not allow him to carry it to\nits conclusion, but interrupt the course of the dispute in time, or\nbreak it off altogether, or lead him away from the subject, and bring\nhim to others. In short, you must effect the trick which will be\nnoticed later on, the _mutatio controversiae_. (See \u00a7 xxix.)\n\n\nXIX.\n\nShould your opponent expressly challenge you to produce any objection\nto some definite point in his argument, and you have nothing much to\nsay, you must try to give the matter a general turn, and then talk\nagainst that. If you are called upon to say why a particular physical\nhypothesis cannot be accepted, you may speak of the fallibility of\nhuman knowledge, and give various illustrations of it.\n\n\nXX.\n\nWhen you have elicited all your premisses, and your opponent has\nadmitted them, you must refrain from asking him for the conclusion,\nbut draw it at once for yourself; nay, even though one or other of the\npremisses should be lacking, you may take it as though it too had been\nadmitted, and draw the conclusion. This trick is an application of the\nfallacy _non causae ut causae_.\n\n\nXXI.\n\nWhen your opponent uses a merely superficial or sophistical argument\nand you see through it, you can, it is true, refute it by setting\nforth its captious and superficial character; but it is better to\nmeet him with a counter-argument which is just as superficial and\nsophistical, and so dispose of him; for it is with victory that you\nare concerned, and not with truth. If, for example, he adopts an\n_argumentum ad hominem_, it is sufficient to take the force out of it\nby a counter _argumentum ad hominem_ or _argumentum ex concessis_;\nand, in general, instead of setting forth the true state of the case\nat equal length, it is shorter to take this course if it lies open to\nyou.\n\n\nXXII.\n\nIf your opponent requires you to admit something from which the\npoint in dispute will immediately follow, you must refuse to do so,\ndeclaring that it is a _petitio principii_ For he and the audience\nwill regard a proposition which is near akin to the point in dispute\nas identical with it, and in this way you deprive him of his best\nargument.\n\n\nXXIII.\n\nContradiction and contention irritate a man into exaggerating his\nstatement. By contradicting your opponent you may drive him into\nextending beyond its proper limits a statement which, at all events\nwithin those limits and in itself, is true; and when you refute this\nexaggerated form of it, you look as though you had also refuted his\noriginal statement. Contrarily, you must take care not to allow\nyourself to be misled by contradictions into exaggerating or extending\na statement of your own. It will often happen that your opponent will\nhimself directly try to extend your statement further than you meant\nit; here you must at once stop him, and bring him back to the limits\nwhich you set up; \"That's what I said, and no more.\"\n\n\nXXIV.\n\nThis trick consists in stating a false syllogism. Your opponent makes\na proposition, and by false inference and distortion of his ideas you\nforce from it other propositions which it does not contain and he does\nnot in the least mean; nay, which are absurd or dangerous. It then\nlooks as if his proposition gave rise to others which are inconsistent\neither with themselves or with some acknowledged truth, and so it\nappears to be indirectly refuted. This is the _diversion_, and it is\nanother application of the fallacy _non causae ut causae_.\n\n\nXXV.\n\nThis is a case of the _diversion_ by means of an _instance to the\ncontrary_. With an induction ([Greek: epagogae]), a great number\nof particular instances are required in order to establish it as a\nuniversal proposition; but with the _diversion_ ([Greek: apagogae]) a\nsingle instance, to which the proposition does not apply, is all that\nis necessary to overthrow it. This is a controversial method known\nas the _instance_--_instantia_, [Greek: enstasis]. For example, \"all\nruminants are horned\" is a proposition which may be upset by the\nsingle instance of the camel. The _instance_ is a case in which a\nuniversal truth is sought to be applied, and something is inserted in\nthe fundamental definition of it which is not universally true, and by\nwhich it is upset. But there is room for mistake; and when this trick\nis employed by your opponent, you must observe (1) whether the example\nwhich he gives is really true; for there are problems of which the\nonly true solution is that the case in point is not true--for example,\nmany miracles, ghost stories, and so on; and (2) whether it really\ncomes under the conception of the truth thus stated; for it may only\nappear to do so, and the matter is one to be settled by precise\ndistinctions; and (3) whether it is really inconsistent with this\nconception; for this again may be only an apparent inconsistency.\n\n\nXXVI.\n\nA brilliant move is the _retorsio argumenti_, or turning of the\ntables, by which your opponent's argument is turned against himself.\nHe declares, for instance, \"So-and-so is a child, you must make\nallowance for him.\" You retort, \"Just because he is a child, I must\ncorrect him; otherwise he will persist in his bad habits.\"\n\n\nXXVII.\n\nShould your opponent surprise you by becoming particularly angry at an\nargument, you must urge it with all the more zeal; not only because it\nis a good thing to make him angry, but because it may be presumed that\nyou have here put your finger on the weak side of his case, and that\njust here he is more open to attack than even for the moment you\nperceive.\n\n\nXXVIII.\n\nThis is chiefly practicable in a dispute between scholars in the\npresence of the unlearned. If you have no argument _ad rem_, and none\neither _ad hominem_, you can make one _ad auditores_; that is to say,\nyou can start some invalid objection, which, however, only an expert\nsees to be invalid. Now your opponent is an expert, but those who form\nyour audience are not, and accordingly in their eyes he is defeated;\nparticularly if the objection which you make places him in any\nridiculous light. People are ready to laugh, and you have the laughers\non your side. To show that your objection is an idle one, would\nrequire a long explanation on the part of your opponent, and a\nreference to the principles of the branch of knowledge in question, or\nto the elements of the matter which you are discussing; and people are\nnot disposed to listen to it.\n\nFor example, your opponent states that in the original formation of a\nmountain-range the granite and other elements in its composition were,\nby reason of their high temperature, in a fluid or molten state; that\nthe temperature must have amounted to some 480\u00b0 Fahrenheit; and that\nwhen the mass took shape it was covered by the sea. You reply, by an\nargument _ad auditores_, that at that temperature--nay, indeed, long\nbefore it had been reached, namely, at 212\u00b0 Fahrenheit--the sea would\nhave been boiled away, and spread through the air in the form of\nsteam. At this the audience laughs. To refute the objection, your\nopponent would have to show that the boiling-point depends not only on\nthe degree of warmth, but also on the atmospheric pressure; and that\nas soon as about half the sea-water had gone off in the shape of\nsteam, this pressure would be so greatly increased that the rest of it\nwould fail to boil even at a temperature of 480\u00b0. He is debarred from\ngiving this explanation, as it would require a treatise to demonstrate\nthe matter to those who had no acquaintance with physics.\n\n\nXXIX.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: See \u00a7 xviii.]\n\nIf you find that you are being worsted, you can make a\n_diversion_--that is, you can suddenly begin to talk of something\nelse, as though it had a bearing on the matter in dispute, and\nafforded an argument against your opponent. This may be done without\npresumption if the diversion has, in fact, some general bearing on the\nmatter; but it is a piece of impudence if it has nothing to do with\nthe case, and is only brought in by way of attacking your opponent.\n\nFor example, I praised the system prevailing in China, where there is\nno such thing as hereditary nobility, and offices are bestowed only on\nthose who succeed in competitive examinations. My opponent maintained\nthat learning, as little as the privilege of birth (of which he had a\nhigh opinion) fits a man for office. We argued, and he got the worst\nof it. Then he made a diversion, and declared that in China all\nranks were punished with the bastinado, which he connected with the\nimmoderate indulgence in tea, and proceeded to make both of them a\nsubject of reproach to the Chinese. To follow him into all this would\nhave been to allow oneself to be drawn into a surrender of the victory\nwhich had already been won.\n\nThe diversion is mere impudence if it completely abandons the point in\ndispute, and raises, for instance, some such objection as \"Yes, and\nyou also said just now,\" and so on. For then the argument becomes to\nsome extent personal; of the kind which will be treated of in the last\nsection. Strictly speaking, it is half-way between the _argumentum\nad personam_, which will there be discussed, and the _argumentum ad\nhominem_.\n\nHow very innate this trick is, may be seen in every quarrel between\ncommon people. If one of the parties makes some personal reproach\nagainst the other, the latter, instead of answering it by refuting it,\nallows it to stand,--as it were, admits it; and replies by reproaching\nhis antagonist on some other ground. This is a stratagem like that\npursued by Scipio when he attacked the Carthaginians, not in Italy,\nbut in Africa. In war, diversions of this kind may be profitable; but\nin a quarrel they are poor expedients, because the reproaches remain,\nand those who look on hear the worst that can be said of both parties.\nIt is a trick that should be used only _faute de mieux_.\n\n\nXXX.\n\nThis is the _argumentum ad verecundiam_. It consists in making an\nappeal to authority rather than reason, and in using such an authority\nas may suit the degree of knowledge possessed by your opponent.\n\nEvery man prefers belief to the exercise of judgment, says Seneca; and\nit is therefore an easy matter if you have an authority on your side\nwhich your opponent respects. The more limited his capacity and\nknowledge, the greater is the number of the authorities who weigh with\nhim. But if his capacity and knowledge are of a high order, there\nare very few; indeed, hardly any at all. He may, perhaps, admit the\nauthority of professional men versed in a science or an art or a\nhandicraft of which he knows little or nothing; but even so he will\nregard it with suspicion. Contrarily, ordinary folk have a deep\nrespect for professional men of every kind. They are unaware that\na man who makes a profession of a thing loves it not for the thing\nitself, but for the money he makes by it; or that it is rare for a man\nwho teaches to know his subject thoroughly; for if he studies it as he\nought, he has in most cases no time left in which to teach it.\n\nBut there are very many authorities who find respect with the mob, and\nif you have none that is quite suitable, you can take one that appears\nto be so; you may quote what some said in another sense or in other\ncircumstances. Authorities which your opponent fails to understand are\nthose of which he generally thinks the most. The unlearned entertain a\npeculiar respect for a Greek or a Latin flourish. You may also, should\nit be necessary, not only twist your authorities, but actually falsify\nthem, or quote something which you have invented entirely yourself. As\na rule, your opponent has no books at hand, and could not use them if\nhe had. The finest illustration of this is furnished by the French\n_cur\u00e9_, who, to avoid being compelled, like other citizens, to pave\nthe street in front of his house, quoted a saying which he described\nas biblical: _paveant illi, ego non pavebo_. That was quite enough for\nthe municipal officers. A universal prejudice may also be used as an\nauthority; for most people think with Aristotle that that may be said\nto exist which many believe. There is no opinion, however absurd,\nwhich men will not readily embrace as soon as they can be brought to\nthe conviction that it is generally adopted. Example affects their\nthought just as it affects their action. They are like sheep following\nthe bell-wether just as he leads them. They would sooner die than\nthink. It is very curious that the universality of an opinion should\nhave so much weight with people, as their own experience might tell\nthem that its acceptance is an entirely thoughtless and merely\nimitative process. But it tells them nothing of the kind, because they\npossess no self-knowledge whatever. It is only the elect Who Say with\nPlato: [Greek: tois pollois polla dokei] which means that the public\nhas a good many bees in its bonnet, and that it would be a long\nbusiness to get at them.\n\nBut to speak seriously, the universality of an opinion is no proof,\nnay, it is not even a probability, that the opinion is right. Those\nwho maintain that it is so must assume (1) that length of time\ndeprives a universal opinion of its demonstrative force, as otherwise\nall the old errors which were once universally held to be true would\nhave to be recalled; for instance, the Ptolemaic system would have\nto be restored, or Catholicism re-established in all Protestant\ncountries. They must assume (2) that distance of space has the same\neffect; otherwise the respective universality of opinion among the\nadherents of Buddhism, Christianity, and Islam will put them in a\ndifficulty.\n\nWhen we come to look into the matter, so-called universal opinion is\nthe opinion of two or three persons; and we should be persuaded of\nthis if we could see the way in which it really arises.\n\nWe should find that it is two or three persons who, in the first\ninstance, accepted it, or advanced and maintained it; and of whom\npeople were so good as to believe that they had thoroughly tested it.\nThen a few other persons, persuaded beforehand that the first were men\nof the requisite capacity, also accepted the opinion. These, again,\nwere trusted by many others, whose laziness suggested to them that it\nwas better to believe at once, than to go through the troublesome task\nof testing the matter for themselves. Thus the number of these lazy\nand credulous adherents grew from day to day; for the opinion had no\nsooner obtained a fair measure of support than its further supporters\nattributed this to the fact that the opinion could only have obtained\nit by the cogency of its arguments. The remainder were then compelled\nto grant what was universally granted, so as not to pass for unruly\npersons who resisted opinions which every one accepted, or pert\nfellows who thought themselves cleverer than any one else.\n\nWhen opinion reaches this stage, adhesion becomes a duty; and\nhenceforward the few who are capable of forming a judgment hold their\npeace. Those who venture to speak are such as are entirely incapable\nof forming any opinions or any judgment of their own, being merely the\necho of others' opinions; and, nevertheless, they defend them with all\nthe greater zeal and intolerance. For what they hate in people who\nthink differently is not so much the different opinions which they\nprofess, as the presumption of wanting to form their own judgment; a\npresumption of which they themselves are never guilty, as they are\nvery well aware. In short, there are very few who can think, but\nevery man wants to have an opinion; and what remains but to take it\nready-made from others, instead of forming opinions for himself?\n\nSince this is what happens, where is the value of the opinion even of\na hundred millions? It is no more established than an historical\nfact reported by a hundred chroniclers who can be proved to have\nplagiarised it from one another; the opinion in the end being\ntraceable to a single individual.[1] It is all what I say, what you\nsay, and, finally, what he says; and the whole of it is nothing but a\nseries of assertions:\n\n[Footnote 1: See Bayle's _Pens\u00e9es sur les Com\u00e8tes_, i., p. 10.]\n\n  _Dico ego, tu dicis, sed denique dixit et ille;\n  Dictaque post toties, nil nisi dicta vides_.\n\nNevertheless, in a dispute with ordinary people, we may employ\nuniversal opinion as an authority. For it will generally be found that\nwhen two of them are fighting, that is the weapon which both of them\nchoose as a means of attack. If a man of the better sort has to deal\nwith them, it is most advisable for him to condescend to the use\nof this weapon too, and to select such authorities as will make an\nimpression on his opponent's weak side. For, _ex hypoihesi_, he is as\ninsensible to all rational argument as a horny-hided Siegfried, dipped\nin the flood of incapacity, and unable to think or judge. Before\na tribunal the dispute is one between authorities alone,--such\nauthoritative statements, I mean, as are laid down by legal experts;\nand here the exercise of judgment consists in discovering what law or\nauthority applies to the case in question. There is, however, plenty\nof room for Dialectic; for should the case in question and the law not\nreally fit each other, they can, if necessary, be twisted until they\nappear to do so, or _vice versa_.\n\n\nXXXI.\n\nIf you know that you have no reply to the arguments which your\nopponent advances, you may, by a fine stroke of irony, declare\nyourself to be an incompetent judge: \"What you now say passes my\npoor powers of comprehension; it may be all very true, but I can't\nunderstand it, and I refrain from any expression of opinion on it.\" In\nthis way you insinuate to the bystanders, with whom you are in good\nrepute, that what your opponent says is nonsense. Thus, when Kant's\n_Kritik_ appeared, or, rather, when it began to make a noise in the\nworld, many professors of the old ecclectic school declared that they\nfailed to understand it, in the belief that their failure settled the\nbusiness. But when the adherents of the new school proved to them that\nthey were quite right, and had really failed to understand it, they\nwere in a very bad humour.\n\nThis is a trick which may be used only when you are quite sure that\nthe audience thinks much better of you that of your opponent. A\nprofessor, for instance may try it on a student.\n\nStrictly, it is a case of the preceding trick: it is a particularly\nmalicious assertion of one's own authority, instead of giving reasons.\nThe counter-trick is to say: \"I beg your pardon; but, with your\npenetrating intellect, it must be very easy for you to understand\nanything; and it can only be my poor statement of the matter that is\nat fault\"; and then go on to rub it into him until he understands it\n_nolens volens_, and sees for himself that it was really his own fault\nalone. In this way you parry his attack. With the greatest politeness\nhe wanted to insinuate that you were talking nonsense; and you, with\nequal courtesy, prove to him that he is a fool.\n\n\nXXXII.\n\nIf you are confronted with an assertion, there is a short way of\ngetting rid of it, or, at any rate, of throwing suspicion on it, by\nputting it into some odious category; even though the connection\nis only apparent, or else of a loose character. You can say,\nfor instance, \"That is Manichasism,\" or \"It is Arianism,\" or\n\"Pelagianism,\" or \"Idealism,\" or \"Spinozism,\" or \"Pantheism,\" or\n\"Brownianism,\" or \"Naturalism,\" or \"Atheism,\" or \"Rationalism,\"\n\"Spiritualism,\" \"Mysticism,\" and so on. In making an objection of this\nkind, you take it for granted (1) that the assertion in question is\nidentical with, or is at least contained in, the category cited--that\nis to say, you cry out, \"Oh, I have heard that before\"; and (2) that\nthe system referred to has been entirely refuted, and does not contain\na word of truth.\n\n\nXXXIII.\n\n\"That's all very well in theory, but it won't do in practice.\" In\nthis sophism you admit the premisses but deny the conclusion, in\ncontradiction with a well-known rule of logic. The assertion is\nbased upon an impossibility: what is right in theory _must_ work\nin practice; and if it does not, there is a mistake in the theory;\nsomething has been overlooked and not allowed for; and, consequently,\nwhat is wrong in practice is wrong in theory too.\n\n\nXXXIV.\n\nWhen you state a question or an argument, and your opponent gives you\nno direct answer or reply, but evades it by a counter-question or an\nindirect answer, or some assertion which has no bearing on the matter,\nand, generally, tries to turn the subject, it is a sure sign that you\nhave touched a weak spot, sometimes without knowing it. You have, as\nit were, reduced him to silence. You must, therefore, urge the point\nall the more, and not let your opponent evade it, even when you do not\nknow where the weakness which you have hit upon really lies.\n\n\nXXXV.\n\nThere is another trick which, as soon as it is practicable, makes all\nothers unnecessary. Instead of working on your opponent's intellect by\nargument, work on his will by motive; and he, and also the audience if\nthey have similar interests, will at once be won over to your opinion,\neven though you got it out of a lunatic asylum; for, as a general\nrule, half an ounce of will is more effective than a hundredweight of\ninsight and intelligence. This, it is true, can be done only under\npeculiar circumstances. If you succeed in making your opponent feel\nthat his opinion, should it prove true, will be distinctly prejudicial\nto his interest, he will let it drop like a hot potato, and feel that\nit was very imprudent to take it up.\n\nA clergyman, for instance, is defending some philosophical dogma; you\nmake him sensible of the fact that it is in immediate contradiction\nwith one of the fundamental doctrines of his Church, and he abandons\nit.\n\nA landed proprietor maintains that the use of machinery in\nagricultural operations, as practised in England, is an excellent\ninstitution, since an engine does the work of many men. You give him\nto understand that it will not be very long before carriages are also\nworked by steam, and that the value of his large stud will be greatly\ndepreciated; and you will see what he will say.\n\nIn such cases every man feels how thoughtless it is to sanction a law\nunjust to himself--_quam temere in nosmet legem sancimus iniquam_! Nor\nis it otherwise if the bystanders, but not your opponent, belong to\nthe same sect, guild, industry, club, etc., as yourself. Let his\nthesis be never so true, as soon as you hint that it is prejudicial to\nthe common interests of the said society, all the bystanders will find\nthat your opponent's arguments, however excellent they be, are weak\nand contemptible; and that yours, on the other hand, though they were\nrandom conjecture, are correct and to the point; you will have a\nchorus of loud approval on your side, and your opponent will be driven\nout of the field with ignominy. Nay, the bystanders will believe, as a\nrule, that they have agreed with you out of pure conviction. For what\nis not to our interest mostly seems absurd to us; our intellect being\nno _siccum lumen_. This trick might be called \"taking the tree by its\nroot\"; its usual name is the _argumentum ab utili_.\n\n\nXXXVI.\n\nYou may also puzzle and bewilder your opponent by mere bombast; and\nthe trick is possible, because a man generally supposes that there\nmust be some meaning in words:\n\n  _Gew\u00f6hnlich glaubt der Mensch, wenn er nur Worte h\u00f6rt,\n  Es m\u00fcsse sich dabei doch auch was denken lassen_.\n\nIf he is secretly conscious of his own weakness, and accustomed to\nhear much that he does not understand, and to make as though he did,\nyou can easily impose upon him by some serious fooling that sounds\nvery deep or learned, and deprives him of hearing, sight, and thought;\nand by giving out that it is the most indisputable proof of what you\nassert. It is a well-known fact that in recent times some philosophers\nhave practised this trick on the whole of the public with the most\nbrilliant success. But since present examples are odious, we may refer\nto _The Vicar of Wakefield_ for an old one.\n\n\nXXXVII.\n\nShould your opponent be in the right, but, luckily for your\ncontention, choose a faulty proof, you can easily manage to refute it,\nand then claim that you have thus refuted his whole position. This\nis a trick which ought to be one of the first; it is, at bottom, an\nexpedient by which an _argumentum ad hominem_ is put forward as an\n_argumentum ad rem_. If no accurate proof occurs to him or to the\nbystanders, you have won the day. For example, if a man advances the\nontological argument by way of proving God's existence, you can get\nthe best of him, for the ontological argument may easily be refuted.\nThis is the way in which bad advocates lose a good case, by trying to\njustify it by an authority which does not fit it, when no fitting one\noccurs to them.\n\n\nXXXVIII.\n\nA last trick is to become personal, insulting, rude, as soon as you\nperceive that your opponent has the upper hand, and that you are going\nto come off worst. It consists in passing from the subject of dispute,\nas from a lost game, to the disputant himself, and in some way\nattacking his person. It may be called the _argumentum ad personam_,\nto distinguish it from the _argumentum ad hominem_, which passes\nfrom the objective discussion of the subject pure and simple to the\nstatements or admissions which your opponent has made in regard to it.\nBut in becoming personal you leave the subject altogether, and turn\nyour attack to his person, by remarks of an offensive and spiteful\ncharacter. It is an appeal from the virtues of the intellect to the\nvirtues of the body, or to mere animalism. This is a very popular\ntrick, because every one is able to carry it into effect; and so it\nis of frequent application. Now the question is, What counter-trick\navails for the other party? for if he has recourse to the same rule,\nthere will be blows, or a duel, or an action for slander.\n\nIt would be a great mistake to suppose that it is sufficient not to\nbecome personal yourself. For by showing a man quite quietly that he\nis wrong, and that what he says and thinks is incorrect--a process\nwhich occurs in every dialectical victory--you embitter him more than\nif you used some rude or insulting expression. Why is this? Because,\nas Hobbes observes,[1] all mental pleasure consists in being able to\ncompare oneself with others to one's own advantage. Nothing is of\ngreater moment to a man than the gratification of his vanity, and no\nwound is more painful than that which is inflicted on it. Hence such\nphrases as \"Death before dishonour,\" and so on. The gratification of\nvanity arises mainly by comparison of oneself with others, in every\nrespect, but chiefly in respect of one's intellectual powers; and so\nthe most effective and the strongest gratification of it is to be\nfound in controversy. Hence the embitterment of defeat, apart from any\nquestion of injustice; and hence recourse to that last weapon,\nthat last trick, which you cannot evade by mere politeness. A cool\ndemeanour may, however, help you here, if, as soon as your opponent\nbecomes personal, you quietly reply, \"That has no bearing on the point\nin dispute,\" and immediately bring the conversation back to it, and\ncontinue to show him that he is wrong, without taking any notice of\nhis insults. Say, as Themistocles said to Eurybiades--_Strike, but\nhear me_. But such demeanour is not given to every one.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Elementa philosophica de Cive_.]\n\nAs a sharpening of wits, controversy is often, indeed, of mutual\nadvantage, in order to correct one's thoughts and awaken new views.\nBut in learning and in mental power both disputants must be tolerably\nequal. If one of them lacks learning, he will fail to understand the\nother, as he is not on the same level with his antagonist. If he lacks\nmental power, he will be embittered, and led into dishonest tricks,\nand end by being rude.\n\nThe only safe rule, therefore, is that which Aristotle mentions in the\nlast chapter of his _Topica_: not to dispute with the first person you\nmeet, but only with those of your acquaintance of whom you know that\nthey possess sufficient intelligence and self-respect not to advance\nabsurdities; to appeal to reason and not to authority, and to listen\nto reason and yield to it; and, finally, to cherish truth, to be\nwilling to accept reason even from an opponent, and to be just enough\nto bear being proved to be in the wrong, should truth lie with him.\nFrom this it follows that scarcely one man in a hundred is worth your\ndisputing with him. You may let the remainder say what they please,\nfor every one is at liberty to be a fool--_desipere est jus gentium_.\nRemember what Voltaire says: _La paix vaut encore mieux que la\nv\u00e9rit\u00e9_. Remember also an Arabian proverb which tells us that _on the\ntree of silence there hangs its fruit, which is peace_.\n\n\n\n\nON THE COMPARATIVE PLACE OF INTEREST AND BEAUTY IN WORKS OF ART.\n\n\nIn the productions of poetic genius, especially of the epic and\ndramatic kind, there is, apart from Beauty, another quality which is\nattractive: I mean Interest.\n\nThe beauty of a work of art consists in the fact that it holds up a\nclear mirror to certain _ideas_ inherent in the world in general; the\nbeauty of a work of poetic art in particular is that it renders the\nideas inherent in mankind, and thereby leads it to a knowledge\nof these ideas. The means which poetry uses for this end are\nthe exhibition of significant characters and the invention of\ncircumstances which will bring about significant situations, giving\noccasion to the characters to unfold their peculiarities and show what\nis in them; so that by some such representation a clearer and fuller\nknowledge of the many-sided idea of humanity may be attained. Beauty,\nhowever, in its general aspect, is the inseparable characteristic\nof the idea when it has become known. In other words, everything is\nbeautiful in which an idea is revealed; for to be beautiful means no\nmore than clearly to express an idea.\n\nThus we perceive that beauty is always an affair of _knowledge_, and\nthat it appeals to _the knowing subject_, and not to _the will_;\nnay, it is a fact that the apprehension of beauty on the part of the\nsubject involves a complete suppression of the will.\n\nOn the other hand, we call drama or descriptive poetry interesting\nwhen it represents events and actions of a kind which necessarily\narouse concern or sympathy, like that which we feel in real events\ninvolving our own person. The fate of the person represented in them\nis felt in just the same fashion as our own: we await the development\nof events with anxiety; we eagerly follow their course; our hearts\nquicken when the hero is threatened; our pulse falters as the danger\nreaches its acme, and throbs again when he is suddenly rescued. Until\nwe reach the end of the story we cannot put the book aside; we lie\naway far into the night sympathising with our hero's troubles as\nthough they were our own. Nay, instead of finding pleasure and\nrecreation in such representations, we should feel all the pain which\nreal life often inflicts upon us, or at least the kind which pursues\nus in our uneasy dreams, if in the act of reading or looking at the\nstage we had not the firm ground of reality always beneath our feet.\nAs it is, in the stress of a too violent feeling, we can find relief\nfrom the illusion of the moment, and then give way to it again at\nwill. Moreover, we can gain this relief without any such violent\ntransition as occurs in a dream, when we rid ourselves of its terrors\nonly by the act of awaking.\n\nIt is obvious that what is affected by poetry of this character is our\n_will_, and not merely our intellectual powers pure and simple. The\nword _interest_ means, therefore, that which arouses the concern of\nthe individual will, _quod nostr\u00e2 interest_; and here it is that\nbeauty is clearly distinguished from interest. The one is an affair\nof the intellect, and that, too, of the purest and simplest kind. The\nother works upon the will. Beauty, then, consists in an apprehension\nof ideas; and knowledge of this character is beyond the range of the\nprinciple that nothing happens without a cause. Interest, on the other\nhand, has its origin nowhere but in the course of events; that is to\nsay, in the complexities which are possible only through the action of\nthis principle in its different forms.\n\nWe have now obtained a clear conception of the essential difference\nbetween the beauty and the interest of a work of art. We have\nrecognised that beauty is the true end of every art, and therefore,\nalso, of the poetic art. It now remains to raise the question whether\nthe interest of a work of art is a second end, or a means to the\nexhibition of its beauty; or whether the interest of it is produced by\nits beauty as an essential concomitant, and comes of itself as soon as\nit is beautiful; or whether interest is at any rate compatible with\nthe main end of art; or, finally, whether it is a hindrance to it.\n\nIn the first place, it is to be observed that the interest of a work\nof art is confined to works of poetic art. It does not exist in the\ncase of fine art, or of music or architecture. Nay, with these forms\nof art it is not even conceivable, unless, indeed, the interest be of\nan entirely personal character, and confined to one or two spectators;\nas, for example, where a picture is a portrait of some one whom we\nlove or hate; the building, my house or my prison; the music, my\nwedding dance, or the tune to which I marched to the war. Interest of\nthis kind is clearly quite foreign to the essence and purpose of art;\nit disturbs our judgment in so far as it makes the purely artistic\nattitude impossible. It may be, indeed, that to a smaller extent this\nis true of all interest.\n\nNow, since the interest of a work of art lies in the fact that we\nhave the same kind of sympathy with a poetic representation as with\nreality, it is obvious that the representation must deceive us for the\nmoment; and this it can do only by its truth. But truth is an element\nin perfect art. A picture, a poem, should be as true as nature itself;\nbut at the same time it should lay stress on whatever forms the\nunique character of its subject by drawing out all its essential\nmanifestations, and by rejecting everything that is unessential and\naccidental. The picture or the poem will thus emphasize its _idea_,\nand give us that _ideal truth_ which is superior to nature.\n\n_Truth_, then, forms the point that is common both to interest and\nbeauty in a work of art, as it is its truth which produces the\nillusion. The fact that the truth of which I speak is _ideal truth_\nmight, indeed, be detrimental to the illusion, since it is just here\nthat we have the general difference between poetry and reality, art\nand nature. But since it is possible for reality to coincide with\nthe ideal, it is not actually necessary that this difference should\ndestroy the illusion. In the case of fine arts there is, in the range\nof the means which art adopts, a certain limit, and beyond it illusion\nis impossible. Sculpture, that is to say, gives us mere colourless\nform; its figures are without eyes and without movement; and painting\nprovides us with no more than a single view, enclosed within strict\nlimits, which separate the picture from the adjacent reality. Here,\nthen, there is no room for illusion, and consequently none for that\ninterest or sympathy which resembles the interest we have in reality;\nthe will is at once excluded, and the object alone is presented to us\nin a manner that frees it from any personal concern.\n\nIt is a highly remarkable fact that a spurious kind of fine art\noversteps these limits, produces an illusion of reality, and arouses\nour interest; but at the same time it destroys the effect which fine\nart produces, and serves as nothing but a mere means of exhibiting the\nbeautiful, that is, of communicating a knowledge of the ideas which it\nembodies. I refer to _waxwork_. Here, we might say, is the dividing\nline which separates it from the province of fine art. When waxwork is\nproperly executed, it produces a perfect illusion; but for that very\nreason we approach a wax figure as we approach a real man, who, as\nsuch, is for the moment an object presented to our will. That is\nto say, he is an object of interest; he arouses the will, and\nconsequently stills the intellect. We come up to a wax figure with the\nsame reserve and caution as a real man would inspire in us: our will\nis excited; it waits to see whether he is going to be friendly to us,\nor the reverse, fly from us, or attack us; in a word, it expects some\naction of him. But as the figure, nevertheless, shows no sign of life,\nit produces the impression which is so very disagreeable, namely, of\na corpse. This is a case where the interest is of the most complete\nkind, and yet where there is no work of art at all. In other words,\ninterest is not in itself a real end of art.\n\nThe same truth is illustrated by the fact that even in poetry it is\nonly the dramatic and descriptive kind to which interest attaches; for\nif interest were, with beauty, the aim of art, poetry of the lyrical\nkind would, for that very reason, not take half so great a position as\nthe other two.\n\nIn the second place, if interest were a means in the production of\nbeauty, every interesting work would also be beautiful. That, however,\nis by no means the case. A drama or a novel may often attract us by\nits interest, and yet be so utterly deficient in any kind of beauty\nthat we are afterwards ashamed of having wasted our time on it. This\napplies to many a drama which gives no true picture of the real life\nof man; which contains characters very superficially drawn, or so\ndistorted as to be actual monstrosities, such as are not to be found\nin nature; but the course of events and the play of the action are so\nintricate, and we feel so much for the hero in the situation in which\nhe is placed, that we are not content until we see the knot untangled\nand the hero rescued. The action is so cleverly governed and guided in\nits course that we remain in a state of constant curiosity as to what\nis going to happen, and we are utterly unable to form a guess; so that\nbetween eagerness and surprise our interest is kept active; and as we\nare pleasantly entertained, we do not notice the lapse of time. Most\nof Kotzebue's plays are of this character. For the mob this is the\nright thing: it looks for amusement, something to pass the time, not\nfor intellectual perception. Beauty is an affair of such perception;\nhence sensibility to beauty varies as much as the intellectual\nfaculties themselves. For the inner truth of a representation, and its\ncorrespondence with the real nature of humanity, the mob has no sense\nat all. What is flat and superficial it can grasp, but the depths of\nhuman nature are opened to it in vain.\n\nIt is also to be observed that dramatic representations which depend\nfor their value on their interest lose by repetition, because they are\nno longer able to arouse curiosity as to their course, since it is\nalready known. To see them often, makes them stale and tedious. On\nthe other hand, works of which the value lies in their beauty gain by\nrepetition, as they are then more and more understood.\n\nMost novels are on the same footing as dramatic representations of\nthis character. They are creatures of the same sort of imagination as\nwe see in the story-teller of Venice and Naples, who lays a hat on the\nground and waits until an audience is assembled. Then he spins a tale\nwhich so captivates his hearers that, when he gets to the catastrophe,\nhe makes a round of the crowd, hat in hand, for contributions, without\nthe least fear that his hearers will slip away. Similar story-tellers\nply their trade in this country, though in a less direct fashion. They\ndo it through the agency of publishers and circulating libraries. Thus\nthey can avoid going about in rags, like their colleagues elsewhere;\nthey can offer the children of their imagination to the public under\nthe title of novels, short stories, romantic poems, fairy tales, and\nso on; and the public, in a dressing-gown by the fireside, sits down\nmore at its ease, but also with a greater amount of patience, to the\nenjoyment of the interest which they provide.\n\nHow very little aesthetic value there generally is in productions of\nthis sort is well known; and yet it cannot be denied that many of them\nare interesting; or else how could they be so popular?\n\nWe see, then, in reply to our second question, that interest does not\nnecessarily involve beauty; and, conversely, it is true that beauty\ndoes not necessarily involve interest. Significant characters may be\nrepresented, that open up the depths of human nature, and it may all\nbe expressed in actions and sufferings of an exceptional kind, so\nthat the real nature of humanity and the world may stand forth in\nthe picture in the clearest and most forcible lines; and yet no high\ndegree of interest may be excited in the course of events by the\ncontinued progress of the action, or by the complexity and unexpected\nsolution of the plot. The immortal masterpieces of Shakespeare contain\nlittle that excites interest; the action does not go forward in one\nstraight line, but falters, as in _Hamlet_, all through the play;\nor else it spreads out in breadth, as in _The Merchant of Venice_,\nwhereas length is the proper dimension of interest; or the scenes hang\nloosely together, as in _Henry IV_. Thus it is that Shakespeare's\ndramas produce no appreciable effect on the mob.\n\nThe dramatic requirement stated by Aristotle, and more particularly\nthe unity of action, have in view the interest of the piece rather\nthan its artistic beauty. It may be said, generally, that these\nrequirements are drawn up in accordance with the principle of\nsufficient reason to which I have referred above. We know, however,\nthat the _idea_, and, consequently, the beauty of a work of art, exist\nonly for the perceptive intelligence which has freed itself from\nthe domination of that principle. It is just here that we find the\ndistinction between interest and beauty; as it is obvious that\ninterest is part and parcel of the mental attitude which is governed\nby the principle, whereas beauty is always beyond its range. The best\nand most striking refutation of the Aristotelian unities is Manzoni's.\nIt may be found in the preface to his dramas.\n\nWhat is true of Shakespeare's dramatic works is true also of Goethe's.\nEven _Egmont_ makes little effect on the public, because it contains\nscarcely any complication or development; and if _Egmont_ fails, what\nare we to say of _Tasso_ or _Iphigenia_? That the Greek tragedians did\nnot look to interest as a means of working upon the public, is clear\nfrom the fact that the material of their masterpieces was almost\nalways known to every one: they selected events which had often been\ntreated dramatically before. This shows us how sensitive was the\nGreek public to the beautiful, as it did not require the interest of\nunexpected events and new stories to season its enjoyment.\n\nNeither does the quality of interest often attach to masterpieces of\ndescriptive poetry. Father Homer lays the world and humanity before us\nin its true nature, but he takes no trouble to attract our sympathy\nby a complexity of circumstance, or to surprise us by unexpected\nentanglements. His pace is lingering; he stops at every scene; he puts\none picture after another tranquilly before us, elaborating it\nwith care. We experience no passionate emotion in reading him; our\ndemeanour is one of pure perceptive intelligence; he does not arouse\nour will, but sings it to rest; and it costs us no effort to break off\nin our reading, for we are not in condition of eager curiosity. This\nis all still more true of Dante, whose work is not, in the proper\nsense of the word, an epic, but a descriptive poem. The same thing may\nbe said of the four immortal romances: _Don Quixote, Tristram Shandy,\nLa Nouvelle Helo\u00efse_, and _Wilhelm Meister_. To arouse our interest\nis by no means the chief aim of these works; in _Tristram Shandy_ the\nhero, even at the end of the book, is only eight years of age.\n\nOn the other hand, we must not venture to assert that the quality of\ninterest is not to be found in masterpieces of literature. We have it\nin Schiller's dramas in an appreciable degree, and consequently\nthey are popular; also in the _Oedipus Rex_ of Sophocles. Amongst\nmasterpieces of description, we find it in Ariosto's _Orlando\nFurioso_; nay, an example of a high degree of interest, bound up with\nthe beautiful, is afforded in an excellent novel by Walter Scott--_The\nHeart of Midlothian_. This is the most interesting work of fiction\nthat I know, where all the effects due to interest, as I have given\nthem generally in the preceding remarks, may be most clearly observed.\nAt the same time it is a very beautiful romance throughout; it shows\nthe most varied pictures of life, drawn with striking truth; and it\nexhibits highly different characters with great justice and fidelity.\n\nInterest, then, is certainly compatible with beauty. That was our\nthird question. Nevertheless, a comparatively small admixture of the\nelement of interest may well be found to be most advantageous as far\nas beauty is concerned; for beauty is and remains the end of art.\nBeauty is in twofold opposition with interest; firstly, because it\nlies in the perception of the idea, and such perception takes its\nobject entirely out of the range of the forms enunciated by the\nprinciple of sufficient reason; whereas interest has its sphere mainly\nin circumstance, and it is out of this principle that the complexity\nof circumstance arises. Secondly, interest works by exciting the will;\nwhereas beauty exists only for the pure perceptive intelligence, which\nhas no will. However, with dramatic and descriptive literature an\nadmixture of interest is necessary, just as a volatile and gaseous\nsubstance requires a material basis if it is to be preserved and\ntransferred. The admixture is necessary, partly, indeed, because\ninterest is itself created by the events which have to be devised in\norder to set the characters in motion; partly because our minds would\nbe weary of watching scene after scene if they had no concern for us,\nor of passing from one significant picture to another if we were not\ndrawn on by some secret thread. It is this that we call interest;\nit is the sympathy which the event in itself forces us to feel, and\nwhich, by riveting our attention, makes the mind obedient to the poet,\nand able to follow him into all the parts of his story.\n\nIf the interest of a work of art is sufficient to achieve this result,\nit does all that can be required of it; for its only service is to\nconnect the pictures by which the poet desires to communicate a\nknowledge of the idea, as if they were pearls, and interest were the\nthread that holds them together, and makes an ornament out of the\nwhole. But interest is prejudicial to beauty as soon as it oversteps\nthis limit; and this is the case if we are so led away by the interest\nof a work that whenever we come to any detailed description in a\nnovel, or any lengthy reflection on the part of a character in a\ndrama, we grow impatient and want to put spurs to our author, so that\nwe may follow the development of events with greater speed. Epic and\ndramatic writings, where beauty and interest are both present in a\nhigh degree, may be compared to the working of a watch, where interest\nis the spring which keeps all the wheels in motion. If it worked\nunhindered, the watch would run down in a few minutes. Beauty, holding\nus in the spell of description and reflection, is like the barrel\nwhich checks its movement.\n\nOr we may say that interest is the body of a poetic work, and beauty\nthe soul. In the epic and the drama, interest, as a necessary quality\nof the action, is the matter; and beauty, the form that requires the\nmatter in order to be visible.\n\n\n\n\nPSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.\n\n\nIn the moment when a great affliction overtakes us, we are hurt to\nfind that the world about us is unconcerned and goes its own way. As\nGoethe says in _Tasso_, how easily it leaves us helpless and alone,\nand continues its course like the sun and the moon and the other gods:\n\n      _... die Welt, wie sie so leicht,\n  Uns h\u00fclflos, einsam l\u00e4sst, und ihren Weg,\n  Wie Sonn' und Mond und andre G\u00f6tter geht_.\n\nNay more! it is something intolerable that even we ourselves have\nto go on with the mechanical round of our daily business, and that\nthousands of our own actions are and must be unaffected by the pain\nthat throbs within us. And so, to restore the harmony between our\noutward doings and our inward feelings, we storm and shout, and tear\nour hair, and stamp with pain or rage.\n\nOur temperament is so _despotic_ that we are not satisfied unless\nwe draw everything into our own life, and force all the world to\nsympathise with us. The only way of achieving this would be to win the\nlove of others, so that the afflictions which oppress our own hearts\nmight oppress theirs as well. Since that is attended with some\ndifficulty, we often choose the shorter way, and blab out our burden\nof woe to people who do not care, and listen with curiosity, but\nwithout sympathy, and much oftener with satisfaction.\n\nSpeech and the communication of thought, which, in their mutual\nrelations, are always attended by a slight impulse on the part of the\nwill, are almost a physical necessity. Sometimes, however, the lower\nanimals entertain me much more than the average man. For, in the first\nplace, what can such a man say? It is only conceptions, that is, the\ndriest of ideas, that can be communicated by means of words; and what\nsort of conceptions has the average man to communicate, if he does\nnot merely tell a story or give a report, neither of which makes\nconversation? The greatest charm of conversation is the mimetic part\nof it,--the character that is manifested, be it never so little. Take\nthe best of men; how little he can _say_ of what goes on within\nhim, since it is only conceptions that are communicable; and yet a\nconversation with a clever man is one of the greatest of pleasures.\n\nIt is not only that ordinary men have little to say, but what\nintellect they have puts them in the way of concealing and distorting\nit; and it is the necessity of practising this concealment that gives\nthem such a pitiable character; so that what they exhibit is not even\nthe little that they have, but a mask and disguise. The lower animals,\nwhich have no reason, can conceal nothing; they are altogether\n_na\u00efve_, and therefore very entertaining, if we have only an eye for\nthe kind of communications which they make. They speak not with words,\nbut with shape and structure, and manner of life, and the things they\nset about; they express themselves, to an intelligent observer, in a\nvery pleasing and entertaining fashion. It is a varied life that is\npresented to him, and one that in its manifestation is very different\nfrom his own; and yet essentially it is the same. He sees it in its\nsimple form, when reflection is excluded; for with the lower animals\nlife is lived wholly in and for the present moment: it is the present\nthat the animal grasps; it has no care, or at least no conscious care,\nfor the morrow, and no fear of death; and so it is wholly taken up\nwith life and living.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe conversation among ordinary people, when it does not relate to any\nspecial matter of fact, but takes a more general character, mostly\nconsists in hackneyed commonplaces, which they alternately repeat to\neach other with the utmost complacency.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--This observation is in\nSchopenhauer's own English.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSome men can despise any blessing as soon as they cease to possess\nit; others only when they have obtained it. The latter are the more\nunhappy, and the nobler, of the two.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen the aching heart grieves no more over any particular object,\nbut is oppressed by life as a whole, it withdraws, as it were, into\nitself. There is here a retreat and gradual extinction of the will,\nwhereby the body, which is the manifestation of the will, is slowly\nbut surely undermined; and the individual experiences a steady\ndissolution of his bonds,--a quiet presentiment of death. Hence the\nheart which aches has a secret joy of its own; and it is this, I\nfancy, which the English call \"the joy of grief.\"\n\nThe pain that extends to life as a whole, and loosens our hold on\nit, is the only pain that is really _tragic_. That which attaches to\nparticular objects is a will that is broken, but not resigned; it\nexhibits the struggle and inner contradiction of the will and of life\nitself; and it is comic, be it never so violent. It is like the pain\nof the miser at the loss of his hoard. Even though pain of the tragic\nkind proceeds from a single definite object, it does not remain there;\nit takes the separate affliction only as a _symbol_ of life as a\nwhole, and transfers it thither.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Vexation_ is the attitude of the individual as intelligence towards\nthe check imposed upon a strong manifestation of the individual as\nwill. There are two ways of avoiding it: either by repressing the\nviolence of the will--in other words, by virtue; or by keeping\nthe intelligence from dwelling upon the check--in other words, by\nStoicism.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTo win the favour of a very beautiful woman by one's personality alone\nis perhaps a greater satisfaction to one's vanity than to anything\nelse; for it is an assurance that one's personality is an equivalent\nfor the person that is treasured and desired and defied above all\nothers. Hence it is that despised love is so great a pang, especially\nwhen it is associated with well-founded jealousy.\n\nWith this joy and this pain, it is probable that vanity is more\nlargely concerned than the senses, because it is only the things\nof the mind, and not mere sensuality, that produce such violent\nconvulsions. The lower animals are familiar with lust, but not with\nthe passionate pleasures and pains of love.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTo be suddenly placed in a strange town or country where the manner of\nlife, possibly even the language, is very different from our own, is,\nat the first moment, like stepping into cold water. We are brought\ninto sudden contact with a new temperature, and we feel a powerful and\nsuperior influence from without which affects us uncomfortably. We\nfind ourselves in a strange element, where we cannot move with ease;\nand, over and above that, we have the feeling that while everything\nstrikes us as strange, we ourselves strike others in the same way.\nBut as soon as we are a little composed and reconciled to our\nsurroundings, as soon as we have appropriated some of its temperature,\nwe feel an extraordinary sense of satisfaction, as in bathing in cool\nwater; we assimilate ourselves to the new element, and cease to have\nany necessary pre-occupation with our person. We devote our attention\nundisturbed to our environment, to which we now feel ourselves\nsuperior by being able to view it in an objective and disinterested\nfashion, instead of being oppressed by it, as before.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen we are on a journey, and all kinds of remarkable objects press\nthemselves on our attention, the intellectual food which we receive is\noften so large in amount that we have no time for digestion; and we\nregret that the impressions which succeed one another so quickly leave\nno permanent trace. But at bottom it is the same with travelling as\nwith reading. How often do we complain that we cannot remember one\nthousandth part of what we read! In both cases, however, we may\nconsole ourselves with the reflection that the things we see and read\nmake an impression on the mind before they are forgotten, and so\ncontribute to its formation and nurture; while that which we only\nremember does no more than stuff it and puff it out, filling up its\nhollows with matter that will always be strange to it, and leaving it\nin itself a blank.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is the very many and varied forms in which human life is presented\nto us on our travels that make them entertaining. But we never see\nmore than its outside, such as is everywhere open to public view and\naccessible to strangers. On the other hand, human life on its\ninside, the heart and centre, where it lives and moves and shows its\ncharacter, and in particular that part of the inner side which could\nbe seen at home amongst our relatives, is not seen; we have exchanged\nit for the outer side. This is why on our travels we see the world\nlike a painted landscape, with a very wide horizon, but no foreground;\nand why, in time, we get tired of it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOne man is more concerned with the impression which he makes upon\nthe rest of mankind; another, with the impression which the rest of\nmankind makes upon him. The disposition of the one is subjective; of\nthe other, objective; the one is, in the whole of his existence, more\nin the nature of an idea which is merely presented; the other, more of\nthe being who presents it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA woman (with certain exceptions which need not be mentioned) will not\ntake the first step with a man; for in spite of all the beauty she may\nhave, she risks a refusal. A man may be ill in mind or body, or busy,\nor gloomy, and so not care for advances; and a refusal would be a blow\nto her vanity. But as soon as he takes the first step, and helps her\nover this danger, he stands on a footing of equality with her, and\nwill generally find her quite tractable.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe praise with which many men speak of their wives is really given\nto their own judgment in selecting them. This arises, perhaps, from a\nfeeling of the truth of the saying, that a man shows what he is by the\nway in which he dies, and by the choice of his wife.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIf education or warning were of any avail, how could Seneca's pupil be\na Nero?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Pythagorean[1] principle that _like is known only by like_ is\nin many respects a true one. It explains how it is that every man\nunderstands his fellow only in so far as he resembles him, or, at\nleast, is of a similar character. What one man is quite sure of\nperceiving in another is that which is common to all, namely, the\nvulgar, petty or mean elements of our nature; here every man has a\nperfect understanding of his fellows; but the advantage which one man\nhas over another does not exist for the other, who, be the talents in\nquestion as extraordinary as they may, will never see anything beyond\nwhat he possesses himself, for the very good reason that this is all\nhe wants to see. If there is anything on which he is in doubt, it will\ngive him a vague sense of fear, mixed with pique; because it passes\nhis comprehension, and therefore is uncongenial to him.\n\n[Footnote 1: See Porphyry, _de Vita Pythagorae_.]\n\nThis is why it is mind alone that understands mind; why works of\ngenius are wholly understood and valued only by a man of genius, and\nwhy it must necessarily be a long time before they indirectly attract\nattention at the hands of the crowd, for whom they will never, in any\ntrue sense, exist. This, too, is why one man will look another in the\nface, with the impudent assurance that he will never see anything but\na miserable resemblance of himself; and this is just what he will see,\nas he cannot grasp anything beyond it. Hence the bold way in which one\nman will contradict another. Finally, it is for the same reason that\ngreat superiority of mind isolates a man, and that those of high gifts\nkeep themselves aloof from the vulgar (and that means every one); for\nif they mingle with the crowd, they can communicate only such parts of\nthem as they share with the crowd, and so make themselves _common_.\nNay, even though they possess some well-founded and authoritative\nreputation amongst the crowd, they are not long in losing it, together\nwith any personal weight it may give them, since all are blind to the\nqualities on which it is based, but have their eyes open to anything\nthat is vulgar and common to themselves. They soon discover the truth\nof the Arabian proverb: _Joke with a slave, and he'll show you his\nheels_.\n\nIt also follows that a man of high gifts, in his intercourse with\nothers, must always reflect that the best part of him is out of sight\nin the clouds; so that if he desires to know accurately how much he\ncan be to any one else, he has only to consider how much the man in\nquestion is to him. This, as a rule, is precious little; and therefore\nhe is as uncongenial to the other, as the other to him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGoethe says somewhere that man is not without a vein of veneration. To\nsatisfy this impulse to venerate, even in those who have no sense\nfor what is really worthy, substitutes are provided in the shape of\nprinces and princely families, nobles, titles, orders, and money-bags.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nVague longing and boredom are close akin.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen a man is dead, we envy him no more; and we only half envy him\nwhen he is old.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMisanthropy and love of solitude are convertible ideas.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn chess, the object of the game, namely, to checkmate one's opponent,\nis of arbitrary adoption; of the possible means of attaining it, there\nis a great number; and according as we make a prudent use of them, we\narrive at our goal. We enter on the game of our own choice.\n\nNor is it otherwise with human life, only that here the entrance is\nnot of our choosing, but is forced on us; and the object, which is to\nlive and exist, seems, indeed, at times as though it were of arbitrary\nadoption, and that we could, if necessary, relinquish it. Nevertheless\nit is, in the strict sense of the word, a natural object; that is to\nsay, we cannot relinquish it without giving up existence itself. If we\nregard our existence as the work of some arbitrary power outside us,\nwe must, indeed, admire the cunning by which that creative mind has\nsucceeded in making us place so much value on an object which is only\nmomentary and must of necessity be laid aside very soon, and which we\nsee, moreover, on reflection, to be altogether vanity--in making, I\nsay, this object so dear to us that we eagerly exert all our strength\nin working at it; although we knew that as soon as the game is over,\nthe object will exist for us no longer, and that, on the whole, we\ncannot say what it is that makes it so attractive. Nay, it seems to be\nan object as arbitrarily adopted as that of checkmating our opponent's\nking; and, nevertheless, we are always intent on the means of\nattaining it, and think and brood over nothing else. It is clear that\nthe reason of it is that our intellect is only capable of looking\noutside, and has no power at all of looking within; and, since this is\nso, we have come to the conclusion that we must make the best of it.\n\n\n\n\nON THE WISDOM OF LIFE: APHORISMS.\n\n\nThe simple Philistine believes that life is something infinite and\nunconditioned, and tries to look upon it and live it as though it left\nnothing to be desired. By method and principle the learned Philistine\ndoes the same: he believes that his methods and his principles are\nunconditionally perfect and objectively valid; so that as soon as he\nhas found them, he has nothing to do but apply them to circumstances,\nand then approve or condemn. But happiness and truth are not to be\nseized in this fashion. It is phantoms of them alone that are sent to\nus here, to stir us to action; the average man pursues the shadow of\nhappiness with unwearied labour; and the thinker, the shadow of truth;\nand both, though phantoms are all they have, possess in them as much\nas they can grasp. Life is a language in which certain truths are\nconveyed to us; could we learn them in some other way, we should not\nlive. Thus it is that wise sayings and prudential maxims will never\nmake up for the lack of experience, or be a substitute for life\nitself. Still they are not to be despised; for they, too, are a part\nof life; nay, they should be highly esteemed and regarded as the\nloose pages which others have copied from the book of truth as it is\nimparted by the spirit of the world. But they are pages which must\nneeds be imperfect, and can never replace the real living voice. Still\nless can this be so when we reflect that life, or the book of truth,\nspeaks differently to us all; like the apostles who preached at\nPentecost, and instructed the multitude, appearing to each man to\nspeak in his own tongue.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nRecognise the truth in yourself, recognise yourself in the truth; and\nin the same moment you will find, to your astonishment, that the home\nwhich you have long been looking for in vain, which has filled your\nmost ardent dreams, is there in its entirety, with every detail of it\ntrue, in the very place where you stand. It is there that your heaven\ntouches your earth.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhat makes us almost inevitably ridiculous is our serious way of\ntreating the passing moment, as though it necessarily had all the\nimportance which it seems to have. It is only a few great minds that\nare above this weakness, and, instead of being laughed at, have come\nto laugh themselves.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe bright and good moments of our life ought to teach us how to act\naright when we are melancholy and dull and stupid, by preserving the\nmemory of their results; and the melancholy, dull, and stupid moments\nshould teach us to be modest when we are bright. For we generally\nvalue ourselves according to our best and brightest moments; and those\nin which we are weak and dull and miserable, we regard as no proper\npart of us. To remember them will teach us to be modest, humble, and\ntolerant.\n\nMark my words once for all, my dear friend, and be clever. Men are\nentirely self-centred, and incapable of looking at things objectively.\nIf you had a dog and wanted to make him fond of you, and fancied that\nof your hundred rare and excellent characteristics the mongrel would\nbe sure to perceive one, and that that would be sufficient to make him\ndevoted to you body and soul--if, I say, you fancied that, you would\nbe a fool. Pat him, give him something to eat; and for the rest, be\nwhat you please: he will not in the least care, but will be your\nfaithful and devoted dog. Now, believe me, it is just the same with\nmen--exactly the same. As Goethe says, man or dog, it is a miserable\nwretch:\n\n  _Denn ein erb\u00e4rmlicher Schuft, so wie der Mensch, ist der hund_.\n\nIf you ask why these contemptible fellows are so lucky, it is just\nbecause, in themselves and for themselves and to themselves, they are\nnothing at all. The value which they possess is merely comparative;\nthey exist only for others; they are never more than means; they are\nnever an end and object in themselves; they are mere bait, set to\ncatch others.[1] I do not admit that this rule is susceptible of any\nexception, that is to say, complete exceptions. There are, it is true,\nmen--though they are sufficiently rare--who enjoy some subjective\nmoments; nay, there are perhaps some who for every hundred subjective\nmoments enjoy a few that are objective; but a higher state of\nperfection scarcely ever occurs. But do not take yourself for an\nexception: examine your love, your friendship, and consider if your\nobjective judgments are not mostly subjective judgments in disguise;\nconsider if you duly recognise the good qualities of a man who is not\nfond of you. Then be tolerant: confound it! it's your duty. As you are\nall so self-centred, recognise your own weakness. You know that you\ncannot like a man who does not show himself friendly to you; you know\nthat he cannot do so for any length of time unless he likes you, and\nthat he cannot like you unless you show that you are friendly to him;\nthen do it: your false friendliness will gradually become a true one.\nYour own weakness and subjectivity must have some illusion.\n\n[Footnote 1: All this is very euphemistically expressed in the\nSophoclean verse:\n\n(Greek: _charis charin gar estin ha tiktous aei_)]\n\nThis is really an _\u00e0 priori_ justification of politeness; but I could\ngive a still deeper reason for it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nConsider that chance, which, with error, its brother, and folly, its\naunt, and malice, its grandmother, rules in this world; which every\nyear and every day, by blows great and small, embitters the life of\nevery son of earth, and yours too; consider, I say, that it is to this\nwicked power that you owe your prosperity and independence; for it\ngave you what it refused to many thousands, just to be able to give it\nto individuals like you. Remembering all this, you will not behave as\nthough you had a right to the possession of its gifts; but you will\nperceive what a capricious mistress it is that gives you her favours;\nand therefore when she takes it into her head to deprive you of some\nor all of them, you will not make a great fuss about her injustice;\nbut you will recognise that what chance gave, chance has taken\naway; if needs be, you will observe that this power is not quite so\nfavourable to you as she seemed to be hitherto. Why, she might have\ndisposed not only of what she gave you, but also of your honest and\nhard-earned gains.\n\nBut if chance still remains so favourable to you as to give you more\nthan almost all others whose path in life you may care to examine, oh!\nbe happy; do not struggle for the possession of her presents; employ\nthem properly; look upon them as property held from a capricious lord;\nuse them wisely and well.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Aristotelian principle of keeping the mean in all things is ill\nsuited to the moral law for which it was intended; but it may easily\nbe the best general rule of worldly wisdom, the best precept for a\nhappy life. For life is so full of uncertainty; there are on all sides\nso many discomforts, burdens, sufferings, dangers, that a safe and\nhappy voyage can be accomplished only by steering carefully through\nthe rocks. As a rule, the fear of the ills we know drive us into the\ncontrary ills; the pain of solitude, for example, drives us into\nsociety, and the first society that comes; the discomforts of society\ndrive us into solitude; we exchange a forbidding demeanour for\nincautious confidence and so on. It is ever the mark of folly to avoid\none vice by rushing into its contrary:\n\n  _Stulti dum vitant vitia in contraria currunt_.\n\nOr else we think that we shall find satisfaction in something, and\nspend all our efforts on it; and thereby we omit to provide for the\nsatisfaction of a hundred other wishes which make themselves felt at\ntheir own time. One loss and omission follows another, and there is no\nend to the misery.\n\n[Greek: Maeden agan] and _nil admirari_ are, therefore, excellent\nrules of worldly wisdom.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe often find that people of great experience are the most frank and\ncordial in their intercourse with complete strangers, in whom\nthey have no interest whatever. The reason of this is that men of\nexperience know that it is almost impossible for people who stand in\nany sort of mutual relation to be sincere and open with one another;\nbut that there is always more or less of a strain between them, due\nto the fact that they are looking after their own interests, whether\nimmediate or remote. They regret the fact, but they know that it\nis so; hence they leave their own people, rush into the arms of a\ncomplete stranger, and in happy confidence open their hearts to him.\nThus it is that monks and the like, who have given up the world and\nare strangers to it, are such good people to turn to for advice.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is only by practising mutual restraint and self-denial that we can\nact and talk with other people; and, therefore, if we have to converse\nat all, it can only be with a feeling of resignation. For if we seek\nsociety, it is because we want fresh impressions: these come from\nwithout, and are therefore foreign to ourselves. If a man fails to\nperceive this, and, when he seeks the society of others, is unwilling\nto practise resignation, and absolutely refuses to deny himself, nay,\ndemands that others, who are altogether different from himself,\nshall nevertheless be just what he wants them to be for the moment,\naccording to the degree of education which he has reached, or\naccording to his intellectual powers or his mood--the man, I say, who\ndoes this, is in contradiction with himself. For while he wants some\none who shall be different from himself, and wants him just because\nhe is different, for the sake of society and fresh influence, he\nnevertheless demands that this other individual shall precisely\nresemble the imaginary creature who accords with his mood, and have no\nthoughts but those which he has himself.\n\nWomen are very liable to subjectivity of this kind; but men are not\nfree from it either.\n\nI observed once to Goethe, in complaining of the illusion and vanity\nof life, that when a friend is with us we do not think the same of him\nas when he is away. He replied: \"Yes! because the absent friend is\nyourself, and he exists only in your head; whereas the friend who is\npresent has an individuality of his own, and moves according to laws\nof his own, which cannot always be in accordance with those which you\nform for yourself.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA good supply of resignation is of the first importance in providing\nfor the journey of life. It is a supply which we shall have to extract\nfrom disappointed hopes; and the sooner we do it, the better for the\nrest of the journey.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHow should a man be content so long as he fails to obtain complete\nunity in his inmost being? For as long as two voices alternately speak\nin him, what is right for one must be wrong for the other. Thus he is\nalways complaining. But has any man ever been completely at one with\nhimself? Nay, is not the very thought a contradiction?\n\nThat a man shall attain this inner unity is the impossible and\ninconsistent pretension put forward by almost all philosophers.[1] For\nas a man it is natural to him to be at war with himself as long as\nhe lives. While he can be only one thing thoroughly, he has the\ndisposition to be everything else, and the inalienable possibility\nof being it. If he has made his choice of one thing, all the other\npossibilities are always open to him, and are constantly claiming to\nbe realised; and he has therefore to be continuously keeping them\nback, and to be overpowering and killing them as long as he wants to\nbe that one thing. For example, if he wants to think only, and not\nact and do business, the disposition to the latter is not thereby\ndestroyed all at once; but as long as the thinker lives, he has every\nhour to keep on killing the acting and pushing man that is within him;\nalways battling with himself, as though he were a monster whose head\nis no sooner struck off than it grows again. In the same way, if he is\nresolved to be a saint, he must kill himself so far as he is a being\nthat enjoys and is given over to pleasure; for such he remains as long\nas he lives. It is not once for all that he must kill himself: he\nmust keep on doing it all his life. If he has resolved upon pleasure,\nwhatever be the way in which it is to be obtained, his lifelong\nstruggle is with a being that desires to be pure and free and holy;\nfor the disposition remains, and he has to kill it every hour. And so\non in everything, with infinite modifications; it is now one side of\nhim, and now the other, that conquers; he himself is the battlefield.\nIf one side of him is continually conquering, the other is continually\nstruggling; for its life is bound up with his own, and, as a man, he\nis the possibility of many contradictions.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Audacter licet profitearis, summum bonum esse an\u00edm\u00ed\nconcordian_.--Seneca.]\n\nHow is inner unity even possible under such circumstances? It exists\nneither in the saint nor in the sinner; or rather, the truth is that\nno man is wholly one or the other. For it is _men_ they have to be;\nthat is, luckless beings, fighters and gladiators in the arena of\nlife.\n\nTo be sure, the best thing he can do is to recognise which part of him\nsmarts the most under defeat, and let it always gain the victory. This\nhe will always be able to do by the use of his reason, which is an\never-present fund of ideas. Let him resolve of his own free will to\nundergo the pain which the defeat of the other part involves. This\nis _character_. For the battle of life cannot be waged free from all\npain; it cannot come to an end without bloodshed; and in any case\na man must suffer pain, for he is the conquered as well as the\nconqueror. _Haec est vivendi conditio_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe clever man, when he converses, will think less of what he is\nsaying that of the person with whom he is speaking; for then he is\nsure to say nothing which he will afterwards regret; he is sure not to\nlay himself open, nor to commit an indiscretion. But his conversation\nwill never be particularly interesting.\n\nAn intellectual man readily does the opposite, and with him the person\nwith whom he converses is often no more than the mere occasion of a\nmonologue; and it often happens that the other then makes up for his\nsubordinate _r\u00f4le_ by lying in wait for the man of intellect, and\ndrawing his secrets out of him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNothing betrays less knowledge of humanity than to suppose that, if\na man has a great many friends, it is a proof of merit and intrinsic\nvalue: as though men gave their friendship according to value and\nmerit! as though they were not, rather, just like dogs, which love the\nperson that pats them and gives them bits of meat, and never trouble\nthemselves about anything else! The man who understands how to pat his\nfellows best, though they be the nastiest brutes,--that's the man who\nhas many friends.\n\nIt is the converse that is true. Men of great intellectual worth, or,\nstill more, men of genius, can have only very few friends; for their\nclear eye soon discovers all defects, and their sense of rectitude is\nalways being outraged afresh by the extent and the horror of them. It\nis only extreme necessity that can compel such men not to betray their\nfeelings, or even to stroke the defects as if they were beautiful\nadditions. Personal love (for we are not speaking of the reverence\nwhich is gained by authority) cannot be won by a man of genius, unless\nthe gods have endowed him with an indestructible cheerfulness of\ntemper, a glance that makes the world look beautiful, or unless he has\nsucceeded by degrees in taking men exactly as they are; that is to\nsay, in making a fool of the fools, as is right and proper. On the\nheights we must expect to be solitary.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOur constant discontent is for the most part rooted in the impulse of\nself-preservation. This passes into a kind of selfishness, and makes a\nduty out of the maxim that we should always fix our minds upon what we\nlack, so that we may endeavour to procure it. Thus it is that we are\nalways intent on finding out what we want, and on thinking of it;\nbut that maxim allows us to overlook undisturbed the things which we\nalready possess; and so, as soon as we have obtained anything, we give\nit much less attention than before. We seldom think of what we have,\nbut always of what we lack.\n\nThis maxim of egoism, which has, indeed, its advantages in procuring\nthe means to the end in view, itself concurrently destroys the\nultimate end, namely, contentment; like the bear in the fable that\nthrows a stone at the hermit to kill the fly on his nose. We ought to\nwait until need and privation announce themselves, instead of\nlooking for them. Minds that are naturally content do this, while\nhypochondrists do the reverse.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA man's nature is in harmony with itself when he desires to be nothing\nbut what he is; that is to say, when he has attained by experience a\nknowledge of his strength and of his weakness, and makes use of the\none and conceals the other, instead of playing with false coin, and\ntrying to show a strength which he does not possess. It is a harmony\nwhich produces an agreeable and rational character; and for the simple\nreason that everything which makes the man and gives him his mental\nand physical qualities is nothing but the manifestation of his will;\nis, in fact, what he _wills_. Therefore it is the greatest of all\ninconsistencies to wish to be other than we are.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPeople of a strange and curious temperament can be happy only under\nstrange circumstances, such as suit their nature, in the same way as\nordinary circumstances suit the ordinary man; and such circumstances\ncan arise only if, in some extraordinary way, they happen to meet with\nstrange people of a character different indeed, but still exactly\nsuited to their own. That is why men of rare or strange qualities are\nseldom happy.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAll this pleasure is derived from the use and consciousness of power;\nand the greatest of pains that a man can feel is to perceive that\nhis powers fail just when he wants to use them. Therefore it will be\nadvantageous for every man to discover what powers he possesses, and\nwhat powers he lacks. Let him, then, develop the powers in which he is\npre-eminent, and make a strong use of them; let him pursue the path\nwhere they will avail him; and even though he has to conquer his\ninclinations, let him avoid the path where such powers are requisite\nas he possesses only in a low degree. In this way he will often have a\npleasant consciousness of strength, and seldom a painful consciousness\nof weakness; and it will go well with him. But if he lets himself be\ndrawn into efforts demanding a kind of strength quite different from\nthat in which he is pre-eminent, he will experience humiliation; and\nthis is perhaps the most painful feeling with which a man can be\nafflicted.\n\nYet there are two sides to everything. The man who has insufficient\nself-confidence in a sphere where he has little power, and is never\nready to make a venture, will on the one hand not even learn how to\nuse the little power that he has; and on the other, in a sphere in\nwhich he would at least be able to achieve something, there will be\na complete absence of effort, and consequently of pleasure. This is\nalways hard to bear; for a man can never draw a complete blank in any\ndepartment of human welfare without feeling some pain.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAs a child, one has no conception of the inexorable character of the\nlaws of nature, and of the stubborn way in which everything persists\nin remaining what it is. The child believes that even lifeless things\nare disposed to yield to it; perhaps because it feels itself one with\nnature, or, from mere unacquaintance with the world, believes that\nnature is disposed to be friendly. Thus it was that when I was a\nchild, and had thrown my shoe into a large vessel full of milk, I was\ndiscovered entreating the shoe to jump out. Nor is a child on its\nguard against animals until it learns that they are ill-natured and\nspiteful. But not before we have gained mature experience do we\nrecognise that human character is unalterable; that no entreaty, or\nrepresentation, or example, or benefit, will bring a man to give up\nhis ways; but that, on the contrary, every man is compelled to follow\nhis own mode of acting and thinking, with the necessity of a law of\nnature; and that, however we take him, he always remains the same. It\nis only after we have obtained a clear and profound knowledge of this\nfact that we give up trying to persuade people, or to alter them\nand bring them round to our way of thinking. We try to accommodate\nourselves to theirs instead, so far as they are indispensable to us,\nand to keep away from them so far as we cannot possibly agree.\n\nUltimately we come to perceive that even in matters of mere\nintellect--although its laws are the same for all, and the subject\nas opposed to the object of thought does not really enter into\nindividuality--there is, nevertheless, no certainty that the whole\ntruth of any matter can be communicated to any one, or that any one\ncan be persuaded or compelled to assent to it; because, as Bacon says,\n_intellectus humanus luminis sicci non est_: the light of the human\nintellect is coloured by interest and passion.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is just because _all happiness is of a negative character_ that,\nwhen we succeed in being perfectly at our ease, we are not properly\nconscious of it. Everything seems to pass us softly and gently, and\nhardly to touch us until the moment is over; and then it is the\npositive feeling of something lacking that tells us of the happiness\nwhich has vanished; it is then that we observe that we have failed to\nhold it fast, and we suffer the pangs of self-reproach as well as of\nprivation.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEvery happiness that a man enjoys, and almost every friendship that\nhe cherishes, rest upon illusion; for, as a rule, with increase of\nknowledge they are bound to vanish. Nevertheless, here as elsewhere, a\nman should courageously pursue truth, and never weary of striving to\nsettle accounts with himself and the world. No matter what happens to\nthe right or to the left of him,--be it a chimaera or fancy that makes\nhim happy, let him take heart and go on, with no fear of the desert\nwhich widens to his view. Of one thing only must he be quite certain:\nthat under no circumstances will he discover any lack of worth in\nhimself when the veil is raised; the sight of it would be the Gorgon\nthat would kill him. Therefore, if he wants to remain undeceived, let\nhim in his inmost being feel his own worth. For to feel the lack of\nit is not merely the greatest, but also the only true affliction;\nall other sufferings of the mind may not only be healed, but may be\nimmediately relieved, by the secure consciousness of worth. The man\nwho is assured of it can sit down quietly under sufferings that would\notherwise bring him to despair; and though he has no pleasures, no\njoys and no friends, he can rest in and on himself; so powerful is the\ncomfort to be derived from a vivid consciousness of this advantage; a\ncomfort to be preferred to every other earthly blessing. Contrarily,\nnothing in the world can relieve a man who knows his own\nworthlessness; all that he can do is to conceal it by deceiving people\nor deafening them with his noise; but neither expedient will serve him\nvery long.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe must always try to preserve large views. If we are arrested by\ndetails we shall get confused, and see things awry. The success or the\nfailure of the moment, and the impression that they make, should count\nfor nothing.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Schopenhauer, for some reason that\nis not apparent, wrote this remark in French.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHow difficult it is to learn to understand oneself, and clearly to\nrecognise what it is that one wants before anything else; what it is,\ntherefore, that is most immediately necessary to our happiness; then\nwhat comes next; and what takes the third and the fourth place, and so\non.\n\nYet, without this knowledge, our life is planless, like a captain\nwithout a compass.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe sublime melancholy which leads us to cherish a lively conviction\nof the worthlessness of everything of all pleasures and of all\nmankind, and therefore to long for nothing, but to feel that life is\nmerely a burden which must be borne to an end that cannot be very\ndistant, is a much happier state of mind than any condition of desire,\nwhich, be it never so cheerful, would have us place a value on the\nillusions of the world, and strive to attain them.\n\nThis is a fact which we learn from experience; and it is clear, _\u00e0\npriori_, that one of these is a condition of illusion, and the other\nof knowledge.\n\nWhether it is better to marry or not to marry is a question which in\nvery many cases amounts to this: Are the cares of love more endurable\nthan the anxieties of a livelihood?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMarriage is a trap which nature sets for us. [1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Also in French.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPoets and philosophers who are married men incur by that very fact the\nsuspicion that they are looking to their own welfare, and not to the\ninterests of science and art.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHabit is everything. Hence to be calm and unruffled is merely to\nanticipate a habit; and it is a great advantage not to need to form\nit.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Personality is the element of the greatest happiness.\" Since _pain_\nand _boredom_ are the two chief enemies of human happiness, nature has\nprovided our personality with a protection against both. We can\nward off pain, which is more often of the mind than of the body, by\n_cheerfulness_; and boredom by _intelligence_. But neither of these\nis akin to the other; nay, in any high degree they are perhaps\nincompatible. As Aristotle remarks, genius is allied to melancholy;\nand people of very cheerful disposition are only intelligent on the\nsurface. The better, therefore, anyone is by nature armed against one\nof these evils, the worse, as a rule, is he armed against the other.\n\nThere is no human life that is free from pain and boredom; and it is a\nspecial favour on the part of fate if a man is chiefly exposed to the\nevil against which nature has armed him the better; if fate, that is,\nsends a great deal of pain where there is a very cheerful temper in\nwhich to bear it, and much leisure where there is much intelligence,\nbut not _vice vers\u00e2_. For if a man is intelligent, he feels pain\ndoubly or trebly; and a cheerful but unintellectual temper finds\nsolitude and unoccupied leisure altogether unendurable.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the sphere of thought, absurdity and perversity remain the masters\nof this world, and their dominion is suspended only for brief periods.\nNor is it otherwise in art; for there genuine work, seldom found\nand still more seldom appreciated, is again and again driven out by\ndullness, insipidity, and affectation.\n\nIt is just the same in the sphere of action. Most men, says Bias, are\nbad. Virtue is a stranger in this world; and boundless egoism, cunning\nand malice, are always the order of the day. It is wrong to deceive\nthe young on this point, for it will only make them feel later on that\ntheir teachers were the first to deceive them. If the object is\nto render the pupil a better man by telling him that others are\nexcellent, it fails; and it would be more to the purpose to say: Most\nmen are bad, it is for you to be better. In this way he would, at\nleast, be sent out into the world armed with a shrewd foresight,\ninstead of having to be convinced by bitter experience that his\nteachers were wrong.\n\nAll ignorance is dangerous, and most errors must be dearly paid. And\ngood luck must he have that carries unchastised an error in his head\nunto his death.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--This, again, is Schopenhauer's own\nEnglish.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEvery piece of success has a doubly beneficial effect upon us when,\napart from the special and material advantage which it brings it is\naccompanied by the enlivening assurance that the world, fate, or the\ndaemon within, does not mean so badly with us, nor is so opposed to\nour prosperity as we had fancied; when, in fine, it restores our\ncourage to live.\n\nSimilarly, every misfortune or defeat has, in the contrary sense, an\neffect that is doubly depressing.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIf we were not all of us exaggeratedly interested in ourselves, life\nwould be so uninteresting that no one could endure it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEverywhere in the world, and under all circumstances, it is only by\nforce that anything can be done; but power is mostly in bad hands,\nbecause baseness is everywhere in a fearful majority.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhy should it be folly to be always intent on getting the greatest\npossible enjoyment out of the moment, which is our only sure\npossession? Our whole life is no more than a magnified present, and in\nitself as fleeting.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAs a consequence of his individuality and the position in which he\nis placed, everyone without exception lives in a certain state of\nlimitation, both as regards his ideas and the opinions which he forms.\nAnother man is also limited, though not in the same way; but should\nhe succeed in comprehending the other's limitation he can confuse\nand abash him, and put him to shame, by making him feel what his\nlimitation is, even though the other be far and away his superior.\nShrewd people often employ this circumstance to obtain a false and\nmomentary advantage.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe only genuine superiority is that of the mind and character; all\nother kinds are fictitious, affected, false; and it is good to\nmake them feel that it is so when they try to show off before the\nsuperiority that is true.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--In the original this also is in\nFrench.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n                _All the world's a stage,\n  And all the men and women merely players_.\n\nExactly! Independently of what a man really is in himself, he has\na part to play, which fate has imposed upon him from without, by\ndetermining his rank, education, and circumstances. The most immediate\napplication of this truth appears to me to be that in life, as on\nthe stage, we must distinguish between the actor and his part;\ndistinguish, that is, the man in himself from his position and\nreputation--- from the part which rank and circumstances have imposed\nupon him. How often it is that the worst actor plays the king, and the\nbest the beggar! This may happen in life, too; and a man must be very\n_crude_ to confuse the actor with his part.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOur life is so poor that none of the treasures of the world can make\nit rich; for the sources of enjoyment are soon found to be all very\nscanty, and it is in vain that we look for one that will always flow.\nTherefore, as regards our own welfare, there are only two ways in\nwhich we can use wealth. We can either spend it in ostentatious pomp,\nand feed on the cheap respect which our imaginary glory will bring us\nfrom the infatuated crowd; or, by avoiding all expenditure that will\ndo us no good, we can let our wealth grow, so that we may have a\nbulwark against misfortune and want that shall be stronger and better\nevery day; in view of the fact that life, though it has few delights,\nis rich in evils.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is just because our real and inmost being is _will_ that it is only\nby its exercise that we can attain a vivid consciousness of existence,\nalthough this is almost always attended by pain. Hence it is that\nexistence is essentially painful, and that many persons for whose\nwants full provision is made arrange their day in accordance with\nextremely regular, monotonous, and definite habits. By this means they\navoid all the pain which the movement of the will produces; but, on\nthe other hand, their whole existence becomes a series of scenes and\npictures that mean nothing. They are hardly aware that they exist.\nNevertheless, it is the best way of settling accounts with life, so\nlong as there is sufficient change to prevent an excessive feeling of\nboredom. It is much better still if the Muses give a man some worthy\noccupation, so that the pictures which fill his consciousness have\nsome meaning, and yet not a meaning that can be brought into any\nrelation with his will.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA man is _wise_ only on condition of living in a world full of fools.\n\n\n\n\nGENIUS AND VIRTUE.\n\n\nWhen I think, it is the spirit of the world which is striving to\nexpress its thought; it is nature which is trying to know and fathom\nitself. It is not the thoughts of some other mind, which I am\nendeavouring to trace; but it is I who transform that which exists\ninto something which is known and thought, and would otherwise neither\ncome into being nor continue in it.\n\nIn the realm of physics it was held for thousands of years to be a\nfact beyond question that water was a simple and consequently an\noriginal element. In the same way in the realm of metaphysics it\nwas held for a still longer period that the _ego_ was a simple and\nconsequently an indestructible entity. I have shown, however, that it\nis composed of two heterogeneous parts, namely, the _Will_, which is\nmetaphysical in its character, a thing in itself, and the _knowing\nsubject_, which is physical and a mere phenomenon.\n\nLet me illustrate what I mean. Take any large, massive, heavy\nbuilding: this hard, ponderous body that fills so much space exists,\nI tell you, only in the soft pulp of the brain. There alone, in the\nhuman brain, has it any being. Unless you understand this, you can go\nno further.\n\nTruly it is the world itself that is a miracle; the world of material\nbodies. I looked at two of them. Both were heavy, symmetrical, and\nbeautiful. One was a jasper vase with golden rim and golden handles;\nthe other was an organism, an animal, a man. When I had sufficiently\nadmired their exterior, I asked my attendant genius to allow me to\nexamine the inside of them; and I did so. In the vase I found nothing\nbut the force of gravity and a certain obscure desire, which took the\nform of chemical affinity. But when I entered into the other--how\nshall I express my astonishment at what I saw? It is more incredible\nthan all the fairy tales and fables that were ever conceived.\nNevertheless, I shall try to describe it, even at the risk of finding\nno credence for my tale.\n\nIn this second thing, or rather in the upper end of it, called the\nhead, which on its exterior side looks like anything else--a body in\nspace, heavy, and so on--I found no less an object than the whole\nworld itself, together with the whole of the space in which all of\nit exists, and the whole of the time in which all of it moves,\nand finally everything that fills both time and space in all its\nvariegated and infinite character; nay, strangest sight of all, I\nfound myself walking about in it! It was no picture that I saw; it was\nno peep-show, but reality itself. This it is that is really and truly\nto be found in a thing which is no bigger than a cabbage, and which,\non occasion, an executioner might strike off at a blow, and suddenly\nsmother that world in darkness and night. The world, I say, would\nvanish, did not heads grow like mushrooms, and were there not always\nplenty of them ready to snatch it up as it is sinking down into\nnothing, and keep it going like a ball. This world is an idea which\nthey all have in common, and they express the community of their\nthought by the word \"objectivity.\"\n\nIn the face of this vision I felt as if I were Ardschuna when Krishna\nappeared to him in his true majesty, with his hundred thousand arms\nand eyes and mouths.\n\nWhen I see a wide landscape, and realise that it arises by the\noperation of the functions of my brain, that is to say, of time,\nspace, and casuality, on certain spots which have gathered on my\nretina, I feel that I carry it within me. I have an extraordinarily\nclear consciousness of the identity of my own being with that of the\nexternal world.\n\nNothing provides so vivid an illustration of this identity as a\n_dream_. For in a dream other people appear to be totally distinct\nfrom us, and to possess the most perfect objectivity, and a nature\nwhich is quite different from ours, and which often puzzles,\nsurprises, astonishes, or terrifies us; and yet it is all our own\nself. It is even so with the will, which sustains the whole of the\nexternal world and gives it life; it is the same will that is in\nourselves, and it is there alone that we are immediately conscious of\nit. But it is the intellect, in ourselves and in others, which makes\nall these miracles possible; for it is the intellect which everywhere\ndivides actual being into subject and object; it is a hall of\nphantasmagorical mystery, inexpressibly marvellous, incomparably\nmagical.\n\nThe difference in degree of mental power which sets so wide a gulf\nbetween the genius and the ordinary mortal rests, it is true, upon\nnothing else than a more or less perfect development of the cerebral\nsystem. But it is this very difference which is so important, because\nthe whole of the real world in which we live and move possesses an\nexistence only in relation to this cerebral system. Accordingly, the\ndifference between a genius and an ordinary man is a total diversity\nof world and existence. The difference between man and the lower\nanimals may be similarly explained.\n\nWhen Momus was said to ask for a window in the breast, it was an\nallegorical joke, and we cannot even imagine such a contrivance to\nbe a possibility; but it would be quite possible to imagine that the\nskull and its integuments were transparent, and then, good heavens!\nwhat differences should we see in the size, the form, the quality,\nthe movement of the brain! what degrees of value! A great mind would\ninspire as much respect at first sight as three stars on a man's\nbreast, and what a miserable figure would be cut by many a one who\nwore them!\n\nMen of genius and intellect, and all those whose mental and\ntheoretical qualities are far more developed than their moral\nand practical qualities--men, in a word, who have more mind than\ncharacter--are often not only awkward and ridiculous in matters of\ndaily life, as has been observed by Plato in the seventh book of the\n_Republic_, and portrayed by Goethe in his _Tasso_; but they are\noften, from a moral point of view, weak and contemptible creatures as\nwell; nay, they might almost be called bad men. Of this Rousseau has\ngiven us genuine examples. Nevertheless, that better consciousness\nwhich is the source of all virtue is often stronger in them than in\nmany of those whose actions are nobler than their thoughts; nay, it\nmay be said that those who think nobly have a better acquaintance with\nvirtue, while the others make a better practice of it. Full of zeal\nfor the good and for the beautiful, they would fain fly up to heaven\nin a straight line; but the grosser elements of this earth oppose\ntheir flight, and they sink back again. They are like born artists,\nwho have no knowledge of technique, or find that the marble is too\nhard for their fingers. Many a man who has much less enthusiasm for\nthe good, and a far shallower acquaintance with its depths, makes a\nbetter thing of it in practice; he looks down upon the noble thinkers\nwith contempt, and he has a right to do it; nevertheless, he does not\nunderstand them, and they despise him in their turn, and not unjustly.\nThey are to blame; for every living man has, by the fact of his\nliving, signed the conditions of life; but they are still more to be\npitied. They achieve their redemption, not on the way of virtue, but\non a path of their own; and they are saved, not by works, but by\nfaith.\n\nMen of no genius whatever cannot bear solitude: they take no pleasure\nin the contemplation of nature and the world. This arises from the\nfact that they never lose sight of their own will, and therefore\nthey see nothing of the objects of the world but the bearing of such\nobjects upon their will and person. With objects which have no such\nbearing there sounds within them a constant note: _It is nothing to\nme_, which is the fundamental base in all their music. Thus all things\nseem to them to wear a bleak, gloomy, strange, hostile aspect. It is\nonly for their will that they seem to have any perceptive faculties at\nall; and it is, in fact, only a moral and not a theoretical tendency,\nonly a moral and not an intellectual value, that their life possesses.\nThe lower animals bend their heads to the ground, because all that\nthey want to see is what touches their welfare, and they can never\ncome to contemplate things from a really objective point of view. It\nis very seldom that unintellectual men make a true use of their erect\nposition, and then it is only when they are moved by some intellectual\ninfluence outside them.\n\nThe man of intellect or genius, on the other hand, has more of the\ncharacter of the eternal subject that knows, than of the finite\nsubject that wills; his knowledge is not quite engrossed and\ncaptivated by his will, but passes beyond it; he is the son, _not of\nthe bondwoman, but of the free_. It is not only a moral but also\na theoretical tendency that is evinced in his life; nay, it might\nperhaps be said that to a certain extent he is beyond morality. Of\ngreat villainy he is totally incapable; and his conscience is less\noppressed by ordinary sin than the conscience of the ordinary man,\nbecause life, as it were, is a game, and he sees through it.\n\nThe relation between _genius_ and _virtue_ is determined by the\nfollowing considerations. Vice is an impulse of the will so violent\nin its demands that it affirms its own life by denying the life of\nothers. The only kind of knowledge that is useful to the will is the\nknowledge that a given effect is produced by a certain cause. Genius\nitself is a kind of knowledge, namely, of ideas; and it is a knowledge\nwhich is unconcerned with any principle of causation. The man who is\ndevoted to knowledge of this character is not employed in the business\nof the will. Nay, every man who is devoted to the purely objective\ncontemplation of the world (and it is this that is meant by the\nknowledge of ideas) completely loses sight of his will and its\nobjects, and pays no further regard to the interests of his own\nperson, but becomes a pure intelligence free of any admixture of will.\n\nWhere, then, devotion to the intellect predominates over concern for\nthe will and its objects, it shows that the man's will is not the\nprincipal element in his being, but that in proportion to his\nintelligence it is weak. Violent desire, which is the root of all\nvice, never allows a man to arrive at the pure and disinterested\ncontemplation of the world, free from any relation to the will, such\nas constitutes the quality of genius; but here the intelligence\nremains the constant slave of the will.\n\nSince genius consists in the perception of ideas, and men of genius\n_contemplate_ their object, it may be said that it is only the eye\nwhich is any real evidence of genius. For the contemplative gaze has\nsomething steady and vivid about it; and with the eye of genius it is\noften the case, as with Goethe, that the white membrane over the pupil\nis visible. With violent, passionate men the same thing may also\nhappen, but it arises from a different cause, and may be easily\ndistinguished by the fact that the eyes roll. Men of no genius at all\nhave no interest in the idea expressed by an object, but only in the\nrelations in which that object stands to others, and finally to their\nown person. Thus it is that they never indulge in contemplation, or\nare soon done with it, and rarely fix their eyes long upon any\nobject; and so their eyes do not wear the mark of genius which I have\ndescribed. Nay, the regular Philistine does the direct opposite of\ncontemplating--he spies. If he looks at anything it is to pry into\nit; as may be specially observed when he screws up his eyes, which he\nfrequently does, in order to see the clearer. Certainly, no real man\nof genius ever does this, at least habitually, even though he is\nshort-sighted.\n\nWhat I have said will sufficiently illustrate the conflict between\ngenius and vice. It may be, however, nay, it is often the case, that\ngenius is attended by a strong will; and as little as men of genius\nwere ever consummate rascals, were they ever perhaps perfect saints\neither.\n\nLet me explain. Virtue is not exactly a positive weakness of the will;\nit is, rather, an intentional restraint imposed upon its violence\nthrough a knowledge of it in its inmost being as manifested in the\nworld. This knowledge of the world, the inmost being of which is\ncommunicable only in _ideas_, is common both to the genius and to the\nsaint. The distinction between the two is that the genius reveals his\nknowledge by rendering it in some form of his own choice, and the\nproduct is Art. For this the saint, as such, possesses no direct\nfaculty; he makes an immediate application of his knowledge to his own\nwill, which is thus led into a denial of the world. With the saint\nknowledge is only a means to an end, whereas the genius remains at\nthe stage of knowledge, and has his pleasure in it, and reveals it by\nrendering what he knows in his art.\n\nIn the hierarchy of physical organisation, strength of will is\nattended by a corresponding growth in the intelligent faculties. A\nhigh degree of knowledge, such as exists in the genius, presupposes a\npowerful will, though, at the same time, a will that is subordinate\nto the intellect. In other words, both the intellect and the will\nare strong, but the intellect is the stronger of the two. Unless, as\nhappens in the case of the saint, the intellect is at once applied to\nthe will, or, as in the case of the artist, it finds its pleasures in\na reproduction of itself, the will remains untamed. Any strength that\nit may lose is due to the predominance of pure objective intelligence\nwhich is concerned with the contemplation of ideas, and is not, as\nin the case of the common or the bad man, wholly occupied with the\nobjects of the will. In the interval, when the genius is no longer\nengaged in the contemplation of ideas, and his intelligence is again\napplied to the will and its objects, the will is re-awakened in all\nits strength. Thus it is that men of genius often have very violent\ndesires, and are addicted to sensual pleasure and to anger. Great\ncrimes, however, they do not commit; because, when the opportunity of\nthem offers, they recognise their idea, and see it very vividly and\nclearly. Their intelligence is thus directed to the idea, and so gains\nthe predominance over the will, and turns its course, as with the\nsaint; and the crime is uncommitted.\n\nThe genius, then, always participates to some degree in the\ncharacteristics of the saint, as he is a man of the same\nqualification; and, contrarily, the saint always participates to some\ndegree in the characteristics of the genius.\n\nThe good-natured character, which is common, is to be distinguished\nfrom the saintly by the fact that it consists in a weakness of will,\nwith a somewhat less marked weakness of intellect. A lower degree of\nthe knowledge of the world as revealed in ideas here suffices to check\nand control a will that is weak in itself. Genius and sanctity are\nfar removed from good-nature, which is essentially weak in all its\nmanifestations.\n\nApart from all that I have said, so much at least is clear. What\nappears under the forms of time, space, and casuality, and vanishes\nagain, and in reality is nothing, and reveals its nothingness by\ndeath--this vicious and fatal appearance is the will. But what does\nnot appear, and is no phenomenon, but rather the noumenon; what\nmakes appearance possible; what is not subject to the principle of\ncausation, and therefore has no vain or vanishing existence, but\nabides for ever unchanged in the midst of a world full of suffering,\nlike a ray of light in a storm,--free, therefore, from all pain and\nfatality,--this, I say, is the intelligence. The man who is more\nintelligence than will, is thereby delivered, in respect of the\ngreatest part of him, from nothingness and death; and such a man is in\nhis nature a genius.\n\nBy the very fact that he lives and works, the man who is endowed\nwith genius makes an entire sacrifice of himself in the interests\nof everyone. Accordingly, he is free from the obligation to make a\nparticular sacrifice for individuals; and thus he can refuse many\ndemands which others are rightly required to meet. He suffers and\nachieves more than all the others.\n\nThe spring which moves the genius to elaborate his works is not fame,\nfor that is too uncertain a quality, and when it is seen at close\nquarters, of little worth. No amount of fame will make up for the\nlabour of attaining it:\n\n  _Nulla est fama tuum par oequiparare laborem_.\n\nNor is it the delight that a man has in his work; for that too is\noutweighed by the effort which he has to make. It is, rather, an\ninstinct _sui generis_; in virtue of which the genius is driven to\nexpress what he sees and feels in some permanent shape, without being\nconscious of any further motive.\n\nIt is manifest that in so far as it leads an individual to sacrifice\nhimself for his species, and to live more in the species than in\nhimself, this impulse is possessed of a certain resemblance with\nsuch modifications of the sexual impulse as are peculiar to man. The\nmodifications to which I refer are those that confine this impulse to\ncertain individuals of the other sex, whereby the interests of the\nspecies are attained. The individuals who are actively affected by\nthis impulse may be said to sacrifice themselves for the species,\nby their passion for each other, and the disadvantageous conditions\nthereby imposed upon them,--in a word, by the institution of marriage.\nThey may be said to be serving the interests of the species rather\nthan the interests of the individual.\n\nThe instinct of the genius does, in a higher fashion, for the idea,\nwhat passionate love does for the will. In both cases there are\npeculiar pleasures and peculiar pains reserved for the individuals who\nin this way serve the interests of the species; and they live in a\nstate of enhanced power.\n\nThe genius who decides once for all to live for the interests of the\nspecies in the way which he chooses is neither fitted nor called upon\nto do it in the other. It is a curious fact that the perpetuation of a\nman's name is effected in both ways.\n\nIn music the finest compositions are the most difficult to understand.\nThey are only for the trained intelligence. They consist of long\nmovements, where it is only after a labyrinthine maze that the\nfundamental note is recovered. It is just so with genius; it is only\nafter a course of struggle, and doubt, and error, and much reflection\nand vacillation, that great minds attain their equilibrium. It is the\nlongest pendulum that makes the greatest swing. Little minds soon come\nto terms with themselves and the world, and then fossilise; but the\nothers flourish, and are always alive and in motion.\n\nThe essence of genius is a measure of intellectual power far beyond\nthat which is required to serve the individual's will. But it is a\nmeasure of a merely relative character, and it may be reached by\nlowering the degree of the will, as well as by raising that of the\nintellect. There are men whose intellect predominates over their\nwill, and are yet not possessed of genius in any proper sense. Their\nintellectual powers do, indeed, exceed the ordinary, though not to any\ngreat extent, but their will is weak. They have no violent desires;\nand therefore they are more concerned with mere knowledge than with\nthe satisfaction of any aims. Such men possess talent; they are\nintelligent, and at the same time very contented and cheerful.\n\nA clear, cheerful and reasonable mind, such as brings a man happiness,\nis dependent on the relation established between his intellect and his\nwill--a relation in which the intellect is predominant. But genius and\na great mind depend on the relation between a man's intellect and that\nof other people--a relation in which his intellect must exceed theirs,\nand at the same time his will may also be proportionately stronger.\nThat is the reason why genius and happiness need not necessarily exist\ntogether.\n\nWhen the individual is distraught by cares or pleasantry, or tortured\nby the violence of his wishes and desires, the genius in him is\nenchained and cannot move. It is only when care and desire are silent\nthat the air is free enough for genius to live in it. It is then that\nthe bonds of matter are cast aside, and the pure spirit--the pure,\nknowing subject--remains. Hence, if a man has any genius, let him\nguard himself from pain, keep care at a distance, and limit his\ndesires; but those of them which he cannot suppress let him satisfy to\nthe full. This is the only way in which he will make the best use of\nhis rare existence, to his own pleasure and the world's profit.\n\nTo fight with need and care or desires, the satisfaction of which is\nrefused and forbidden, is good enough work for those who, were\nthey free of would have to fight with boredom, and so take to bad\npractices; but not for the man whose time, if well used, will bear\nfruit for centuries to come. As Diderot says, he is not merely a moral\nbeing.\n\nMechanical laws do not apply in the sphere of chemistry, nor do\nchemical laws in the sphere in which organic life is kindled. In the\nsame way, the rules which avail for ordinary men will not do for the\nexceptions, nor will their pleasures either.\n\nIt is a persistent, uninterrupted activity that constitutes the\nsuperior mind. The object to which this activity is directed is a\nmatter of subordinate importance; it has no essential bearing on the\nsuperiority in question, but only on the individual who possesses it.\nAll that education can do is to determine the direction which this\nactivity shall take; and that is the reason why a man's nature is so\nmuch more important than his education. For education is to natural\nfaculty what a wax nose is to a real one; or what the moon and the\nplanets are to the sun. In virtue of his education a man says, not\nwhat he thinks himself, but what others have thought and he has\nlearned as a matter of training; and what he does is not what he\nwants, but what he has been accustomed to do.\n\nThe lower animals perform many intelligent functions much better than\nman; for instance, the finding of their way back to the place from\nwhich they came, the recognition of individuals, and so on. In the\nsame way, there are many occasions in real life to which the genius is\nincomparably less equal and fitted than the ordinary man. Nay more:\njust as animals never commit a folly in the strict sense of the word,\nso the average man is not exposed to folly in the same degree as the\ngenius.\n\nThe average man is wholly relegated to the sphere of _being_; the\ngenius, on the other hand, lives and moves chiefly in the sphere of\n_knowledge_. This gives rise to a twofold distinction. In the first\nplace, a man can be one thing only, but he may _know_ countless\nthings, and thereby, to some extent, identify himself with them, by\nparticipating in what Spinoza calls their _esse objectivum_. In the\nsecond place, the world, as I have elsewhere observed, is fine enough\nin appearance, but in reality dreadful; for torment is the condition\nof all life.\n\nIt follows from the first of these distinctions that the life of the\naverage man is essentially one of the greatest boredom; and thus we\nsee the rich warring against boredom with as much effort and as little\nrespite as fall to the poor in their struggle with need and adversity.\nAnd from the second of them it follows that the life of the average\nman is overspread with a dull, turbid, uniform gravity; whilst the\nbrow of genius glows with mirth of a unique character, which, although\nhe has sorrows of his own more poignant than those of the average man,\nnevertheless breaks out afresh, like the sun through clouds. It is\nwhen the genius is overtaken by an affliction which affects others as\nwell as himself, that this quality in him is most in evidence; for\nthen he is seen to be like man, who alone can laugh, in comparison\nwith the beast of the field, which lives out its life grave and dull.\n\nIt is the curse of the genius that in the same measure in which others\nthink him great and worthy of admiration, he thinks them small and\nmiserable creatures. His whole life long he has to suppress this\nopinion; and, as a rule, they suppress theirs as well. Meanwhile, he\nis condemned to live in a bleak world, where he meets no equal, as it\nwere an island where there are no inhabitants but monkeys and parrots.\nMoreover, he is always troubled by the illusion that from a distance a\nmonkey looks like a man.\n\nVulgar people take a huge delight in the faults and follies of great\nmen; and great men are equally annoyed at being thus reminded of their\nkinship with them.\n\nThe real dignity of a man of genius or great intellect, the trait\nwhich raises him over others and makes him worthy of respect, is at\nbottom the fact, that the only unsullied and innocent part of human\nnature, namely, the intellect, has the upper hand in him? and\nprevails; whereas, in the other there is nothing but sinful will,\nand just as much intellect as is requisite for guiding his steps,---\nrarely any more, very often somewhat less,--and of what use is it?\n\nIt seems to me that genius might have its root in a certain perfection\nand vividness of the memory as it stretches back over the events of\npast life. For it is only by dint of memory, which makes our life in\nthe strict sense a complete whole, that we attain a more profound and\ncomprehensive understanding of it.","title":"The Essays of Arthur Schopenhauer; the Art of Controversy","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":30143}