{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_10732/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_10732","id":"gutenberg_10732","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10732","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Pessimism"],"text":"THE ESSAYS OF ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER: STUDIES IN PESSIMISM\n\nTRANSLATED BY\n\nT. BAILEY SAUNDERS, M.A.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n  ON THE SUFFERINGS OF THE WORLD\n  ON THE VANITY OF EXISTENCE\n  ON SUICIDE\n  IMMORTALITY: A DIALOGUE\n  PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS\n  ON EDUCATION\n  OF WOMEN\n  ON NOISE\n  A FEW PARABLES\n\n\n\n\nNOTE.\n\nThe Essays here presented form a further selection from Schopenhauer's\n_Parerga_, brought together under a title which is not to be found\nin the original, and does not claim to apply to every chapter in\nthe volume. The first essay is, in the main, a rendering of the\nphilosopher's remarks under the heading of _Nachtr\u00e4ge zur Lehre vom\nLeiden der Welt_, together with certain parts of another section\nentitled _Nachtr\u00e4ge zur Lehre von der Bejahung und Verneinung des\nWillens zum Leben_. Such omissions as I have made are directed chiefly\nby the desire to avoid repeating arguments already familiar to readers\nof the other volumes in this series. The _Dialogue on Immortality_\nsums up views expressed at length in the philosopher's chief work, and\ntreated again in the _Parerga_. The _Psychological Observations_ in\nthis and the previous volume practically exhaust the chapter of the\noriginal which bears this title.\n\nThe essay on _Women_ must not be taken in jest. It expresses\nSchopenhauer's serious convictions; and, as a penetrating observer\nof the faults of humanity, he may be allowed a hearing on a question\nwhich is just now receiving a good deal of attention among us.\n\nT.B.S.\n\n\n\n\nON THE SUFFERINGS OF THE WORLD.\n\n\nUnless _suffering_ is the direct and immediate object of life, our\nexistence must entirely fail of its aim. It is absurd to look upon\nthe enormous amount of pain that abounds everywhere in the world, and\noriginates in needs and necessities inseparable from life itself, as\nserving no purpose at all and the result of mere chance. Each separate\nmisfortune, as it comes, seems, no doubt, to be something exceptional;\nbut misfortune in general is the rule.\n\nI know of no greater absurdity than that propounded by most systems of\nphilosophy in declaring evil to be negative in its character. Evil is\njust what is positive; it makes its own existence felt. Leibnitz is\nparticularly concerned to defend this absurdity; and he seeks to\nstrengthen his position by using a palpable and paltry sophism.[1]\nIt is the good which is negative; in other words, happiness and\nsatisfaction always imply some desire fulfilled, some state of pain\nbrought to an end.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_, cf. _Th\u00e8od_, \u00a7153.--Leibnitz argued\nthat evil is a negative quality--_i.e_., the absence of good; and that\nits active and seemingly positive character is an incidental and not\nan essential part of its nature. Cold, he said, is only the absence of\nthe power of heat, and the active power of expansion in freezing water\nis an incidental and not an essential part of the nature of cold. The\nfact is, that the power of expansion in freezing water is really an\nincrease of repulsion amongst its molecules; and Schopenhauer is quite\nright in calling the whole argument a sophism.]\n\nThis explains the fact that we generally find pleasure to be not\nnearly so pleasant as we expected, and pain very much more painful.\n\nThe pleasure in this world, it has been said, outweighs the pain; or,\nat any rate, there is an even balance between the two. If the reader\nwishes to see shortly whether this statement is true, let him compare\nthe respective feelings of two animals, one of which is engaged in\neating the other.\n\nThe best consolation in misfortune or affliction of any kind will\nbe the thought of other people who are in a still worse plight than\nyourself; and this is a form of consolation open to every one. But\nwhat an awful fate this means for mankind as a whole!\n\nWe are like lambs in a field, disporting themselves under the eye of\nthe butcher, who chooses out first one and then another for his prey.\nSo it is that in our good days we are all unconscious of the evil Fate\nmay have presently in store for us--sickness, poverty, mutilation,\nloss of sight or reason.\n\nNo little part of the torment of existence lies in this, that Time is\ncontinually pressing upon us, never letting us take breath, but always\ncoming after us, like a taskmaster with a whip. If at any moment Time\nstays his hand, it is only when we are delivered over to the misery of\nboredom.\n\nBut misfortune has its uses; for, as our bodily frame would burst\nasunder if the pressure of the atmosphere was removed, so, if the\nlives of men were relieved of all need, hardship and adversity; if\neverything they took in hand were successful, they would be so swollen\nwith arrogance that, though they might not burst, they would present\nthe spectacle of unbridled folly--nay, they would go mad. And I may\nsay, further, that a certain amount of care or pain or trouble is\nnecessary for every man at all times. A ship without ballast is\nunstable and will not go straight.\n\nCertain it is that _work, worry, labor_ and _trouble_, form the lot of\nalmost all men their whole life long. But if all wishes were fulfilled\nas soon as they arose, how would men occupy their lives? what would\nthey do with their time? If the world were a paradise of luxury and\nease, a land flowing with milk and honey, where every Jack obtained\nhis Jill at once and without any difficulty, men would either die of\nboredom or hang themselves; or there would be wars, massacres, and\nmurders; so that in the end mankind would inflict more suffering on\nitself than it has now to accept at the hands of Nature.\n\nIn early youth, as we contemplate our coming life, we are like\nchildren in a theatre before the curtain is raised, sitting there\nin high spirits and eagerly waiting for the play to begin. It is a\nblessing that we do not know what is really going to happen. Could we\nforesee it, there are times when children might seem like innocent\nprisoners, condemned, not to death, but to life, and as yet all\nunconscious of what their sentence means. Nevertheless, every man\ndesires to reach old age; in other words, a state of life of which it\nmay be said: \"It is bad to-day, and it will be worse to-morrow; and so\non till the worst of all.\"\n\nIf you try to imagine, as nearly as you can, what an amount of misery,\npain and suffering of every kind the sun shines upon in its course,\nyou will admit that it would be much better if, on the earth as little\nas on the moon, the sun were able to call forth the phenomena of life;\nand if, here as there, the surface were still in a crystalline state.\n\nAgain, you may look upon life as an unprofitable episode, disturbing\nthe blessed calm of non-existence. And, in any case, even though\nthings have gone with you tolerably well, the longer you live the more\nclearly you will feel that, on the whole, life is _a disappointment,\nnay, a cheat_.\n\nIf two men who were friends in their youth meet again when they are\nold, after being separated for a life-time, the chief feeling\nthey will have at the sight of each other will be one of complete\ndisappointment at life as a whole; because their thoughts will be\ncarried back to that earlier time when life seemed so fair as it\nlay spread out before them in the rosy light of dawn, promised so\nmuch--and then performed so little. This feeling will so completely\npredominate over every other that they will not even consider it\nnecessary to give it words; but on either side it will be silently\nassumed, and form the ground-work of all they have to talk about.\n\nHe who lives to see two or three generations is like a man who sits\nsome time in the conjurer's booth at a fair, and witnesses the\nperformance twice or thrice in succession. The tricks were meant to\nbe seen only once; and when they are no longer a novelty and cease to\ndeceive, their effect is gone.\n\nWhile no man is much to be envied for his lot, there are countless\nnumbers whose fate is to be deplored.\n\nLife is a task to be done. It is a fine thing to say _defunctus est_;\nit means that the man has done his task.\n\nIf children were brought into the world by an act of pure reason\nalone, would the human race continue to exist? Would not a man rather\nhave so much sympathy with the coming generation as to spare it the\nburden of existence? or at any rate not take it upon himself to impose\nthat burden upon it in cold blood.\n\nI shall be told, I suppose, that my philosophy is comfortless--because\nI speak the truth; and people prefer to be assured that everything the\nLord has made is good. Go to the priests, then, and leave philosophers\nin peace! At any rate, do not ask us to accommodate our doctrines to\nthe lessons you have been taught. That is what those rascals of sham\nphilosophers will do for you. Ask them for any doctrine you please,\nand you will get it. Your University professors are bound to preach\noptimism; and it is an easy and agreeable task to upset their\ntheories.\n\nI have reminded the reader that every state of welfare, every feeling\nof satisfaction, is negative in its character; that is to say, it\nconsists in freedom from pain, which is the positive element of\nexistence. It follows, therefore, that the happiness of any given life\nis to be measured, not by its joys and pleasures, but by the extent to\nwhich it has been free from suffering--from positive evil. If this\nis the true standpoint, the lower animals appear to enjoy a happier\ndestiny than man. Let us examine the matter a little more closely.\n\nHowever varied the forms that human happiness and misery may take,\nleading a man to seek the one and shun the other, the material basis\nof it all is bodily pleasure or bodily pain. This basis is very\nrestricted: it is simply health, food, protection from wet and cold,\nthe satisfaction of the sexual instinct; or else the absence of these\nthings. Consequently, as far as real physical pleasure is concerned,\nthe man is not better off than the brute, except in so far as the\nhigher possibilities of his nervous system make him more sensitive to\nevery kind of pleasure, but also, it must be remembered, to every kind\nof pain. But then compared with the brute, how much stronger are the\npassions aroused in him! what an immeasurable difference there is in\nthe depth and vehemence of his emotions!--and yet, in the one case,\nas in the other, all to produce the same result in the end: namely,\nhealth, food, clothing, and so on.\n\nThe chief source of all this passion is that thought for what is\nabsent and future, which, with man, exercises such a powerful\ninfluence upon all he does. It is this that is the real origin of\nhis cares, his hopes, his fears--emotions which affect him much\nmore deeply than could ever be the case with those present joys\nand sufferings to which the brute is confined. In his powers of\nreflection, memory and foresight, man possesses, as it were, a machine\nfor condensing and storing up his pleasures and his sorrows. But the\nbrute has nothing of the kind; whenever it is in pain, it is as though\nit were suffering for the first time, even though the same thing\nshould have previously happened to it times out of number. It has\nno power of summing up its feelings. Hence its careless and placid\ntemper: how much it is to be envied! But in man reflection comes in,\nwith all the emotions to which it gives rise; and taking up the same\nelements of pleasure and pain which are common to him and the brute,\nit develops his susceptibility to happiness and misery to such a\ndegree that, at one moment the man is brought in an instant to a state\nof delight that may even prove fatal, at another to the depths of\ndespair and suicide.\n\nIf we carry our analysis a step farther, we shall find that, in order\nto increase his pleasures, man has intentionally added to the number\nand pressure of his needs, which in their original state were not much\nmore difficult to satisfy than those of the brute. Hence luxury in all\nits forms; delicate food, the use of tobacco and opium, spirituous\nliquors, fine clothes, and the thousand and one things than he\nconsiders necessary to his existence.\n\nAnd above and beyond all this, there is a separate and peculiar source\nof pleasure, and consequently of pain, which man has established for\nhimself, also as the result of using his powers of reflection; and\nthis occupies him out of all proportion to its value, nay, almost more\nthan all his other interests put together--I mean ambition and the\nfeeling of honor and shame; in plain words, what he thinks about the\nopinion other people have of him. Taking a thousand forms, often very\nstrange ones, this becomes the goal of almost all the efforts he makes\nthat are not rooted in physical pleasure or pain. It is true that\nbesides the sources of pleasure which he has in common with the\nbrute, man has the pleasures of the mind as well. These admit of many\ngradations, from the most innocent trifling or the merest talk up to\nthe highest intellectual achievements; but there is the accompanying\nboredom to be set against them on the side of suffering. Boredom is\na form of suffering unknown to brutes, at any rate in their natural\nstate; it is only the very cleverest of them who show faint traces\nof it when they are domesticated; whereas in the case of man it has\nbecome a downright scourge. The crowd of miserable wretches whose one\naim in life is to fill their purses but never to put anything into\ntheir heads, offers a singular instance of this torment of boredom.\nTheir wealth becomes a punishment by delivering them up to misery of\nhaving nothing to do; for, to escape it, they will rush about in all\ndirections, traveling here, there and everywhere. No sooner do they\narrive in a place than they are anxious to know what amusements it\naffords; just as though they were beggars asking where they could\nreceive a dole! Of a truth, need and boredom are the two poles\nof human life. Finally, I may mention that as regards the sexual\nrelation, a man is committed to a peculiar arrangement which drives\nhim obstinately to choose one person. This feeling grows, now and\nthen, into a more or less passionate love,[1] which is the source of\nlittle pleasure and much suffering.\n\n[Footnote 1: I have treated this subject at length in a special\nchapter of the second volume of my chief work.]\n\nIt is, however, a wonderful thing that the mere addition of thought\nshould serve to raise such a vast and lofty structure of human\nhappiness and misery; resting, too, on the same narrow basis of joy\nand sorrow as man holds in common with the brute, and exposing him\nto such violent emotions, to so many storms of passion, so much\nconvulsion of feeling, that what he has suffered stands written and\nmay be read in the lines on his face. And yet, when all is told, he\nhas been struggling ultimately for the very same things as the brute\nhas attained, and with an incomparably smaller expenditure of passion\nand pain.\n\nBut all this contributes to increase the measures of suffering in\nhuman life out of all proportion to its pleasures; and the pains of\nlife are made much worse for man by the fact that death is something\nvery real to him. The brute flies from death instinctively without\nreally knowing what it is, and therefore without ever contemplating it\nin the way natural to a man, who has this prospect always before his\neyes. So that even if only a few brutes die a natural death, and most\nof them live only just long enough to transmit their species, and\nthen, if not earlier, become the prey of some other animal,--whilst\nman, on the other hand, manages to make so-called natural death the\nrule, to which, however, there are a good many exceptions,--the\nadvantage is on the side of the brute, for the reason stated above.\nBut the fact is that man attains the natural term of years just as\nseldom as the brute; because the unnatural way in which he lives, and\nthe strain of work and emotion, lead to a degeneration of the race;\nand so his goal is not often reached.\n\nThe brute is much more content with mere existence than man; the plant\nis wholly so; and man finds satisfaction in it just in proportion as\nhe is dull and obtuse. Accordingly, the life of the brute carries less\nof sorrow with it, but also less of joy, when compared with the life\nof man; and while this may be traced, on the one side, to freedom from\nthe torment of _care_ and _anxiety_, it is also due to the fact\nthat _hope_, in any real sense, is unknown to the brute. It is thus\ndeprived of any share in that which gives us the most and best of our\njoys and pleasures, the mental anticipation of a happy future, and the\ninspiriting play of phantasy, both of which we owe to our power of\nimagination. If the brute is free from care, it is also, in this\nsense, without hope; in either case, because its consciousness is\nlimited to the present moment, to what it can actually see before\nit. The brute is an embodiment of present impulses, and hence what\nelements of fear and hope exist in its nature--and they do not go very\nfar--arise only in relation to objects that lie before it and within\nreach of those impulses: whereas a man's range of vision embraces the\nwhole of his life, and extends far into the past and future.\n\nFollowing upon this, there is one respect in which brutes show real\nwisdom when compared with us--I mean, their quiet, placid enjoyment of\nthe present moment. The tranquillity of mind which this seems to give\nthem often puts us to shame for the many times we allow our thoughts\nand our cares to make us restless and discontented. And, in fact,\nthose pleasures of hope and anticipation which I have been mentioning\nare not to be had for nothing. The delight which a man has in hoping\nfor and looking forward to some special satisfaction is a part of the\nreal pleasure attaching to it enjoyed in advance. This is afterwards\ndeducted; for the more we look forward to anything, the less\nsatisfaction we find in it when it comes. But the brute's enjoyment\nis not anticipated, and therefore, suffers no deduction; so that the\nactual pleasure of the moment comes to it whole and unimpaired. In the\nsame way, too, evil presses upon the brute only with its own intrinsic\nweight; whereas with us the fear of its coming often makes its burden\nten times more grievous.\n\nIt is just this characteristic way in which the brute gives itself up\nentirely to the present moment that contributes so much to the delight\nwe take in our domestic pets. They are the present moment personified,\nand in some respects they make us feel the value of every hour that\nis free from trouble and annoyance, which we, with our thoughts and\npreoccupations, mostly disregard. But man, that selfish and heartless\ncreature, misuses this quality of the brute to be more content than we\nare with mere existence, and often works it to such an extent that he\nallows the brute absolutely nothing more than mere, bare life. The\nbird which was made so that it might rove over half of the world, he\nshuts up into the space of a cubic foot, there to die a slow death in\nlonging and crying for freedom; for in a cage it does not sing for\nthe pleasure of it. And when I see how man misuses the dog, his best\nfriend; how he ties up this intelligent animal with a chain, I feel\nthe deepest sympathy with the brute and burning indignation against\nits master.\n\nWe shall see later that by taking a very high standpoint it is\npossible to justify the sufferings of mankind. But this justification\ncannot apply to animals, whose sufferings, while in a great measure\nbrought about by men, are often considerable even apart from their\nagency.[1] And so we are forced to ask, Why and for what purpose does\nall this torment and agony exist? There is nothing here to give the\nwill pause; it is not free to deny itself and so obtain redemption.\nThere is only one consideration that may serve to explain the\nsufferings of animals. It is this: that the will to live, which\nunderlies the whole world of phenomena, must, in their case satisfy\nits cravings by feeding upon itself. This it does by forming a\ngradation of phenomena, every one of which exists at the expense of\nanother. I have shown, however, that the capacity for suffering is\nless in animals than in man. Any further explanation that may be given\nof their fate will be in the nature of hypothesis, if not actually\nmythical in its character; and I may leave the reader to speculate\nupon the matter for himself.\n\n[Footnote 1: Cf. _Welt als Wille und Vorstellung_, vol. ii. p. 404.]\n\n_Brahma_ is said to have produced the world by a kind of fall or\nmistake; and in order to atone for his folly, he is bound to remain\nin it himself until he works out his redemption. As an account of the\norigin of things, that is admirable! According to the doctrines\nof _Buddhism_, the world came into being as the result of some\ninexplicable disturbance in the heavenly calm of Nirvana, that blessed\nstate obtained by expiation, which had endured so long a time--the\nchange taking place by a kind of fatality. This explanation must be\nunderstood as having at bottom some moral bearing; although it is\nillustrated by an exactly parallel theory in the domain of physical\nscience, which places the origin of the sun in a primitive streak of\nmist, formed one knows not how. Subsequently, by a series of moral\nerrors, the world became gradually worse and worse--true of the\nphysical orders as well--until it assumed the dismal aspect it wears\nto-day. Excellent! The _Greeks_ looked upon the world and the gods as\nthe work of an inscrutable necessity. A passable explanation: we may\nbe content with it until we can get a better. Again, _Ormuzd_ and\n_Ahriman_ are rival powers, continually at war. That is not bad. But\nthat a God like Jehovah should have created this world of misery and\nwoe, out of pure caprice, and because he enjoyed doing it, and should\nthen have clapped his hands in praise of his own work, and declared\neverything to be very good--that will not do at all! In its\nexplanation of the origin of the world, Judaism is inferior to any\nother form of religious doctrine professed by a civilized nation;\nand it is quite in keeping with this that it is the only one which\npresents no trace whatever of any belief in the immortality of the\nsoul.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: See _Parerga_, vol. i. pp. 139 _et seq_.]\n\nEven though Leibnitz' contention, that this is the best of all\npossible worlds, were correct, that would not justify God in having\ncreated it. For he is the Creator not of the world only, but of\npossibility itself; and, therefore, he ought to have so ordered\npossibility as that it would admit of something better.\n\nThere are two things which make it impossible to believe that this\nworld is the successful work of an all-wise, all-good, and, at the\nsame time, all-powerful Being; firstly, the misery which abounds in\nit everywhere; and secondly, the obvious imperfection of its highest\nproduct, man, who is a burlesque of what he should be. These things\ncannot be reconciled with any such belief. On the contrary, they are\njust the facts which support what I have been saying; they are our\nauthority for viewing the world as the outcome of our own misdeeds,\nand therefore, as something that had better not have been. Whilst,\nunder the former hypothesis, they amount to a bitter accusation\nagainst the Creator, and supply material for sarcasm; under the latter\nthey form an indictment against our own nature, our own will, and\nteach us a lesson of humility. They lead us to see that, like the\nchildren of a libertine, we come into the world with the burden of sin\nupon us; and that it is only through having continually to atone for\nthis sin that our existence is so miserable, and that its end is\ndeath.\n\nThere is nothing more certain than the general truth that it is the\ngrievous _sin of the world_ which has produced the grievous _suffering\nof the world_. I am not referring here to the physical connection\nbetween these two things lying in the realm of experience; my meaning\nis metaphysical. Accordingly, the sole thing that reconciles me to the\nOld Testament is the story of the Fall. In my eyes, it is the only\nmetaphysical truth in that book, even though it appears in the form of\nan allegory. There seems to me no better explanation of our existence\nthan that it is the result of some false step, some sin of which\nwe are paying the penalty. I cannot refrain from recommending the\nthoughtful reader a popular, but at the same time, profound treatise\non this subject by Claudius[1] which exhibits the essentially\npessimistic spirit of Christianity. It is entitled: _Cursed is the\nground for thy sake_.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Matthias Claudius (1740-1815), a\npopular poet, and friend of Klopstock, Herder and Leasing. He edited\nthe _Wandsbecker Bote_, in the fourth part of which appeared the\ntreatise mentioned above. He generally wrote under the pseudonym of\n_Asmus_, and Schopenhauer often refers to him by this name.]\n\nBetween the ethics of the Greeks and the ethics of the Hindoos, there\nis a glaring contrast. In the one case (with the exception, it must be\nconfessed, of Plato), the object of ethics is to enable a man to lead\na happy life; in the other, it is to free and redeem him from life\naltogether--as is directly stated in the very first words of the\n_Sankhya Karika_.\n\nAllied with this is the contrast between the Greek and the Christian\nidea of death. It is strikingly presented in a visible form on a fine\nantique sarcophagus in the gallery of Florence, which exhibits, in\nrelief, the whole series of ceremonies attending a wedding in ancient\ntimes, from the formal offer to the evening when Hymen's torch lights\nthe happy couple home. Compare with that the Christian coffin,\ndraped in mournful black and surmounted with a crucifix! How much\nsignificance there is in these two ways of finding comfort in death.\nThey are opposed to each other, but each is right. The one points to\nthe _affirmation_ of the will to live, which remains sure of life for\nall time, however rapidly its forms may change. The other, in the\nsymbol of suffering and death, points to the _denial_ of the will to\nlive, to redemption from this world, the domain of death and devil.\nAnd in the question between the affirmation and the denial of the will\nto live, Christianity is in the last resort right.\n\nThe contrast which the New Testament presents when compared with the\nOld, according to the ecclesiastical view of the matter, is just that\nexisting between my ethical system and the moral philosophy of Europe.\nThe Old Testament represents man as under the dominion of Law, in\nwhich, however, there is no redemption. The New Testament declares\nLaw to have failed, frees man from its dominion,[1] and in its stead\npreaches the kingdom of grace, to be won by faith, love of neighbor\nand entire sacrifice of self. This is the path of redemption from the\nevil of the world. The spirit of the New Testament is undoubtedly\nasceticism, however your protestants and rationalists may twist it to\nsuit their purpose. Asceticism is the denial of the will to live; and\nthe transition from the Old Testament to the New, from the dominion\nof Law to that of Faith, from justification by works to redemption\nthrough the Mediator, from the domain of sin and death to eternal life\nin Christ, means, when taken in its real sense, the transition from\nthe merely moral virtues to the denial of the will to live. My\nphilosophy shows the metaphysical foundation of justice and the love\nof mankind, and points to the goal to which these virtues necessarily\nlead, if they are practised in perfection. At the same time it is\ncandid in confessing that a man must turn his back upon the world, and\nthat the denial of the will to live is the way of redemption. It is\ntherefore really at one with the spirit of the New Testament, whilst\nall other systems are couched in the spirit of the Old; that is\nto say, theoretically as well as practically, their result is\nJudaism--mere despotic theism. In this sense, then, my doctrine might\nbe called the only true Christian philosophy--however paradoxical a\nstatement this may seem to people who take superficial views instead\nof penetrating to the heart of the matter.\n\n[Footnote 1: Cf. Romans vii; Galatians ii, iii.]\n\nIf you want a safe compass to guide you through life, and to banish\nall doubt as to the right way of looking at it, you cannot do better\nthan accustom yourself to regard this world as a penitentiary, a\nsort of a penal colony, or [Greek: ergastaerion] as the earliest\nphilosopher called it.[1] Amongst the Christian Fathers, Origen, with\npraiseworthy courage, took this view,[2] which is further justified by\ncertain objective theories of life. I refer, not to my own philosophy\nalone, but to the wisdom of all ages, as expressed in Brahmanism and\nBuddhism, and in the sayings of Greek philosophers like Empedocles and\nPythagoras; as also by Cicero, in his remark that the wise men of old\nused to teach that we come into this world to pay the penalty of crime\ncommitted in another state of existence--a doctrine which formed\npart of the initiation into the mysteries.[3] And Vanini--whom his\ncontemporaries burned, finding that an easier task than to confute\nhim--puts the same thing in a very forcible way. _Man_, he says, _is\nso full of every kind of misery that, were it not repugnant to the\nChristian religion, I should venture to affirm that if evil spirits\nexist at all, they have posed into human form and are now atoning for\ntheir crimes_.[4] And true Christianity--using the word in its right\nsense--also regards our existence as the consequence of sin and error.\n\n[Footnote 1: Cf. Clem. Alex. Strom. L. iii, c, 3, p. 399.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Augustine _de c\u00ecvitate Dei_., L. xi. c. 23.]\n\n[Footnote 3: Cf. _Fragmenta de philosophia_.]\n\n[Footnote: 4: _De admirandis naturae arcanis_; dial L. p. 35.]\n\nIf you accustom yourself to this view of life you will regulate your\nexpectations accordingly, and cease to look upon all its disagreeable\nincidents, great and small, its sufferings, its worries, its misery,\nas anything unusual or irregular; nay, you will find that everything\nis as it should be, in a world where each of us pays the penalty of\nexistence in his own peculiar way. Amongst the evils of a penal colony\nis the society of those who form it; and if the reader is worthy of\nbetter company, he will need no words from me to remind him of what he\nhas to put up with at present. If he has a soul above the common, or\nif he is a man of genius, he will occasionally feel like some noble\nprisoner of state, condemned to work in the galleys with common\ncriminals; and he will follow his example and try to isolate himself.\n\nIn general, however, it should be said that this view of life will\nenable us to contemplate the so-called imperfections of the great\nmajority of men, their moral and intellectual deficiencies and the\nresulting base type of countenance, without any surprise, to say\nnothing of indignation; for we shall never cease to reflect where we\nare, and that the men about us are beings conceived and born in\nsin, and living to atone for it. That is what Christianity means in\nspeaking of the sinful nature of man.\n\n_Pardon's the word to all_! [1] Whatever folly men commit, be\ntheir shortcomings or their vices what they may, let us exercise\nforbearance; remembering that when these faults appear in others, it\nis our follies and vices that we behold. They are the shortcomings of\nhumanity, to which we belong; whose faults, one and all, we share;\nyes, even those very faults at which we now wax so indignant, merely\nbecause they have not yet appeared in ourselves. They are faults that\ndo not lie on the surface. But they exist down there in the depths of\nour nature; and should anything call them forth, they will come and\nshow themselves, just as we now see them in others. One man, it\nis true, may have faults that are absent in his fellow; and it is\nundeniable that the sum total of bad qualities is in some cases very\nlarge; for the difference of individuality between man and man passes\nall measure.\n\n[Footnote 1: \"Cymbeline,\" Act v. Sc. 5.]\n\nIn fact, the conviction that the world and man is something that had\nbetter not have been, is of a kind to fill us with indulgence towards\none another. Nay, from this point of view, we might well consider the\nproper form of address to be, not _Monsieur, Sir, mein Herr_, but _my\nfellow-sufferer, Soc\u00ee malorum, compagnon de miseres_! This may perhaps\nsound strange, but it is in keeping with the facts; it puts others in\na right light; and it reminds us of that which is after all the most\nnecessary thing in life--the tolerance, patience, regard, and love\nof neighbor, of which everyone stands in need, and which, therefore,\nevery man owes to his fellow.\n\n\n\n\nTHE VANITY OF EXISTENCE.\n\n\nThis vanity finds expression in the whole way in which things exist;\nin the infinite nature of Time and Space, as opposed to the finite\nnature of the individual in both; in the ever-passing present moment\nas the only mode of actual existence; in the interdependence and\nrelativity of all things; in continual Becoming without ever Being; in\nconstant wishing and never being satisfied; in the long battle\nwhich forms the history of life, where every effort is checked by\ndifficulties, and stopped until they are overcome. Time is that in\nwhich all things pass away; it is merely the form under which the will\nto live--the thing-in-itself and therefore imperishable--has revealed\nto it that its efforts are in vain; it is that agent by which at every\nmoment all things in our hands become as nothing, and lose any real\nvalue they possess.\n\nThat which _has been_ exists no more; it exists as little as that\nwhich has _never_ been. But of everything that exists you must say, in\nthe next moment, that it has been. Hence something of great importance\nnow past is inferior to something of little importance now present, in\nthat the latter is a _reality_, and related to the former as something\nto nothing.\n\nA man finds himself, to his great astonishment, suddenly existing,\nafter thousands and thousands of years of non-existence: he lives for\na little while; and then, again, comes an equally long period when he\nmust exist no more. The heart rebels against this, and feels that\nit cannot be true. The crudest intellect cannot speculate on such a\nsubject without having a presentiment that Time is something ideal in\nits nature. This ideality of Time and Space is the key to every true\nsystem of metaphysics; because it provides for quite another order of\nthings than is to be met with in the domain of nature. This is why\nKant is so great.\n\nOf every event in our life we can say only for one moment that it\n_is_; for ever after, that it _was_. Every evening we are poorer by a\nday. It might, perhaps, make us mad to see how rapidly our short span\nof time ebbs away; if it were not that in the furthest depths of our\nbeing we are secretly conscious of our share in the exhaustible spring\nof eternity, so that we can always hope to find life in it again.\n\nConsideration of the kind, touched on above, might, indeed, lead us to\nembrace the belief that the greatest _wisdom_ is to make the enjoyment\nof the present the supreme object of life; because that is the only\nreality, all else being merely the play of thought. On the other hand,\nsuch a course might just as well be called the greatest _folly_: for\nthat which in the next moment exists no more, and vanishes utterly,\nlike a dream, can never be worth a serious effort.\n\nThe whole foundation on which our existence rests is the present--the\never-fleeting present. It lies, then, in the very nature of our\nexistence to take the form of constant motion, and to offer no\npossibility of our ever attaining the rest for which we are always\nstriving. We are like a man running downhill, who cannot keep on his\nlegs unless he runs on, and will inevitably fall if he stops; or,\nagain, like a pole balanced on the tip of one's finger; or like a\nplanet, which would fall into its sun the moment it ceased to hurry\nforward on its way. Unrest is the mark of existence.\n\nIn a world where all is unstable, and nought can endure, but is swept\nonwards at once in the hurrying whirlpool of change; where a man, if\nhe is to keep erect at all, must always be advancing and moving, like\nan acrobat on a rope--in such a world, happiness in inconceivable.\nHow can it dwell where, as Plato says, _continual Becoming and never\nBeing_ is the sole form of existence? In the first place, a man never\nis happy, but spends his whole life in striving after something which\nhe thinks will make him so; he seldom attains his goal, and when he\ndoes, it is only to be disappointed; he is mostly shipwrecked in the\nend, and comes into harbor with masts and rigging gone. And then, it\nis all one whether he has been happy or miserable; for his life was\nnever anything more than a present moment always vanishing; and now it\nis over.\n\nAt the same time it is a wonderful thing that, in the world of human\nbeings as in that of animals in general, this manifold restless motion\nis produced and kept up by the agency of two simple impulses--hunger\nand the sexual instinct; aided a little, perhaps, by the influence of\nboredom, but by nothing else; and that, in the theatre of life, these\nsuffice to form the _primum mobile_ of how complicated a machinery,\nsetting in motion how strange and varied a scene!\n\nOn looking a little closer, we find that inorganic matter presents\na constant conflict between chemical forces, which eventually works\ndissolution; and on the other hand, that organic life is impossible\nwithout continual change of matter, and cannot exist if it does not\nreceive perpetual help from without. This is the realm of _finality_;\nand its opposite would be _an infinite existence_, exposed to no\nattack from without, and needing nothing to support it; [Greek: haei\nhosautos dn], the realm of eternal peace; [Greek: oute giguomenon oute\napollumenon], some timeless, changeless state, one and undiversified;\nthe negative knowledge of which forms the dominant note of the\nPlatonic philosophy. It is to some such state as this that the denial\nof the will to live opens up the way.\n\nThe scenes of our life are like pictures done in rough mosaic. Looked\nat close, they produce no effect. There is nothing beautiful to\nbe found in them, unless you stand some distance off. So, to gain\nanything we have longed for is only to discover how vain and empty\nit is; and even though we are always living in expectation of better\nthings, at the same time we often repent and long to have the past\nback again. We look upon the present as something to be put up with\nwhile it lasts, and serving only as the way towards our goal. Hence\nmost people, if they glance back when they come to the end of life,\nwill find that all along they have been living _ad interim_: they will\nbe surprised to find that the very thing they disregarded and let\nslip by unenjoyed, was just the life in the expectation of which they\npassed all their time. Of how many a man may it not be said that hope\nmade a fool of him until he danced into the arms of death!\n\nThen again, how insatiable a creature is man! Every satisfaction he\nattains lays the seeds of some new desire, so that there is no end to\nthe wishes of each individual will. And why is this? The real reason\nis simply that, taken in itself, Will is the lord of all worlds:\neverything belongs to it, and therefore no one single thing can ever\ngive it satisfaction, but only the whole, which is endless. For all\nthat, it must rouse our sympathy to think how very little the Will,\nthis lord of the world, really gets when it takes the form of an\nindividual; usually only just enough to keep the body together. This\nis why man is so very miserable.\n\nLife presents itself chiefly as a task--the task, I mean, of\nsubsisting at all, _gagner sa vie_. If this is accomplished, life is a\nburden, and then there comes the second task of doing something with\nthat which has been won--of warding off boredom, which, like a bird\nof prey, hovers over us, ready to fall wherever it sees a life secure\nfrom need. The first task is to win something; the second, to banish\nthe feeling that it has been won; otherwise it is a burden.\n\nHuman life must be some kind of mistake. The truth of this will be\nsufficiently obvious if we only remember that man is a compound of\nneeds and necessities hard to satisfy; and that even when they are\nsatisfied, all he obtains is a state of painlessness, where nothing\nremains to him but abandonment to boredom. This is direct proof that\nexistence has no real value in itself; for what is boredom but the\nfeeling of the emptiness of life? If life--the craving for which\nis the very essence of our being--were possessed of any positive\nintrinsic value, there would be no such thing as boredom at all: mere\nexistence would satisfy us in itself, and we should want for nothing.\nBut as it is, we take no delight in existence except when we are\nstruggling for something; and then distance and difficulties to be\novercome make our goal look as though it would satisfy us--an illusion\nwhich vanishes when we reach it; or else when we are occupied with\nsome purely intellectual interest--when in reality we have stepped\nforth from life to look upon it from the outside, much after the\nmanner of spectators at a play. And even sensual pleasure itself means\nnothing but a struggle and aspiration, ceasing the moment its aim is\nattained. Whenever we are not occupied in one of these ways, but cast\nupon existence itself, its vain and worthless nature is brought home\nto us; and this is what we mean by boredom. The hankering after what\nis strange and uncommon--an innate and ineradicable tendency of human\nnature--shows how glad we are at any interruption of that natural\ncourse of affairs which is so very tedious.\n\nThat this most perfect manifestation of the will to live, the human\norganism, with the cunning and complex working of its machinery,\nmust fall to dust and yield up itself and all its strivings to\nextinction--this is the na\u00efve way in which Nature, who is always so\ntrue and sincere in what she says, proclaims the whole struggle of\nthis will as in its very essence barren and unprofitable. Were it of\nany value in itself, anything unconditioned and absolute, it could not\nthus end in mere nothing.\n\nIf we turn from contemplating the world as a whole, and, in\nparticular, the generations of men as they live their little hour of\nmock-existence and then are swept away in rapid succession; if we turn\nfrom this, and look at life in its small details, as presented, say,\nin a comedy, how ridiculous it all seems! It is like a drop of water\nseen through a microscope, a single drop teeming with _infusoria_; or\na speck of cheese full of mites invisible to the naked eye. How we\nlaugh as they bustle about so eagerly, and struggle with one another\nin so tiny a space! And whether here, or in the little span of human\nlife, this terrible activity produces a comic effect.\n\nIt is only in the microscope that our life looks so big. It is an\nindivisible point, drawn out and magnified by the powerful lenses of\nTime and Space.\n\n\n\n\nON SUICIDE.\n\n\nAs far as I know, none but the votaries of monotheistic, that is to\nsay, Jewish religions, look upon suicide as a crime. This is all the\nmore striking, inasmuch as neither in the Old nor in the New Testament\nis there to be found any prohibition or positive disapproval of it;\nso that religious teachers are forced to base their condemnation of\nsuicide on philosophical grounds of their own invention. These are\nso very bad that writers of this kind endeavor to make up for the\nweakness of their arguments by the strong terms in which they express\ntheir abhorrence of the practice; in other words, they declaim against\nit. They tell us that suicide is the greatest piece of cowardice; that\nonly a madman could be guilty of it; and other insipidities of the\nsame kind; or else they make the nonsensical remark that suicide is\n_wrong_; when it is quite obvious that there is nothing in the world\nto which every man has a more unassailable title than to his own life\nand person.\n\nSuicide, as I have said, is actually accounted a crime; and a crime\nwhich, especially under the vulgar bigotry that prevails in England,\nis followed by an ignominious burial and the seizure of the man's\nproperty; and for that reason, in a case of suicide, the jury almost\nalways brings in a verdict of insanity. Now let the reader's own moral\nfeelings decide as to whether or not suicide is a criminal act. Think\nof the impression that would be made upon you by the news that some\none you know had committed the crime, say, of murder or theft, or been\nguilty of some act of cruelty or deception; and compare it with your\nfeelings when you hear that he has met a voluntary death. While in the\none case a lively sense of indignation and extreme resentment will be\naroused, and you will call loudly for punishment or revenge, in the\nother you will be moved to grief and sympathy; and mingled with your\nthoughts will be admiration for his courage, rather than the moral\ndisapproval which follows upon a wicked action. Who has not had\nacquaintances, friends, relations, who of their own free will have\nleft this world; and are these to be thought of with horror as\ncriminals? Most emphatically, No! I am rather of opinion that the\nclergy should be challenged to explain what right they have to go into\nthe pulpit, or take up their pens, and stamp as a crime an action\nwhich many men whom we hold in affection and honor have committed;\nand to refuse an honorable burial to those who relinquish this\nworld voluntarily. They have no Biblical authority to boast of,\nas justifying their condemnation of suicide; nay, not even any\nphilosophical arguments that will hold water; and it must be\nunderstood that it is arguments we want, and that we will not be put\noff with mere phrases or words of abuse. If the criminal law forbids\nsuicide, that is not an argument valid in the Church; and besides, the\nprohibition is ridiculous; for what penalty can frighten a man who is\nnot afraid of death itself? If the law punishes people for trying\nto commit suicide, it is punishing the want of skill that makes the\nattempt a failure.\n\nThe ancients, moreover, were very far from regarding the matter in\nthat light. Pliny says: _Life is not so desirable a thing as to be\nprotracted at any cost. Whoever you are, you are sure to die, even\nthough your life has been full of abomination and crime. The chief\nof all remedies for a troubled mind is the feeling that among the\nblessings which Nature gives to man, there is none greater than an\nopportune death; and the best of it is that every one can avail\nhimself of it.[1]_ And elsewhere the same writer declares: _Not even\nto God are all things possible; for he could not compass his own\ndeath, if he willed to die, and yet in all the miseries of our earthly\nlife, this is the best of his gifts to man.[2]_ Nay, in Massilia\nand on the isle of Ceos, the man who could give valid reasons\nfor relinquishing his life, was handed the cup of hemlock by the\nmagistrate; and that, too, in public.[3] And in ancient times, how\nmany heroes and wise men died a voluntary death. Aristotle,[4] it is\ntrue, declared suicide to be an offence against the State, although\nnot against the person; but in Stobaeus' exposition of the Peripatetic\nphilosophy there is the following remark: _The good man should flee\nlife when his misfortunes become too great; the bad man, also, when\nhe is too prosperous_. And similarly: _So he will marry and beget\nchildren and take part in the affairs of the State, and, generally,\npractice virtue and continue to live; and then, again, if need be,\nand at any time necessity compels him, he will depart to his place of\nrefuge in the tomb.[5]_ And we find that the Stoics actually praised\nsuicide as a noble and heroic action, as hundreds of passages show;\nabove all in the works of Seneca, who expresses the strongest approval\nof it. As is well known, the Hindoos look upon suicide as a religious\nact, especially when it takes the form of self-immolation by widows;\nbut also when it consists in casting oneself under the wheels of the\nchariot of the god at Juggernaut, or being eaten by crocodiles in the\nGanges, or being drowned in the holy tanks in the temples, and so on.\nThe same thing occurs on the stage--that mirror of life. For example,\nin _L'Orphelin de la Chine_[6] a celebrated Chinese play, almost\nall the noble characters end by suicide; without the slightest hint\nanywhere, or any impression being produced on the spectator, that\nthey are committing a crime. And in our own theatre it is much the\nsame--Palmira, for instance, in _Mahomet_, or Mortimer in _Maria\nStuart_, Othello, Countess Terzky.[7] Is Hamlet's monologue the\nmeditation of a criminal? He merely declares that if we had any\ncertainty of being annihilated by it, death would be infinitely\npreferable to the world as it is. But _there lies the rub_!\n\n[Footnote 1: Hist. Nat. Lib. xxviii., 1.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Loc. cit. Lib. ii. c. 7.]\n\n[Footnote 3: 3 Valerius Maximus; hist. Lib. ii., c. 6, \u00a7 7 et 8.\nHeraclides Ponticus; fragmenta de rebus publicis, ix. Aeliani variae\nhistoriae, iii., 37. Strabo; Lib. x., c. 5, 6.]\n\n[Footnote 4: _Eth. Nichom_., v. 15.]\n\n[Footnote 5: Stobaeus. _Ecl. Eth_.. ii., c. 7, pp. 286, 312]\n\n[Footnote 6: Traduit par St. Julien, 1834.]\n\n[Footnote 7: _Translator's Note_.--Palmira: a female slave in Goethe's\nplay of _Mahomet_. Mortimer: a would-be lover and rescuer of Mary in\nSchiller's _Maria Stuart_. Countess Terzky: a leading character in\nSchiller's _Wallenstein's Tod_.]\n\nThe reasons advanced against suicide by the clergy of monotheistic,\nthat is to say, Jewish religions, and by those philosophers who adapt\nthemselves thereto, are weak sophisms which can easily be refuted.[1]\nThe most thorough-going refutation of them is given by Hume in his\n_Essay on Suicide_. This did not appear until after his death, when\nit was immediately suppressed, owing to the scandalous bigotry and\noutrageous ecclesiastical tyranny that prevailed in England; and hence\nonly a very few copies of it were sold under cover of secrecy and at a\nhigh price. This and another treatise by that great man have come to\nus from Basle, and we may be thankful for the reprint.[2] It is a\ngreat disgrace to the English nation that a purely philosophical\ntreatise, which, proceeding from one of the first thinkers and writers\nin England, aimed at refuting the current arguments against suicide\nby the light of cold reason, should be forced to sneak about in that\ncountry, as though it were some rascally production, until at last it\nfound refuge on the Continent. At the same time it shows what a good\nconscience the Church has in such matters.\n\n[Footnote 1: See my treatise on the _Foundation of Morals_, \u00a7 5.]\n\n[Footnote 2: _Essays on Suicide_ and the _Immortality of the Soul_, by\nthe late David Hume, Basle, 1799, sold by James Decker.]\n\nIn my chief work I have explained the only valid reason existing\nagainst suicide on the score of mortality. It is this: that suicide\nthwarts the attainment of the highest moral aim by the fact that, for\na real release from this world of misery, it substitutes one that is\nmerely apparent. But from a _mistake_ to a _crime_ is a far cry; and\nit is as a crime that the clergy of Christendom wish us to regard\nsuicide.\n\nThe inmost kernel of Christianity is the truth that suffering--_the\nCross_--is the real end and object of life. Hence Christianity\ncondemns suicide as thwarting this end; whilst the ancient world,\ntaking a lower point of view, held it in approval, nay, in honor.[1]\nBut if that is to be accounted a valid reason against suicide, it\ninvolves the recognition of asceticism; that is to say, it is valid\nonly from a much higher ethical standpoint than has ever been adopted\nby moral philosophers in Europe. If we abandon that high standpoint,\nthere is no tenable reason left, on the score of morality, for\ncondemning suicide. The extraordinary energy and zeal with which the\nclergy of monotheistic religions attack suicide is not supported\neither by any passages in the Bible or by any considerations of\nweight; so that it looks as though they must have some secret reason\nfor their contention. May it not be this--that the voluntary surrender\nof life is a bad compliment for him who said that _all things were\nvery good_? If this is so, it offers another instance of the crass\noptimism of these religions,--denouncing suicide to escape being\ndenounced by it.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Schopenhauer refers to _Die Welt\nals Wille und Vorstellung_, vol. i., \u00a7 69, where the reader may find\nthe same argument stated at somewhat greater length. According to\nSchopenhauer, moral freedom--the highest ethical aim--is to be\nobtained only by a denial of the will to live. Far from being a\ndenial, suicide is an emphatic assertion of this will. For it is in\nfleeing from the pleasures, not from the sufferings of life, that this\ndenial consists. When a man destroys his existence as an individual,\nhe is not by any means destroying his will to live. On the contrary,\nhe would like to live if he could do so with satisfaction to himself;\nif he could assert his will against the power of circumstance; but\ncircumstance is too strong for him.]\n\nIt will generally be found that, as soon as the terrors of life reach\nthe point at which they outweigh the terrors of death, a man will\nput an end to his life. But the terrors of death offer considerable\nresistance; they stand like a sentinel at the gate leading out of this\nworld. Perhaps there is no man alive who would not have already put an\nend to his life, if this end had been of a purely negative character,\na sudden stoppage of existence. There is something positive about\nit; it is the destruction of the body; and a man shrinks from that,\nbecause his body is the manifestation of the will to live.\n\nHowever, the struggle with that sentinel is, as a rule, not so hard\nas it may seem from a long way off, mainly in consequence of the\nantagonism between the ills of the body and the ills of the mind. If\nwe are in great bodily pain, or the pain lasts a long time, we become\nindifferent to other troubles; all we think about is to get well. In\nthe same way great mental suffering makes us insensible to bodily\npain; we despise it; nay, if it should outweigh the other, it\ndistracts our thoughts, and we welcome it as a pause in mental\nsuffering. It is this feeling that makes suicide easy; for the bodily\npain that accompanies it loses all significance in the eyes of one\nwho is tortured by an excess of mental suffering. This is especially\nevident in the case of those who are driven to suicide by some purely\nmorbid and exaggerated ill-humor. No special effort to overcome their\nfeelings is necessary, nor do such people require to be worked up in\norder to take the step; but as soon as the keeper into whose charge\nthey are given leaves them for a couple of minutes, they quickly bring\ntheir life to an end.\n\nWhen, in some dreadful and ghastly dream, we reach the moment of\ngreatest horror, it awakes us; thereby banishing all the hideous\nshapes that were born of the night. And life is a dream: when the\nmoment of greatest horror compels us to break it off, the same thing\nhappens.\n\nSuicide may also be regarded as an experiment--a question which man\nputs to Nature, trying to force her to an answer. The question is\nthis: What change will death produce in a man's existence and in his\ninsight into the nature of things? It is a clumsy experiment to make;\nfor it involves the destruction of the very consciousness which puts\nthe question and awaits the answer.\n\n\n\n\nIMMORTALITY:[1] A DIALOGUE.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--The word\nimmortality--_Unsterblichkeit_--does not occur in the original; nor\nwould it, in its usual application, find a place in Schopenhauer's\nvocabulary. The word he uses is _Unzerst\u00f6rbarkeit--indestructibility_.\nBut I have preferred _immortality_, because that word is commonly\nassociated with the subject touched upon in this little debate. If any\ncritic doubts the wisdom of this preference, let me ask him to try\nhis hand at a short, concise, and, at the same time, popularly\nintelligible rendering of the German original, which runs thus: _Zur\nLehre von der Unzerst\u00f6rbarkeit unseres wahren Wesens durch den Tod:\nMeine dialogische Schlussbelustigung_.]\n\n\nTHRASYMACHOS--PHILALETHES.\n\n_Thrasymachos_. Tell me now, in one word, what shall I be after my\ndeath? And mind you be clear and precise.\n\n_Philalethes_. All and nothing!\n\n_Thrasymachos_. I thought so! I gave you a problem, and you solve it\nby a contradiction. That's a very stale trick.\n\n_Philalethes_. Yes, but you raise transcendental questions, and you\nexpect me to answer them in language that is only made for immanent\nknowledge. It's no wonder that a contradiction ensues.\n\n_Thrasymachos_. What do you mean by transcendental questions and\nimmanent knowledge? I've heard these expressions before, of course;\nthey are not new to me. The Professor was fond of using them, but only\nas predicates of the Deity, and he never talked of anything else;\nwhich was all quite right and proper. He argued thus: if the Deity was\nin the world itself, he was immanent; if he was somewhere outside it,\nhe was transcendent. Nothing could be clearer and more obvious! You\nknew where you were. But this Kantian rigmarole won't do any more:\nit's antiquated and no longer applicable to modern ideas. Why, we've\nhad a whole row of eminent men in the metropolis of German learning--\n\n_Philalethes_. (Aside.) German humbug, he means.\n\n_Thrasymachos_. The mighty Schleiermacher, for instance, and that\ngigantic intellect, Hegel; and at this time of day we've abandoned\nthat nonsense. I should rather say we're so far beyond it that we\ncan't put up with it any more. What's the use of it then? What does it\nall mean?\n\n_Philalethes_. Transcendental knowledge is knowledge which passes\nbeyond the bounds of possible experience, and strives to determine the\nnature of things as they are in themselves. Immanent knowledge, on the\nother hand, is knowledge which confines itself entirely with those\nbounds; so that it cannot apply to anything but actual phenomena. As\nfar as you are an individual, death will be the end of you. But your\nindividuality is not your true and inmost being: it is only the\noutward manifestation of it. It is not the _thing-in-itself_, but only\nthe phenomenon presented in the form of time; and therefore with a\nbeginning and an end. But your real being knows neither time, nor\nbeginning, nor end, nor yet the limits of any given individual. It is\neverywhere present in every individual; and no individual can\nexist apart from it. So when death comes, on the one hand you are\nannihilated as an individual; on the other, you are and remain\neverything. That is what I meant when I said that after your death\nyou would be all and nothing. It is difficult to find a more precise\nanswer to your question and at the same time be brief. The answer is\ncontradictory, I admit; but it is so simply because your life is in\ntime, and the immortal part of you in eternity. You may put the matter\nthus: Your immortal part is something that does not last in time and\nyet is indestructible; but there you have another contradiction! You\nsee what happens by trying to bring the transcendental within the\nlimits of immanent knowledge. It is in some sort doing violence to the\nlatter by misusing it for ends it was never meant to serve.\n\n_Thrasymachos_. Look here, I shan't give twopence for your immortality\nunless I'm to remain an individual.\n\n_Philalethes_. Well, perhaps I may be able to satisfy you on this\npoint. Suppose I guarantee that after death you shall remain an\nindividual, but only on condition that you first spend three months of\ncomplete unconsciousness.\n\n_Thrasymachos_. I shall have no objection to that.\n\n_Philalethes_. But remember, if people are completely unconscious,\nthey take no account of time. So, when you are dead, it's all the same\nto you whether three months pass in the world of consciousness, or ten\nthousand years. In the one case as in the other, it is simply a matter\nof believing what is told you when you awake. So far, then, you can\nafford to be indifferent whether it is three months or ten thousand\nyears that pass before you recover your individuality.\n\n_Thrasymachos_. Yes, if it comes to that, I suppose you're right.\n\n_Philalethes_. And if by chance, after those ten thousand years have\ngone by, no one ever thinks of awakening you, I fancy it would be\nno great misfortune. You would have become quite accustomed to\nnon-existence after so long a spell of it--following upon such a very\nfew years of life. At any rate you may be sure you would be perfectly\nignorant of the whole thing. Further, if you knew that the mysterious\npower which keeps you in your present state of life had never once\nceased in those ten thousand years to bring forth other phenomena like\nyourself, and to endow them with life, it would fully console you.\n\n_Thrasymachos_. Indeed! So you think you're quietly going to do me\nout of my individuality with all this fine talk. But I'm up to your\ntricks. I tell you I won't exist unless I can have my individuality.\nI'm not going to be put off with 'mysterious powers,' and what you\ncall 'phenomena.' I can't do without my individuality, and I won't\ngive it up.\n\n_Philalethes_. You mean, I suppose, that your individuality is such a\ndelightful thing, so splendid, so perfect, and beyond compare--that\nyou can't imagine anything better. Aren't you ready to exchange your\npresent state for one which, if we can judge by what is told us, may\npossibly be superior and more endurable?\n\n_Thrasymachos_. Don't you see that my individuality, be it what it\nmay, is my very self? To me it is the most important thing in the\nworld.\n\n  _For God is God and I am I_.\n\n_I_ want to exist, _I, I_. That's the main thing. I don't care about\nan existence which has to be proved to be mine, before I can believe\nit.\n\n_Philalethes_. Think what you're doing! When you say _I, I, I_ want\nto exist, it is not you alone that says this. Everything says it,\nabsolutely everything that has the faintest trace of consciousness. It\nfollows, then, that this desire of yours is just the part of you that\nis _not individual_--the part that is common to all things without\ndistinction. It is the cry, not of the individual, but of existence\nitself; it is the intrinsic element in everything that exists, nay, it\nis the cause of anything existing at all. This desire craves for, and\nso is satisfied with, nothing less than existence in general--not any\ndefinite individual existence. No! that is not its aim. It seems to be\nso only because this desire--this _Will_--attains consciousness only\nin the individual, and therefore looks as though it were concerned\nwith nothing but the individual. There lies the illusion--an illusion,\nit is true, in which the individual is held fast: but, if he reflects,\nhe can break the fetters and set himself free. It is only indirectly,\nI say, that the individual has this violent craving for existence. It\nis _the Will to Live_ which is the real and direct aspirant--alike and\nidentical in all things. Since, then, existence is the free work, nay,\nthe mere reflection of the will, where existence is, there, too,\nmust be will; and for the moment the will finds its satisfaction in\nexistence itself; so far, I mean, as that which never rests, but\npresses forward eternally, can ever find any satisfaction at all.\nThe will is careless of the individual: the individual is not its\nbusiness; although, as I have said, this seems to be the case, because\nthe individual has no direct consciousness of will except in himself.\nThe effect of this is to make the individual careful to maintain his\nown existence; and if this were not so, there would be no surety\nfor the preservation of the species. From all this it is clear that\nindividuality is not a form of perfection, but rather of limitation;\nand so to be freed from it is not loss but gain. Trouble yourself no\nmore about the matter. Once thoroughly recognize what you are, what\nyour existence really is, namely, the universal will to live, and the\nwhole question will seem to you childish, and most ridiculous!\n\n_Thrasymachos_. You're childish yourself and most ridiculous, like\nall philosophers! and if a man of my age lets himself in for a\nquarter-of-an-hour's talk with such fools, it is only because it\namuses me and passes the time. I've more important business to attend\nto, so Good-bye.\n\n\n\n\nFURTHER PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.\n\n\nThere is an unconscious propriety in the way in which, in all European\nlanguages, the word _person_ is commonly used to denote a human\nbeing. The real meaning of _persona_ is _a mask_, such as actors were\naccustomed to wear on the ancient stage; and it is quite true that no\none shows himself as he is, but wears his mask and plays his part.\nIndeed, the whole of our social arrangements may be likened to a\nperpetual comedy; and this is why a man who is worth anything finds\nsociety so insipid, while a blockhead is quite at home in it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nReason deserves to be called a prophet; for in showing us the\nconsequence and effect of our actions in the present, does it not tell\nus what the future will be? This is precisely why reason is such an\nexcellent power of restraint in moments when we are possessed by some\nbase passion, some fit of anger, some covetous desire, that will lead\nus to do things whereof we must presently repent.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Hatred_ comes from the heart; _contempt_ from the head; and neither\nfeeling is quite within our control. For we cannot alter our heart;\nits basis is determined by motives; and our head deals with objective\nfacts, and applies to them rules which are immutable. Any given\nindividual is the union of a particular heart with a particular head.\n\nHatred and contempt are diametrically opposed and mutually exclusive.\nThere are even not a few cases where hatred of a person is rooted in\nnothing but forced esteem for his qualities. And besides, if a man\nsets out to hate all the miserable creatures he meets, he will not\nhave much energy left for anything else; whereas he can despise them,\none and all, with the greatest ease. True, genuine contempt is just\nthe reverse of true, genuine pride; it keeps quite quiet and gives no\nsign of its existence. For if a man shows that he despises you, he\nsignifies at least this much regard for you, that he wants to let\nyou know how little he appreciates you; and his wish is dictated by\nhatred, which cannot exist with real contempt. On the contrary, if it\nis genuine, it is simply the conviction that the object of it is a man\nof no value at all. Contempt is not incompatible with indulgent and\nkindly treatment, and for the sake of one's own peace and safety, this\nshould not be omitted; it will prevent irritation; and there is no\none who cannot do harm if he is roused to it. But if this pure, cold,\nsincere contempt ever shows itself, it will be met with the most\ntruculent hatred; for the despised person is not in a position to\nfight contempt with its own weapons.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMelancholy is a very different thing from bad humor, and of the two,\nit is not nearly so far removed from a gay and happy temperament.\nMelancholy attracts, while bad humor repels.\n\nHypochondria is a species of torment which not only makes us\nunreasonably cross with the things of the present; not only fills us\nwith groundless anxiety on the score of future misfortunes entirely\nof our own manufacture; but also leads to unmerited self-reproach for\nwhat we have done in the past.\n\nHypochondria shows itself in a perpetual hunting after things that vex\nand annoy, and then brooding over them. The cause of it is an inward\nmorbid discontent, often co-existing with a naturally restless\ntemperament. In their extreme form, this discontent and this unrest\nlead to suicide.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAny incident, however trivial, that rouses disagreeable emotion,\nleaves an after-effect in our mind, which for the time it lasts,\nprevents our taking a clear objective view of the things about us, and\ntinges all our thoughts: just as a small object held close to the eye\nlimits and distorts our field of vision.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhat makes people _hard-hearted_ is this, that each man has, or\nfancies he has, as much as he can bear in his own troubles. Hence, if\na man suddenly finds himself in an unusually happy position, it will\nin most cases result in his being sympathetic and kind. But if he has\nnever been in any other than a happy position, or this becomes his\npermanent state, the effect of it is often just the contrary: it so\nfar removes him from suffering that he is incapable of feeling any\nmore sympathy with it. So it is that the poor often show themselves\nmore ready to help than the rich.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt times it seems as though we both wanted and did not want the same\nthing, and felt at once glad and sorry about it. For instance, if\non some fixed date we are going to be put to a decisive test about\nanything in which it would be a great advantage to us to come off\nvictorious, we shall be anxious for it to take place at once, and at\nthe same time we shall tremble at the thought of its approach. And if,\nin the meantime, we hear that, for once in a way, the date has been\npostponed, we shall experience a feeling both of pleasure and of\nannoyance; for the news is disappointing, but nevertheless it affords\nus momentary relief. It is just the same thing if we are expecting\nsome important letter carrying a definite decision, and it fails to\narrive.\n\nIn such cases there are really two different motives at work in us;\nthe stronger but more distant of the two being the desire to stand\nthe test and to have the decision given in our favor; and the weaker,\nwhich touches us more nearly, the wish to be left for the present in\npeace and quiet, and accordingly in further enjoyment of the advantage\nwhich at any rate attaches to a state of hopeful uncertainty, compared\nwith the possibility that the issue may be unfavorable.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn my head there is a permanent opposition-party; and whenever I take\nany step or come to any decision--though I may have given the matter\nmature consideration--it afterwards attacks what I have done, without,\nhowever, being each time necessarily in the right. This is, I suppose,\nonly a form of rectification on the part of the spirit of scrutiny;\nbut it often reproaches me when I do not deserve it. The same thing,\nno doubt, happens to many others as well; for where is the man who\ncan help thinking that, after all, it were better not to have done\nsomething that he did with great deliberation:\n\n  _Quid tam dextro pede concipis ut te\n  Conatus non poeniteat votique peracti_?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhy is it that _common_ is an expression of contempt? and that\n_uncommon, extraordinary, distinguished_, denote approbation? Why is\neverything that is common contemptible?\n\n_Common_ in its original meaning denotes that which is peculiar to all\nmen, _i.e_., shared equally by the whole species, and therefore an\ninherent part of its nature. Accordingly, if an individual possesses\nno qualities beyond those which attach to mankind in general, he is\na _common man. Ordinary_ is a much milder word, and refers rather\nto intellectual character; whereas _common_ has more of a moral\napplication.\n\nWhat value can a creature have that is not a whit different from\nmillions of its kind? Millions, do I say? nay, an infiniture of\ncreatures which, century after century, in never-ending flow, Nature\nsends bubbling up from her inexhaustible springs; as generous with\nthem as the smith with the useless sparks that fly around his anvil.\n\nIt is obviously quite right that a creature which has no qualities\nexcept those of the species, should have to confine its claim to an\nexistence entirely within the limits of the species, and live a life\nconditioned by those limits.\n\nIn various passages of my works,[1] I have argued that whilst a lower\nanimal possesses nothing more than the generic character of its\nspecies, man is the only being which can lay claim to possess an\nindividual character. But in most men this individual character comes\nto very little in reality; and they may be almost all ranged under\ncertain classes: _ce sont des esp\u00e8ces_. Their thoughts and desires,\nlike their faces, are those of the species, or, at any rate, those\nof the class to which they belong; and accordingly, they are of a\ntrivial, every-day, common character, and exist by the thousand. You\ncan usually tell beforehand what they are likely to do and say. They\nhave no special stamp or mark to distinguish them; they are like\nmanufactured goods, all of a piece.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Grundprobleme der Ethik_, p. 48; _Welt als Wille und\nVorstellung_, vol. i. p. 338.]\n\nIf, then, their nature is merged in that of the species, how shall\ntheir existence go beyond it? The curse of vulgarity puts men on a par\nwith the lower animals, by allowing them none but a generic nature, a\ngeneric form of existence. Anything that is high or great or noble,\nmust then, as a mater of course, and by its very nature, stand alone\nin a world where no better expression can be found to denote what is\nbase and contemptible than that which I have mentioned as in general\nuse, namely, _common_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWill, as the _thing-in-itself_, is the foundation of all being; it\nis part and parcel of every creature, and the permanent element in\neverything. Will, then, is that which we possess in common with all\nmen, nay, with all animals, and even with lower forms of existence;\nand in so far we are akin to everything--so far, that is, as\neverything is filled to overflowing with will. On the other hand, that\nwhich places one being over another, and sets differences between man\nand man, is intellect and knowledge; therefore in every manifestation\nof self we should, as far as possible, give play to the intellect\nalone; for, as we have seen, the will is the _common_ part of us.\nEvery violent exhibition of will is common and vulgar; in other words,\nit reduces us to the level of the species, and makes us a mere type\nand example of it; in that it is just the character of the\nspecies that we are showing. So every fit of anger is something\n_common_--every unrestrained display of joy, or of hate, or fear--in\nshort, every form of emotion; in other words, every movement of the\nwill, if it's so strong as decidedly to outweigh the intellectual\nelement in consciousness, and to make the man appear as a being that\n_wills_ rather than _knows_.\n\nIn giving way to emotion of this violent kind, the greatest genius\nputs himself on a level with the commonest son of earth. Contrarily,\nif a man desires to be absolutely uncommon, in other words, great, he\nshould never allow his consciousness to be taken possession of\nand dominated by the movement of his will, however much he may be\nsolicited thereto. For example, he must be able to observe that other\npeople are badly disposed towards him, without feeling any hatred\ntowards them himself; nay, there is no surer sign of a great mind than\nthat it refuses to notice annoying and insulting expressions, but\nstraightway ascribes them, as it ascribes countless other mistakes, to\nthe defective knowledge of the speaker, and so merely observes without\nfeeling them. This is the meaning of that remark of Gracian, that\nnothing is more unworthy of a man than to let it be seen that he is\none--_el mayor desdoro de un hombre es dar muestras de que es hombre_.\n\nAnd even in the drama, which is the peculiar province of the passions\nand emotions, it is easy for them to appear common and vulgar. And\nthis is specially observable in the works of the French tragic\nwriters, who set no other aim before themselves but the delineation\nof the passions; and by indulging at one moment in a vaporous kind\nof pathos which makes them ridiculous, at another in epigrammatic\nwitticisms, endeavor to conceal the vulgarity of their subject. I\nremember seeing the celebrated Mademoiselle Rachel as Maria Stuart:\nand when she burst out in fury against Elizabeth--though she did it\nvery well--I could not help thinking of a washerwoman. She played\nthe final parting in such a way as to deprive it of all true tragic\nfeeling, of which, indeed, the French have no notion at all. The same\npart was incomparably better played by the Italian Ristori; and, in\nfact, the Italian nature, though in many respects very different from\nthe German, shares its appreciation for what is deep, serious, and\ntrue in Art; herein opposed to the French, which everywhere betrays\nthat it possesses none of this feeling whatever.\n\nThe noble, in other words, the uncommon, element in the drama--nay,\nwhat is sublime in it--is not reached until the intellect is set to\nwork, as opposed to the will; until it takes a free flight over all\nthose passionate movements of the will, and makes them subject of its\ncontemplation. Shakespeare, in particular, shows that this is his\ngeneral method, more especially in Hamlet. And only when intellect\nrises to the point where the vanity of all effort is manifest, and the\nwill proceeds to an act of self-annulment, is the drama tragic in the\ntrue sense of the word; it is then that it reaches its highest aim in\nbecoming really sublime.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEvery man takes the limits of his own field of vision for the limits\nof the world. This is an error of the intellect as inevitable as that\nerror of the eye which lets us fancy that on the horizon heaven and\nearth meet. This explains many things, and among them the fact that\neveryone measures us with his own standard--generally about as long as\na tailor's tape, and we have to put up with it: as also that no one\nwill allow us to be taller than himself--a supposition which is once\nfor all taken for granted.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere is no doubt that many a man owes his good fortune in life solely\nto the circumstance that he has a pleasant way of smiling, and so wins\nthe heart in his favor.\n\nHowever, the heart would do better to be careful, and to remember what\nHamlet put down in his tablets--_that one may smile, and smile, and be\na villain_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEverything that is really fundamental in a man, and therefore genuine\nworks, as such, unconsciously; in this respect like the power of\nnature. That which has passed through the domain of consciousness is\nthereby transformed into an idea or picture; and so if it comes to be\nuttered, it is only an idea or picture which passes from one person to\nanother.\n\nAccordingly, any quality of mind or character that is genuine and\nlasting, is originally unconscious; and it is only when unconsciously\nbrought into play that it makes a profound impression. If any like\nquality is consciously exercised, it means that it has been worked up;\nit becomes intentional, and therefore matter of affectation, in other\nwords, of deception.\n\nIf a man does a thing unconsciously, it costs him no trouble; but if\nhe tries to do it by taking trouble, he fails. This applies to the\norigin of those fundamental ideas which form the pith and marrow of\nall genuine work. Only that which is innate is genuine and will hold\nwater; and every man who wants to achieve something, whether in\npractical life, in literature, or in art, must _follow the rules\nwithout knowing them_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMen of very great capacity, will as a rule, find the company of very\nstupid people preferable to that of the common run; for the same\nreason that the tyrant and the mob, the grandfather and the\ngrandchildren, are natural allies.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat line of Ovid's,\n\n  _Pronaque cum spectent animalia cetera terram_,\n\ncan be applied in its true physical sense to the lower animals alone;\nbut in a metaphorical and spiritual sense it is, alas! true of nearly\nall men as well. All their plans and projects are merged in the desire\nof physical enjoyment, physical well-being. They may, indeed, have\npersonal interests, often embracing a very varied sphere; but still\nthese latter receive their importance entirely from the relation in\nwhich they stand to the former. This is not only proved by their\nmanner of life and the things they say, but it even shows itself in\nthe way they look, the expression of their physiognomy, their gait and\ngesticulations. Everything about them cries out; _in terram prona_!\n\nIt is not to them, it is only to the nobler and more highly endowed\nnatures--men who really think and look about them in the world, and\nform exceptional specimens of humanity--that the next lines are\napplicable;\n\n  _Os homini sublime dedit coelumque tueri\n  Jussit et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNo one knows what capacities for doing and suffering he has in\nhimself, until something comes to rouse them to activity: just as in\na pond of still water, lying there like a mirror, there is no sign of\nthe roar and thunder with which it can leap from the precipice, and\nyet remain what it is; or again, rise high in the air as a fountain.\nWhen water is as cold as ice, you can have no idea of the latent\nwarmth contained in it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhy is it that, in spite of all the mirrors in the world, no one\nreally knows what he looks like?\n\nA man may call to mind the face of his friend, but not his own. Here,\nthen, is an initial difficulty in the way of applying the maxim, _Know\nthyself_.\n\nThis is partly, no doubt, to be explained by the fact that it is\nphysically impossible for a man to see himself in the glass except\nwith face turned straight towards it and perfectly motionless; where\nthe expression of the eye, which counts for so much, and really gives\nits whole character to the face, is to a great extent lost. But\nco-existing with this physical impossibility, there seems to me to be\nan ethical impossibility of an analogous nature, and producing the\nsame effect. A man cannot look upon his own reflection as though the\nperson presented there were _a stranger_ to him; and yet this is\nnecessary if he is to take _an objective view_. In the last resort,\nan objective view means a deep-rooted feeling on the part of the\nindividual, as a moral being, that that which he is contemplating is\n_not himself_[1]; and unless he can take this point of view, he will\nnot see things in a really true light, which is possible only if he is\nalive to their actual defects, exactly as they are. Instead of that,\nwhen a man sees himself in the glass, something out of his own\negotistic nature whispers to him to take care to remember that _it is\nno stranger, but himself, that he is looking at_; and this operates as\na _noli me tang ere_, and prevents him taking an objective view. It\nseems, indeed, as if, without the leaven of a grain of malice, such a\nview were impossible.\n\n[Footnote 1: Cf. _Grundprobleme der Ethik_, p. 275.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAccording as a man's mental energy is exerted or relaxed, will life\nappear to him either so short, and petty, and fleeting, that nothing\ncan possibly happen over which it is worth his while to spend emotion;\nthat nothing really matters, whether it is pleasure or riches, or even\nfame, and that in whatever way a man may have failed, he cannot\nhave lost much--or, on the other hand, life will seem so long, so\nimportant, so all in all, so momentous and so full of difficulty that\nwe have to plunge into it with our whole soul if we are to obtain a\nshare of its goods, make sure of its prizes, and carry out our plans.\nThis latter is the immanent and common view of life; it is what\nGracian means when he speaks of the serious way of looking\nat things--_tomar muy de veras el vivir_. The former is the\ntranscendental view, which is well expressed in Ovid's _non est\ntanti_--it is not worth so much trouble; still better, however, by\nPlato's remark that nothing in human affairs is worth any great\nanxiety--[Greek: oute ti ton anthropinon axion esti megalaes\nspoudaes.] This condition of mind is due to the intellect having got\nthe upper hand in the domain of consciousness, where, freed from\nthe mere service of the will, it looks upon the phenomena of life\nobjectively, and so cannot fail to gain a clear insight into its\nvain and futile character. But in the other condition of mind, will\npredominates; and the intellect exists only to light it on its way to\nthe attainment of its desires.\n\nA man is great or small according as he leans to the one or the other\nof these views of life.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPeople of very brilliant ability think little of admitting their\nerrors and weaknesses, or of letting others see them. They look upon\nthem as something for which they have duly paid; and instead of\nfancying that these weaknesses are a disgrace to them, they consider\nthey are doing them an honor. This is especially the case when\nthe errors are of the kind that hang together with their\nqualities--_conditiones sine quibus non_--or, as George Sand said,\n_les d\u00e9fauts de ses vertus_.\n\nContrarily, there are people of good character and irreproachable\nintellectual capacity, who, far from admitting the few little\nweaknesses they have, conceal them with care, and show themselves very\nsensitive to any suggestion of their existence; and this, just because\ntheir whole merit consists in being free from error and infirmity. If\nthese people are found to have done anything wrong, their reputation\nimmediately suffers.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWith people of only moderate ability, modesty is mere honesty; but\nwith those who possess great talent, it is hypocrisy. Hence, it is\njust as becoming in the latter to make no secret of the respect they\nbear themselves and no disguise of the fact that they are conscious of\nunusual power, as it is in the former to be modest. Valerius\nMaximus gives some very neat examples of this in his chapter on\nself-confidence, _de fiducia sui_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNot to go to the theatre is like making one's toilet without a mirror.\nBut it is still worse to take a decision without consulting a friend.\nFor a man may have the most excellent judgment in all other matters,\nand yet go wrong in those which concern himself; because here the will\ncomes in and deranges the intellect at once. Therefore let a man take\ncounsel of a friend. A doctor can cure everyone but himself; if he\nfalls ill, he sends for a colleague.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn all that we do, we wish, more or less, to come to the end; we are\nimpatient to finish and glad to be done. But the last scene of all,\nthe general end, is something that, as a rule, we wish as far off as\nmay be.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEvery parting gives a foretaste of death; every coming together again\na foretaste of the resurrection. This is why even people who were\nindifferent to each other, rejoice so much if they come together again\nafter twenty or thirty years' separation.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIntellects differ from one another in a very real and fundamental way:\nbut no comparison can well be made by merely general observations. It\nis necessary to come close, and to go into details; for the difference\nthat exists cannot be seen from afar; and it is not easy to judge by\noutward appearances, as in the several cases of education, leisure and\noccupation. But even judging by these alone, it must be admitted that\nmany a man has _a degree of existence_ at least ten times as high as\nanother--in other words, exists ten times as much.\n\nI am not speaking here of savages whose life is often only one degree\nabove that of the apes in their woods. Consider, for instance, a\nporter in Naples or Venice (in the north of Europe solicitude for the\nwinter months makes people more thoughtful and therefore reflective);\nlook at the life he leads, from its beginning to its end:--driven by\npoverty; living on his physical strength; meeting the needs of every\nday, nay, of every hour, by hard work, great effort, constant tumult,\nwant in all its forms, no care for the morrow; his only comfort\nrest after exhaustion; continuous quarreling; not a moment free for\nreflection; such sensual delights as a mild climate and only just\nsufficient food will permit of; and then, finally, as the metaphysical\nelement, the crass superstition of his church; the whole forming a\nmanner of life with only a low degree of consciousness, where a man\nhustles, or rather is hustled, through his existence. This restless\nand confused dream forms the life of how many millions!\n\nSuch men _think_ only just so much as is necessary to carry out their\nwill for the moment. They never reflect upon their life as a connected\nwhole, let alone, then, upon existence in general; to a certain extent\nthey may be said to exist without really knowing it. The existence of\nthe mobsman or the slave who lives on in this unthinking way, stands\nvery much nearer than ours to that of the brute, which is confined\nentirely to the present moment; but, for that very reason, it has also\nless of pain in it than ours. Nay, since all pleasure is in its nature\nnegative, that is to say, consists in freedom from some form of misery\nor need, the constant and rapid interchange between setting about\nsomething and getting it done, which is the permanent accompaniment of\nthe work they do, and then again the augmented form which this\ntakes when they go from work to rest and the satisfaction of their\nneeds--all this gives them a constant source of enjoyment; and the\nfact that it is much commoner to see happy faces amongst the poor than\namongst the rich, is a sure proof that it is used to good advantage.\n\nPassing from this kind of man, consider, next, the sober, sensible\nmerchant, who leads a life of speculation, thinks long over his plans\nand carries them out with great care, founds a house, and provides for\nhis wife, his children and descendants; takes his share, too, in the\nlife of a community. It is obvious that a man like this has a much\nhigher degree of consciousness than the former, and so his existence\nhas a higher degree of reality.\n\nThen look at the man of learning, who investigates, it may be, the\nhistory of the past. He will have reached the point at which a man\nbecomes conscious of existence as a whole, sees beyond the period of\nhis own life, beyond his own personal interests, thinking over the\nwhole course of the world's history.\n\nThen, finally, look at the poet or the philosopher, in whom reflection\nhas reached such a height, that, instead of being drawn on to\ninvestigate any one particular phenomenon of existence, he stands in\namazement _before existence itself_, this great sphinx, and makes it\nhis problem. In him consciousness has reached the degree of clearness\nat which it embraces the world itself: his intellect has completely\nabandoned its function as the servant of his will, and now holds the\nworld before him; and the world calls upon him much more to examine\nand consider it, than to play a part in it himself. If, then, the\ndegree of consciousness is the degree of reality, such a man will be\nsaid to exist most of all, and there will be sense and significance in\nso describing him.\n\nBetween the two extremes here sketched, and the intervening stages,\neveryone will be able to find the place at which he himself stands.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe know that man is in general superior to all other animals, and this\nis also the case in his capacity for being trained. Mohammedans are\ntrained to pray with their faces turned towards Mecca, five times a\nday; and they never fail to do it. Christians are trained to cross\nthemselves on certain occasions, to bow, and so on. Indeed, it may\nbe said that religion is the _chef d'oeuvre_ of the art of training,\nbecause it trains people in the way they shall think: and, as is well\nknown, you cannot begin the process too early. There is no absurdity\nso palpable but that it may be firmly planted in the human head if\nyou only begin to inculcate it before the age of five, by constantly\nrepeating it with an air of great solemnity. For as in the case of\nanimals, so in that of men, training is successful only when you begin\nin early youth.\n\nNoblemen and gentlemen are trained to hold nothing sacred but their\nword of honor--to maintain a zealous, rigid, and unshaken belief in\nthe ridiculous code of chivalry; and if they are called upon to do so,\nto seal their belief by dying for it, and seriously to regard a king\nas a being of a higher order.\n\nAgain, our expressions of politeness, the compliments we make, in\nparticular, the respectful attentions we pay to ladies, are a matter\nof training; as also our esteem for good birth, rank, titles, and so\non. Of the same character is the resentment we feel at any insult\ndirected against us; and the measure of this resentment may be exactly\ndetermined by the nature of the insult. An Englishman, for instance,\nthinks it a deadly insult to be told that he is no gentleman, or,\nstill worse, that he is a liar; a Frenchman has the same feeling if\nyou call him a coward, and a German if you say he is stupid.\n\nThere are many persons who are trained to be strictly honorable in\nregard to one particular matter, while they have little honor to boast\nof in anything else. Many a man, for instance, will not steal your\nmoney; but he will lay hands on everything of yours that he can enjoy\nwithout having to pay for it. A man of business will often deceive you\nwithout the slightest scruple, but he will absolutely refuse to commit\na theft.\n\nImagination is strong in a man when that particular function of the\nbrain which enables him to observe is roused to activity without\nany necessary excitement of the senses. Accordingly, we find that\nimagination is active just in proportion as our senses are not excited\nby external objects. A long period of solitude, whether in prison or\nin a sick room; quiet, twilight, darkness--these are the things that\npromote its activity; and under their influence it comes into play of\nitself. On the other hand, when a great deal of material is presented\nto our faculties of observation, as happens on a journey, or in\nthe hurly-burly of the world, or, again, in broad daylight, the\nimagination is idle, and, even though call may be made upon it,\nrefuses to become active, as though it understood that that was not\nits proper time.\n\nHowever, if the imagination is to yield any real product, it must have\nreceived a great deal of material from the external world. This is\nthe only way in which its storehouse can be filled. The phantasy is\nnourished much in the same way as the body, which is least capable\nof any work and enjoys doing nothing just in the very moment when it\nreceives its food which it has to digest. And yet it is to this very\nfood that it owes the power which it afterwards puts forth at the\nright time.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOpinion is like a pendulum and obeys the same law. If it goes past\nthe centre of gravity on one side, it must go a like distance on the\nother; and it is only after a certain time that it finds the true\npoint at which it can remain at rest.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBy a process of contradiction, distance in space makes things look\nsmall, and therefore free from defect. This is why a landscape looks\nso much better in a contracting mirror or in a _camera obscura_, than\nit is in reality. The same effect is produced by distance in time. The\nscenes and events of long ago, and the persons who took part in them,\nwear a charming aspect to the eye of memory, which sees only the\noutlines and takes no note of disagreeable details. The present enjoys\nno such advantage, and so it always seems defective.\n\nAnd again, as regards space, small objects close to us look big, and\nif they are very close, we may be able to see nothing else, but when\nwe go a little way off, they become minute and invisible. It is the\nsame again as regards time. The little incidents and accidents of\nevery day fill us with emotion, anxiety, annoyance, passion, as long\nas they are close to us, when they appear so big, so important, so\nserious; but as soon as they are borne down the restless stream of\ntime, they lose what significance they had; we think no more of them\nand soon forget them altogether. They were big only because they were\nnear.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Joy_ and _sorrow_ are not ideas of the mind, but affections of the\nwill, and so they do not lie in the domain of memory. We cannot recall\nour joys and sorrows; by which I mean that we cannot renew them. We\ncan recall only the _ideas_ that accompanied them; and, in particular,\nthe things we were led to say; and these form a gauge of our feelings\nat the time. Hence our memory of joys and sorrows is always imperfect,\nand they become a matter of indifference to us as soon as they are\nover. This explains the vanity of the attempt, which we sometimes\nmake, to revive the pleasures and the pains of the past. Pleasure and\npain are essentially an affair of the will; and the will, as such, is\nnot possessed of memory, which is a function of the intellect; and\nthis in its turn gives out and takes in nothing but thoughts and\nideas, which are not here in question.\n\nIt is a curious fact that in bad days we can very vividly recall the\ngood time that is now no more; but that in good days, we have only a\nvery cold and imperfect memory of the bad.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe have a much better memory of actual objects or pictures than\nfor mere ideas. Hence a good imagination makes it easier to learn\nlanguages; for by its aid, the new word is at once united with the\nactual object to which it refers; whereas, if there is no imagination,\nit is simply put on a parallel with the equivalent word in the mother\ntongue.\n\nMnemonics should not only mean the art of keeping something indirectly\nin the memory by the use of some direct pun or witticism; it should,\nrather, be applied to a systematic theory of memory, and explain its\nseveral attributes by reference both to its real nature, and to the\nrelation in which these attributes stand to one another.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere are moments in life when our senses obtain a higher and rarer\ndegree of clearness, apart from any particular occasion for it in the\nnature of our surroundings; and explicable, rather, on physiological\ngrounds alone, as the result of some enhanced state of susceptibility,\nworking from within outwards. Such moments remain indelibly impressed\nupon the memory, and preserve themselves in their individuality\nentire. We can assign no reason for it, nor explain why this among so\nmany thousand moments like it should be specially remembered. It seems\nas much a matter of chance as when single specimens of a whole race of\nanimals now extinct are discovered in the layers of a rock; or when,\non opening a book, we light upon an insect accidentally crushed within\nthe leaves. Memories of this kind are always sweet and pleasant.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt occasionally happens that, for no particular reason, long-forgotten\nscenes suddenly start up in the memory. This may in many cases be due\nto the action of some hardly perceptible odor, which accompanied those\nscenes and now recurs exactly same as before. For it is well known\nthat the sense of smell is specially effective in awakening memories,\nand that in general it does not require much to rouse a train of\nideas. And I may say, in passing, that the sense of sight is connected\nwith the understanding,[1] the sense of hearing with the reason,[2]\nand, as we see in the present case, the sense of smell with the\nmemory. Touch and Taste are more material and dependent upon contact.\nThey have no ideal side.\n\n[Footnote 1:_Wierfache Wurzel_ \u00a7 21.]\n\n[Footnote 2: _Parerga_ vol. ii, \u00a7 311.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt must also be reckoned among the peculiar attributes of memory\nthat a slight state of intoxication often so greatly enhances the\nrecollection of past times and scenes, that all the circumstances\nconnected with them come back much more clearly than would be possible\nin a state of sobriety; but that, on the other hand, the recollection\nof what one said or did while the intoxication lasted, is more than\nusually imperfect; nay, that if one has been absolutely tipsy, it is\ngone altogether. We may say, then, that whilst intoxication enhances\nthe memory for what is past, it allows it to remember little of the\npresent.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMen need some kind of external activity, because they are inactive\nwithin. Contrarily, if they are active within, they do not care to be\ndragged out of themselves; it disturbs and impedes their thoughts in a\nway that is often most ruinous to them.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI am not surprised that some people are bored when they find\nthemselves alone; for they cannot laugh if they are quite by\nthemselves. The very idea of it seems folly to them.\n\nAre we, then, to look upon laughter as merely O signal for others--a\nmere sign, like a word? What makes it impossible for people to laugh\nwhen they are alone is nothing but want of imagination, dullness of\nmind generally--[Greek: anaisthaesia kai bradutaes psuchaes], as\nTheophrastus has it.[1] The lower animals never laugh, either alone\nor in company. Myson, the misanthropist, was once surprised by one of\nthese people as he was laughing to himself. _Why do you laugh_? he\nasked; _there is no one with you. That is just why I am laughing_,\nsaid Myson.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Characters_, c. 27.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNatural _gesticulation_, such as commonly accompanies any lively talk,\nis a language of its own, more widespread, even, than the language of\nwords--so far, I mean, as it is independent of words and alike in all\nnations. It is true that nations make use of it in proportion as they\nare vivacious, and that in particular cases, amongst the Italians, for\ninstance, it is supplemented by certain peculiar gestures which are\nmerely conventional, and therefore possessed of nothing more than a\nlocal value.\n\nIn the universal use made of it, gesticulation has some analogy with\nlogic and grammar, in that it has to do with the form, rather\nthan with the matter of conversation; but on the other hand it is\ndistinguishable from them by the fact that it has more of a moral than\nof an intellectual bearing; in other words, it reflects the movements\nof the will. As an accompaniment of conversation it is like the bass\nof a melody; and if, as in music, it keeps true to the progress of the\ntreble, it serves to heighten the effect.\n\nIn a conversation, the gesture depends upon the form in which the\nsubject-matter is conveyed; and it is interesting to observe that,\nwhatever that subject-matter may be, with a recurrence of the form,\nthe very same gesture is repeated. So if I happen to see--from my\nwindow, say--two persons carrying on a lively conversation, without\nmy being able to catch a word, I can, nevertheless, understand the\ngeneral nature of it perfectly well; I mean, the kind of thing that is\nbeing said and the form it takes. There is no mistake about it. The\nspeaker is arguing about something, advancing his reasons, then\nlimiting their application, then driving them home and drawing the\nconclusion in triumph; or he is recounting his experiences, proving,\nperhaps, beyond the shadow of a doubt, how much he has been injured,\nbut bringing the clearest and most damning evidence to show that\nhis opponents were foolish and obstinate people who would not be\nconvinced; or else he is telling of the splendid plan he laid, and how\nhe carried it to a successful issue, or perhaps failed because\nthe luck was against him; or, it may be, he is saying that he was\ncompletely at a loss to know what to do, or that he was quick in\nseeing some traps set for him, and that by insisting on his rights or\nby applying a little force, he succeeded in frustrating and punishing\nhis enemies; and so on in hundreds of cases of a similar kind.\n\nStrictly speaking, however, what I get from gesticulation alone is\nan abstract notion of the essential drift of what is being said, and\nthat, too, whether I judge from a moral or an intellectual point of\nview. It is the quintessence, the true substance of the conversation,\nand this remains identical, no matter what may have given rise to the\nconversation, or what it may be about; the relation between the two\nbeing that of a general idea or class-name to the individuals which it\ncovers.\n\nAs I have said, the most interesting and amusing part of the matter is\nthe complete identity and solidarity of the gestures used to denote\nthe same set of circumstances, even though by people of very different\ntemperament; so that the gestures become exactly like words of\na language, alike for every one, and subject only to such small\nmodifications as depend upon variety of accent and education. And yet\nthere can be no doubt but that these standing gestures, which every\none uses, are the result of no convention or collusion. They are\noriginal and innate--a true language of nature; consolidated, it may\nbe, by imitation and the influence of custom.\n\nIt is well known that it is part of an actor's duty to make a careful\nstudy of gesture; and the same thing is true, to a somewhat smaller\ndegree, of a public speaker. This study must consist chiefly in\nwatching others and imitating their movements, for there are no\nabstract rules fairly applicable to the matter, with the exception\nof some very general leading principles, such as--to take an\nexample--that the gesture must not follow the word, but rather\ncome immediately before it, by way of announcing its approach and\nattracting the hearer's attention.\n\nEnglishmen entertain a peculiar contempt for gesticulation, and look\nupon it as something vulgar and undignified. This seems to me a silly\nprejudice on their part, and the outcome of their general prudery. For\nhere we have a language which nature has given to every one, and which\nevery one understands; and to do away with and forbid it for no better\nreason than that it is opposed to that much-lauded thing, gentlemanly\nfeeling, is a very questionable proceeding.\n\n\n\n\nON EDUCATION.\n\n\nThe human intellect is said to be so constituted that _general ideas_\narise by abstraction from _particular observations_, and therefore\ncome after them in point of time. If this is what actually occurs, as\nhappens in the case of a man who has to depend solely upon his own\nexperience for what he learns--who has no teacher and no book,--such\na man knows quite well which of his particular observations belong to\nand are represented by each of his general ideas. He has a perfect\nacquaintance with both sides of his experience, and accordingly, he\ntreats everything that comes in his way from a right standpoint. This\nmight be called the _natural_ method of education.\n\nContrarily, the _artificial_ method is to hear what other people say,\nto learn and to read, and so to get your head crammed full of general\nideas before you have any sort of extended acquaintance with the world\nas it is, and as you may see it for yourself. You will be told that\nthe particular observations which go to make these general ideas will\ncome to you later on in the course of experience; but until that time\narrives, you apply your general ideas wrongly, you judge men and\nthings from a wrong standpoint, you see them in a wrong light, and\ntreat them in a wrong way. So it is that education perverts the mind.\n\nThis explains why it so frequently happens that, after a long course\nof learning and reading, we enter upon the world in our youth, partly\nwith an artless ignorance of things, partly with wrong notions about\nthem; so that our demeanor savors at one moment of a nervous anxiety,\nat another of a mistaken confidence. The reason of this is simply that\nour head is full of general ideas which we are now trying to turn to\nsome use, but which we hardly ever apply rightly. This is the result\nof acting in direct opposition to the natural development of the mind\nby obtaining general ideas first, and particular observations last:\nit is putting the cart before the horse. Instead of developing the\nchild's own faculties of discernment, and teaching it to judge and\nthink for itself, the teacher uses all his energies to stuff its head\nfull of the ready-made thoughts of other people. The mistaken views\nof life, which spring from a false application of general ideas, have\nafterwards to be corrected by long years of experience; and it is\nseldom that they are wholly corrected. This is why so few men of\nlearning are possessed of common-sense, such as is often to be met\nwith in people who have had no instruction at all.\n\n_To acquire a knowledge of the world_ might be defined as the aim\nof all education; and it follows from what I have said that special\nstress should be laid upon beginning to acquire this knowledge _at\nthe right end_. As I have shown, this means, in the main, that the\nparticular observation of a thing shall precede the general idea of\nit; further, that narrow and circumscribed ideas shall come before\nideas of a wide range. It means, therefore, that the whole system of\neducation shall follow in the steps that must have been taken by the\nideas themselves in the course of their formation. But whenever any of\nthese steps are skipped or left out, the instruction is defective, and\nthe ideas obtained are false; and finally, a distorted view of the\nworld arises, peculiar to the individual himself--a view such as\nalmost everyone entertains for some time, and most men for as long as\nthey live. No one can look into his own mind without seeing that it\nwas only after reaching a very mature age, and in some cases when he\nleast expected it, that he came to a right understanding or a clear\nview of many matters in his life, that, after all, were not very\ndifficult or complicated. Up till then, they were points in his\nknowledge of the world which were still obscure, due to his having\nskipped some particular lesson in those early days of his education,\nwhatever it may have been like--whether artificial and conventional,\nor of that natural kind which is based upon individual experience.\n\nIt follows that an attempt should be made to find out the strictly\nnatural course of knowledge, so that education may proceed\nmethodically by keeping to it; and that children may become acquainted\nwith the ways of the world, without getting wrong ideas into their\nheads, which very often cannot be got out again. If this plan were\nadopted, special care would have to be taken to prevent children\nfrom using words without clearly understanding their meaning and\napplication. The fatal tendency to be satisfied with words instead of\ntrying to understand things--to learn phrases by heart, so that\nthey may prove a refuge in time of need, exists, as a rule, even in\nchildren; and the tendency lasts on into manhood, making the knowledge\nof many learned persons to consist in mere verbiage.\n\nHowever, the main endeavor must always be to let particular\nobservations precede general ideas, and not _vice versa_, as is\nusually and unfortunately the case; as though a child should come\nfeet foremost into the world, or a verse be begun by writing down the\nrhyme! The ordinary method is to imprint ideas and opinions, in the\nstrict sense of the word, _prejudices_, on the mind of the child,\nbefore it has had any but a very few particular observations. It is\nthus that he afterwards comes to view the world and gather experience\nthrough the medium of those ready-made ideas, rather than to let his\nideas be formed for him out of his own experience of life, as they\nought to be.\n\nA man sees a great many things when he looks at the world for himself,\nand he sees them from many sides; but this method of learning is not\nnearly so short or so quick as the method which employs abstract\nideas and makes hasty generalizations about everything. Experience,\ntherefore, will be a long time in correcting preconceived ideas, or\nperhaps never bring its task to an end; for wherever a man finds that\nthe aspect of things seems to contradict the general ideas he has\nformed, he will begin by rejecting the evidence it offers as partial\nand one-sided; nay, he will shut his eyes to it altogether and deny\nthat it stands in any contradiction at all with his preconceived\nnotions, in order that he may thus preserve them uninjured. So it is\nthat many a man carries about a burden of wrong notions all his life\nlong--crotchets, whims, fancies, prejudices, which at last become\nfixed ideas. The fact is that he has never tried to form his\nfundamental ideas for himself out of his own experience of life, his\nown way of looking at the world, because he has taken over his ideas\nready-made from other people; and this it is that makes him--as it\nmakes how many others!--so shallow and superficial.\n\nInstead of that method of instruction, care should be taken to educate\nchildren on the natural lines. No idea should ever be established in a\nchild's mind otherwise than by what the child can see for itself, or\nat any rate it should be verified by the same means; and the result of\nthis would be that the child's ideas, if few, would be well-grounded\nand accurate. It would learn how to measure things by its own standard\nrather than by another's; and so it would escape a thousand strange\nfancies and prejudices, and not need to have them eradicated by the\nlessons it will subsequently be taught in the school of life. The\nchild would, in this way, have its mind once for all habituated\nto clear views and thorough-going knowledge; it would use its own\njudgment and take an unbiased estimate of things.\n\nAnd, in general, children should not form their notions of what life\nis like from the copy before they have learned it from the original,\nto whatever aspect of it their attention may be directed. Instead,\ntherefore, of hastening to place _books_, and books alone, in their\nhands, let them be made acquainted, step by step, with _things_--with\nthe actual circumstances of human life. And above all let care be\ntaken to bring them to a clear and objective view of the world as it\nis, to educate them always to derive their ideas directly from real\nlife, and to shape them in conformity with it--not to fetch them from\nother sources, such as books, fairy tales, or what people say--then\nto apply them ready-made to real life. For this will mean that their\nheads are full of wrong notions, and that they will either see things\nin a false light or try in vain to _remodel the world_ to suit their\nviews, and so enter upon false paths; and that, too, whether they are\nonly constructing theories of life or engaged in the actual business\nof it. It is incredible how much harm is done when the seeds of wrong\nnotions are laid in the mind in those early years, later on to bear a\ncrop of prejudice; for the subsequent lessons, which are learned from\nreal life in the world have to be devoted mainly to their extirpation.\n_To unlearn the evil_ was the answer, according to Diogenes\nLaertius,[1] Antisthenes gave, when he was asked what branch of\nknowledge was most necessary; and we can see what he meant.\n\n[Footnote 1: vi. 7.]\n\nNo child under the age of fifteen should receive instruction in\nsubjects which may possibly be the vehicle of serious error, such as\nphilosophy, religion, or any other branch of knowledge where it is\nnecessary to take large views; because wrong notions imbibed early can\nseldom be rooted out, and of all the intellectual faculties, judgment\nis the last to arrive at maturity. The child should give its attention\neither to subjects where no error is possible at all, such as\nmathematics, or to those in which there is no particular danger in\nmaking a mistake, such as languages, natural science, history and so\non. And in general, the branches of knowledge which are to be studied\nat any period of life should be such as the mind is equal to at that\nperiod and can perfectly understand. Childhood and youth form the time\nfor collecting materials, for getting a special and thorough knowledge\nof the individual and particular things. In those years it is too\nearly to form views on a large scale; and ultimate explanations must\nbe put off to a later date. The faculty of judgment, which cannot come\ninto play without mature experience, should be left to itself; and\ncare should be taken not to anticipate its action by inculcating\nprejudice, which will paralyze it for ever.\n\nOn the other hand, the memory should be specially taxed in youth,\nsince it is then that it is strongest and most tenacious. But in\nchoosing the things that should be committed to memory the utmost care\nand forethought must be exercised; as lessons well learnt in youth are\nnever forgotten. This precious soil must therefore be cultivated so as\nto bear as much fruit as possible. If you think how deeply rooted in\nyour memory are those persons whom you knew in the first twelve years\nof your life, how indelible the impression made upon you by the events\nof those years, how clear your recollection of most of the things that\nhappened to you then, most of what was told or taught you, it will\nseem a natural thing to take the susceptibility and tenacity of the\nmind at that period as the ground-work of education. This may be done\nby a strict observance of method, and a systematic regulation of the\nimpressions which the mind is to receive.\n\nBut the years of youth allotted to a man are short, and memory is, in\ngeneral, bound within narrow limits; still more so, the memory of any\none individual. Since this is the case, it is all-important to fill\nthe memory with what is essential and material in any branch of\nknowledge, to the exclusion of everything else. The decision as to\nwhat is essential and material should rest with the masterminds in\nevery department of thought; their choice should be made after the\nmost mature deliberation, and the outcome of it fixed and determined.\nSuch a choice would have to proceed by sifting the things which it\nis necessary and important for a man to know in general, and then,\nnecessary and important for him to know in any particular business\nor calling. Knowledge of the first kind would have to be classified,\nafter an encyclopaedic fashion, in graduated courses, adapted to the\ndegree of general culture which a man may be expected to have in the\ncircumstances in which he is placed; beginning with a course limited\nto the necessary requirements of primary education, and extending\nupwards to the subjects treated of in all the branches of\nphilosophical thought. The regulation of the second kind of knowledge\nwould be left to those who had shown genuine mastery in the several\ndepartments into which it is divided; and the whole system would\nprovide an elaborate rule or canon for intellectual education, which\nwould, of course, have to be revised every ten years. Some such\narrangement as this would employ the youthful power of the memory to\nbest advantage, and supply excellent working material to the faculty\nof judgment, when it made its appearance later on.\n\nA man's knowledge may be said to be mature, in other words, it has\nreached the most complete state of perfection to which he, as an\nindividual, is capable of bringing it, when an exact correspondence is\nestablished between the whole of his abstract ideas and the things he\nhas actually perceived for himself. This will mean that each of\nhis abstract ideas rests, directly or indirectly, upon a basis of\nobservation, which alone endows it with any real value; and also\nthat he is able to place every observation he makes under the right\nabstract idea which belongs to it. Maturity is the work of experience\nalone; and therefore it requires time. The knowledge we derive from\nour own observation is usually distinct from that which we acquire\nthrough the medium of abstract ideas; the one coming to us in the\nnatural way, the other by what people tell us, and the course of\ninstruction we receive, whether it is good or bad. The result is, that\nin youth there is generally very little agreement or correspondence\nbetween our abstract ideas, which are merely phrases in the mind, and\nthat real knowledge which we have obtained by our own observation. It\nis only later on that a gradual approach takes place between these two\nkinds of knowledge, accompanied by a mutual correction of error; and\nknowledge is not mature until this coalition is accomplished. This\nmaturity or perfection of knowledge is something quite independent of\nanother kind of perfection, which may be of a high or a low order--the\nperfection, I mean, to which a man may bring his own individual\nfaculties; which is measured, not by any correspondence between the\ntwo kinds of knowledge, but by the degree of intensity which each kind\nattains.\n\nFor the practical man the most needful thing is to acquire an accurate\nand profound knowledge of _the ways of the world_. But this, though\nthe most needful, is also the most wearisome of all studies, as a man\nmay reach a great age without coming to the end of his task; whereas,\nin the domain of the sciences, he masters the more important facts\nwhen he is still young. In acquiring that knowledge of the world, it\nis while he is a novice, namely, in boyhood and in youth, that the\nfirst and hardest lessons are put before him; but it often happens\nthat even in later years there is still a great deal to be learned.\n\nThe study is difficult enough in itself; but the difficulty is doubled\nby _novels_, which represent a state of things in life and the world,\nsuch as, in fact, does not exist. Youth is credulous, and accepts\nthese views of life, which then become part and parcel of the mind; so\nthat, instead of a merely negative condition of ignorance, you have\npositive error--a whole tissue of false notions to start with; and at\na later date these actually spoil the schooling of experience, and put\na wrong construction on the lessons it teaches. If, before this,\nthe youth had no light at all to guide him, he is now misled by a\nwill-o'-the-wisp; still more often is this the case with a girl.\nThey have both had a false view of things foisted on them by reading\nnovels; and expectations have been aroused which can never be\nfulfilled. This generally exercises a baneful influence on their whole\nlife. In this respect those whose youth has allowed them no time or\nopportunity for reading novels--those who work with their hands and\nthe like--are in a position of decided advantage. There are a few\nnovels to which this reproach cannot be addressed--nay, which have an\neffect the contrary of bad. First and foremost, to give an example,\n_Gil Blas_, and the other works of Le Sage (or rather their Spanish\noriginals); further, _The Vicar of Wakefield_, and, to some extent Sir\nWalter Scott's novels. _Don Quixote_ may be regarded as a satirical\nexhibition of the error to which I am referring.\n\n\n\n\nOF WOMEN.\n\n\nSchiller's poem in honor of women, _W\u00fcrde der Frauen_, is the\nresult of much careful thought, and it appeals to the reader by its\nantithetic style and its use of contrast; but as an expression of the\ntrue praise which should be accorded to them, it is, I think, inferior\nto these few words of Jouy's: _Without women, the beginning of our\nlife would be helpless; the middle, devoid of pleasure; and the end,\nof consolation_. The same thing is more feelingly expressed by Byron\nin _Sardanapalus_:\n\n                                                 _The very first\n  Of human life must spring from woman's breast,\n  Your first small words are taught you from her lips,\n  Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs\n  Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing,\n  When men have shrunk from the ignoble care\n  Of watching the last hour of him who led them_.\n\n  (Act I Scene 2.)\n\nThese two passages indicate the right standpoint for the appreciation\nof women.\n\nYou need only look at the way in which she is formed, to see that\nwoman is not meant to undergo great labor, whether of the mind or of\nthe body. She pays the debt of life not by what she does, but by what\nshe suffers; by the pains of child-bearing and care for the child,\nand by submission to her husband, to whom she should be a patient and\ncheering companion. The keenest sorrows and joys are not for her, nor\nis she called upon to display a great deal of strength. The current\nof her life should be more gentle, peaceful and trivial than man's,\nwithout being essentially happier or unhappier.\n\nWomen are directly fitted for acting as the nurses and teachers of\nour early childhood by the fact that they are themselves childish,\nfrivolous and short-sighted; in a word, they are big children all\ntheir life long--a kind of intermediate stage between the child and\nthe full-grown man, who is man in the strict sense of the word. See\nhow a girl will fondle a child for days together, dance with it and\nsing to it; and then think what a man, with the best will in the\nworld, could do if he were put in her place.\n\nWith young girls Nature seems to have had in view what, in the\nlanguage of the drama, is called _a striking effect_; as for a few\nyears she dowers them with a wealth of beauty and is lavish in her\ngift of charm, at the expense of all the rest of their life; so that\nduring those years they may capture the fantasy of some man to such a\ndegree that he is hurried away into undertaking the honorable care of\nthem, in some form or other, as long as they live--a step for which\nthere would not appear to be any sufficient warranty if reason only\ndirected his thoughts. Accordingly, Nature has equipped woman, as she\ndoes all her creatures, with the weapons and implements requisite\nfor the safeguarding of her existence, and for just as long as it is\nnecessary for her to have them. Here, as elsewhere, Nature proceeds\nwith her usual economy; for just as the female ant, after fecundation,\nloses her wings, which are then superfluous, nay, actually a danger\nto the business of breeding; so, after giving birth to one or two\nchildren, a woman generally loses her beauty; probably, indeed, for\nsimilar reasons.\n\nAnd so we find that young girls, in their hearts, look upon domestic\naffairs or work of any kind as of secondary importance, if not\nactually as a mere jest. The only business that really claims their\nearnest attention is love, making conquests, and everything connected\nwith this--dress, dancing, and so on.\n\nThe nobler and more perfect a thing is, the later and slower it is\nin arriving at maturity. A man reaches the maturity of his reasoning\npowers and mental faculties hardly before the age of twenty-eight; a\nwoman at eighteen. And then, too, in the case of woman, it is only\nreason of a sort--very niggard in its dimensions. That is why women\nremain children their whole life long; never seeing anything but\nwhat is quite close to them, cleaving to the present moment, taking\nappearance for reality, and preferring trifles to matters of the first\nimportance. For it is by virtue of his reasoning faculty that man does\nnot live in the present only, like the brute, but looks about him and\nconsiders the past and the future; and this is the origin of prudence,\nas well as of that care and anxiety which so many people exhibit. Both\nthe advantages and the disadvantages which this involves, are shared\nin by the woman to a smaller extent because of her weaker power\nof reasoning. She may, in fact, be described as intellectually\nshort-sighted, because, while she has an intuitive understanding of\nwhat lies quite close to her, her field of vision is narrow and does\nnot reach to what is remote; so that things which are absent, or past,\nor to come, have much less effect upon women than upon men. This is\nthe reason why women are more often inclined to be extravagant, and\nsometimes carry their inclination to a length that borders upon\nmadness. In their hearts, women think that it is men's business\nto earn money and theirs to spend it--- if possible during their\nhusband's life, but, at any rate, after his death. The very fact\nthat their husband hands them over his earnings for purposes of\nhousekeeping, strengthens them in this belief.\n\nHowever many disadvantages all this may involve, there is at least\nthis to be said in its favor; that the woman lives more in the present\nthan the man, and that, if the present is at all tolerable, she enjoys\nit more eagerly. This is the source of that cheerfulness which\nis peculiar to women, fitting her to amuse man in his hours of\nrecreation, and, in case of need, to console him when he is borne down\nby the weight of his cares.\n\nIt is by no means a bad plan to consult women in matters of\ndifficulty, as the Germans used to do in ancient times; for their way\nof looking at things is quite different from ours, chiefly in the\nfact that they like to take the shortest way to their goal, and, in\ngeneral, manage to fix their eyes upon what lies before them; while\nwe, as a rule, see far beyond it, just because it is in front of our\nnoses. In cases like this, we need to be brought back to the right\nstandpoint, so as to recover the near and simple view.\n\nThen, again, women are decidedly more sober in their judgment than\nwe are, so that they do not see more in things than is really there;\nwhilst, if our passions are aroused, we are apt to see things in an\nexaggerated way, or imagine what does not exist.\n\nThe weakness of their reasoning faculty also explains why it is that\nwomen show more sympathy for the unfortunate than men do, and so treat\nthem with more kindness and interest; and why it is that, on the\ncontrary, they are inferior to men in point of justice, and less\nhonorable and conscientious. For it is just because their reasoning\npower is weak that present circumstances have such a hold over them,\nand those concrete things, which lie directly before their eyes,\nexercise a power which is seldom counteracted to any extent by\nabstract principles of thought, by fixed rules of conduct, firm\nresolutions, or, in general, by consideration for the past and the\nfuture, or regard for what is absent and remote. Accordingly, they\npossess the first and main elements that go to make a virtuous\ncharacter, but they are deficient in those secondary qualities which\nare often a necessary instrument in the formation of it.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: In this respect they may be compared to an animal\norganism which contains a liver but no gall-bladder. Here let me refer\nto what I have said in my treatise on _The Foundation of Morals_, \u00a7\n17.]\n\nHence, it will be found that the fundamental fault of the female\ncharacter is that it has _no sense of justice_. This is mainly due to\nthe fact, already mentioned, that women are defective in the powers of\nreasoning and deliberation; but it is also traceable to the position\nwhich Nature has assigned to them as the weaker sex. They are\ndependent, not upon strength, but upon craft; and hence their\ninstinctive capacity for cunning, and their ineradicable tendency to\nsay what is not true. For as lions are provided with claws and teeth,\nand elephants and boars with tusks, bulls with horns, and cuttle fish\nwith its clouds of inky fluid, so Nature has equipped woman, for her\ndefence and protection, with the arts of dissimulation; and all the\npower which Nature has conferred upon man in the shape of physical\nstrength and reason, has been bestowed upon women in this form. Hence,\ndissimulation is innate in woman, and almost as much a quality of the\nstupid as of the clever. It is as natural for them to make use of it\non every occasion as it is for those animals to employ their means of\ndefence when they are attacked; they have a feeling that in doing so\nthey are only within their rights. Therefore a woman who is perfectly\ntruthful and not given to dissimulation is perhaps an impossibility,\nand for this very reason they are so quick at seeing through\ndissimulation in others that it is not a wise thing to attempt it with\nthem. But this fundamental defect which I have stated, with all\nthat it entails, gives rise to falsity, faithlessness, treachery,\ningratitude, and so on. Perjury in a court of justice is more\noften committed by women than by men. It may, indeed, be generally\nquestioned whether women ought to be sworn in at all. From time to\ntime one finds repeated cases everywhere of ladies, who want for\nnothing, taking things from shop-counters when no one is looking, and\nmaking off with them.\n\nNature has appointed that the propagation of the species shall be the\nbusiness of men who are young, strong and handsome; so that the race\nmay not degenerate. This is the firm will and purpose of Nature in\nregard to the species, and it finds its expression in the passions of\nwomen. There is no law that is older or more powerful than this. Woe,\nthen, to the man who sets up claims and interests that will conflict\nwith it; whatever he may say and do, they will be unmercifully crushed\nat the first serious encounter. For the innate rule that governs\nwomen's conduct, though it is secret and unformulated, nay,\nunconscious in its working, is this: _We are justified in deceiving\nthose who think they have acquired rights over the species by paying\nlittle attention to the individual, that is, to us. The constitution\nand, therefore, the welfare of the species have been placed in our\nhands and committed to our care, through the control we obtain over\nthe next generation, which proceeds from us; let us discharge our\nduties conscientiously_. But women have no abstract knowledge of this\nleading principle; they are conscious of it only as a concrete fact;\nand they have no other method of giving expression to it than the\nway in which they act when the opportunity arrives. And then their\nconscience does not trouble them so much as we fancy; for in the\ndarkest recesses of their heart, they are aware that in committing a\nbreach of their duty towards the individual, they have all the\nbetter fulfilled their duty towards the species, which is infinitely\ngreater.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: A more detailed discussion of the matter in question may\nbe found in my chief work, _Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung_, vol.\nii, ch. 44.]\n\nAnd since women exist in the main solely for the propagation of the\nspecies, and are not destined for anything else, they live, as a rule,\nmore for the species than for the individual, and in their hearts\ntake the affairs of the species more seriously than those of the\nindividual. This gives their whole life and being a certain levity;\nthe general bent of their character is in a direction fundamentally\ndifferent from that of man; and it is this to which produces that\ndiscord in married life which is so frequent, and almost the normal\nstate.\n\nThe natural feeling between men is mere indifference, but\nbetween women it is actual enmity. The reason of this is that\ntrade-jealousy--_odium figulinum_--which, in the case of men does not\ngo beyond the confines of their own particular pursuit; but, with\nwomen, embraces the whole sex; since they have only one kind of\nbusiness. Even when they meet in the street, women look at one another\nlike Guelphs and Ghibellines. And it is a patent fact that when two\nwomen make first acquaintance with each other, they behave with more\nconstraint and dissimulation than two men would show in a like case;\nand hence it is that an exchange of compliments between two women is a\nmuch more ridiculous proceeding than between two men. Further, whilst\na man will, as a general rule, always preserve a certain amount of\nconsideration and humanity in speaking to others, even to those who\nare in a very inferior position, it is intolerable to see how proudly\nand disdainfully a fine lady will generally behave towards one who is\nin a lower social rank (I do not mean a woman who is in her service),\nwhenever she speaks to her. The reason of this may be that, with\nwomen, differences of rank are much more precarious than with us;\nbecause, while a hundred considerations carry weight in our case,\nin theirs there is only one, namely, with which man they have found\nfavor; as also that they stand in much nearer relations with one\nanother than men do, in consequence of the one-sided nature of their\ncalling. This makes them endeavor to lay stress upon differences of\nrank.\n\nIt is only the man whose intellect is clouded by his sexual impulses\nthat could give the name of _the fair sex_ to that under-sized,\nnarrow-shouldered, broad-hipped, and short-legged race; for the whole\nbeauty of the sex is bound up with this impulse. Instead of calling\nthem beautiful, there would be more warrant for describing women as\nthe un-aesthetic sex. Neither for music, nor for poetry, nor for fine\nart, have they really and truly any sense or susceptibility; it is a\nmere mockery if they make a pretence of it in order to assist their\nendeavor to please. Hence, as a result of this, they are incapable of\ntaking a _purely objective interest_ in anything; and the reason of it\nseems to me to be as follows. A man tries to acquire _direct_ mastery\nover things, either by understanding them, or by forcing them to do\nhis will. But a woman is always and everywhere reduced to obtaining\nthis mastery _indirectly_, namely, through a man; and whatever direct\nmastery she may have is entirely confined to him. And so it lies in\nwoman's nature to look upon everything only as a means for conquering\nman; and if she takes an interest in anything else, it is simulated--a\nmere roundabout way of gaining her ends by coquetry, and feigning what\nshe does not feel. Hence, even Rousseau declared: _Women have, in\ngeneral, no love for any art; they have no proper knowledge of any;\nand they have no genius_.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: Lettre \u00e0 d'Alembert, Note xx.]\n\nNo one who sees at all below the surface can have failed to remark the\nsame thing. You need only observe the kind of attention women bestow\nupon a concert, an opera, or a play--the childish simplicity, for\nexample, with which they keep on chattering during the finest passages\nin the greatest masterpieces. If it is true that the Greeks excluded\nwomen from their theatres they were quite right in what they did;\nat any rate you would have been able to hear what was said upon the\nstage. In our day, besides, or in lieu of saying, _Let a woman keep\nsilence in the church_, it would be much to the point to say _Let a\nwoman keep silence in the theatre_. This might, perhaps, be put up in\nbig letters on the curtain.\n\nAnd you cannot expect anything else of women if you consider that the\nmost distinguished intellects among the whole sex have never managed\nto produce a single achievement in the fine arts that is really great,\ngenuine, and original; or given to the world any work of permanent\nvalue in any sphere. This is most strikingly shown in regard to\npainting, where mastery of technique is at least as much within their\npower as within ours--and hence they are diligent in cultivating it;\nbut still, they have not a single great painting to boast of, just\nbecause they are deficient in that objectivity of mind which is so\ndirectly indispensable in painting. They never get beyond a subjective\npoint of view. It is quite in keeping with this that ordinary women\nhave no real susceptibility for art at all; for Nature proceeds in\nstrict sequence--_non facit saltum_. And Huarte[1] in his _Examen de\ningenios para las scienzias_--a book which has been famous for\nthree hundred years--denies women the possession of all the higher\nfaculties. The case is not altered by particular and partial\nexceptions; taken as a whole, women are, and remain, thorough-going\nPhilistines, and quite incurable. Hence, with that absurd arrangement\nwhich allows them to share the rank and title of their husbands they\nare a constant stimulus to his ignoble ambitions. And, further, it is\njust because they are Philistines that modern society, where they\ntake the lead and set the tone, is in such a bad way. Napoleon's\nsaying--that _women have no rank_--should be adopted as the right\nstandpoint in determining their position in society; and as regards\ntheir other qualities Chamfort[2] makes the very true remark: _They\nare made to trade with our own weaknesses and our follies, but not\nwith our reason. The sympathies that exist between them and men are\nskin-deep only, and do not touch the mind or the feelings or the\ncharacter_. They form the _sexus sequior_--the second sex, inferior in\nevery respect to the first; their infirmities should be treated\nwith consideration; but to show them great reverence is extremely\nridiculous, and lowers us in their eyes. When Nature made two\ndivisions of the human race, she did not draw the line exactly through\nthe middle. These divisions are polar and opposed to each other, it is\ntrue; but the difference between them is not qualitative merely, it is\nalso quantitative.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--- Juan Huarte (1520?-1590)\npractised as a physician at Madrid. The work cited by Schopenhauer is\nknown, and has been translated into many languages.]\n\n[Footnote 2: _Translator's Note_.--See _Counsels and Maxims_, p. 12,\nNote.]\n\nThis is just the view which the ancients took of woman, and the view\nwhich people in the East take now; and their judgment as to her proper\nposition is much more correct than ours, with our old French notions\nof gallantry and our preposterous system of reverence--that highest\nproduct of Teutonico-Christian stupidity. These notions have served\nonly to make women more arrogant and overbearing; so that one is\noccasionally reminded of the holy apes in Benares, who in the\nconsciousness of their sanctity and inviolable position, think they\ncan do exactly as they please.\n\nBut in the West, the woman, and especially the _lady_, finds herself\nin a false position; for woman, rightly called by the ancients,\n_sexus sequior_, is by no means fit to be the object of our honor and\nveneration, or to hold her head higher than man and be on equal terms\nwith him. The consequences of this false position are sufficiently\nobvious. Accordingly, it would be a very desirable thing if this\nNumber-Two of the human race were in Europe also relegated to her\nnatural place, and an end put to that lady nuisance, which not only\nmoves all Asia to laughter, but would have been ridiculed by Greece\nand Rome as well. It is impossible to calculate the good effects which\nsuch a change would bring about in our social, civil and political\narrangements. There would be no necessity for the Salic law: it would\nbe a superfluous truism. In Europe the _lady_, strictly so-called, is\na being who should not exist at all; she should be either a housewife\nor a girl who hopes to become one; and she should be brought up, not\nto be arrogant, but to be thrifty and submissive. It is just because\nthere are such people as _ladies_ in Europe that the women of the\nlower classes, that is to say, the great majority of the sex, are much\nmore unhappy than they are in the East. And even Lord Byron says:\n_Thought of the state of women under the ancient Greeks--convenient\nenough. Present state, a remnant of the barbarism of the chivalric\nand the feudal ages--artificial and unnatural. They ought to mind\nhome--and be well fed and clothed--but not mixed in society. Well\neducated, too, in religion--but to read neither poetry nor politics--\nnothing but books of piety and cookery. Music--drawing--dancing--also\na little gardening and ploughing now and then. I have seen them\nmending the roads in Epirus with good success. Why not, as well as\nhay-making and milking_?\n\nThe laws of marriage prevailing in Europe consider the woman as the\nequivalent of the man--start, that is to say, from a wrong position.\nIn our part of the world where monogamy is the rule, to marry means to\nhalve one's rights and double one's duties. Now, when the laws gave\nwomen equal rights with man, they ought to have also endowed her with\na masculine intellect. But the fact is, that just in proportion as\nthe honors and privileges which the laws accord to women, exceed the\namount which nature gives, is there a diminution in the number\nof women who really participate in these privileges; and all the\nremainder are deprived of their natural rights by just so much as is\ngiven to the others over and above their share. For the institution of\nmonogamy, and the laws of marriage which it entails, bestow upon\nthe woman an unnatural position of privilege, by considering her\nthroughout as the full equivalent of the man, which is by no means\nthe case; and seeing this, men who are shrewd and prudent very often\nscruple to make so great a sacrifice and to acquiesce in so unfair an\narrangement.\n\nConsequently, whilst among polygamous nations every woman is provided\nfor, where monogamy prevails the number of married women is limited;\nand there remains over a large number of women without stay or\nsupport, who, in the upper classes, vegetate as useless old maids, and\nin the lower succumb to hard work for which they are not suited; or\nelse become _filles de joie_, whose life is as destitute of joy as it\nis of honor. But under the circumstances they become a necessity; and\ntheir position is openly recognized as serving the special end of\nwarding off temptation from those women favored by fate, who have\nfound, or may hope to find, husbands. In London alone there are 80,000\nprostitutes. What are they but the women, who, under the institution\nof monogamy have come off worse? Theirs is a dreadful fate: they are\nhuman sacrifices offered up on the altar of monogamy. The women whose\nwretched position is here described are the inevitable set-off to the\nEuropean lady with her arrogance and pretension. Polygamy is therefore\na real benefit to the female sex if it is taken as a whole. And, from\nanother point of view, there is no true reason why a man whose wife\nsuffers from chronic illness, or remains barren, or has gradually\nbecome too old for him, should not take a second. The motives which\ninduce so many people to become converts to Mormonism[1] appear to\nbe just those which militate against the unnatural institution of\nmonogamy.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--The Mormons have recently given up\npolygamy, and received the American franchise in its stead.]\n\nMoreover, the bestowal of unnatural rights upon women has imposed upon\nthem unnatural duties, and, nevertheless, a breach of these duties\nmakes them unhappy. Let me explain. A man may often think that his\nsocial or financial position will suffer if he marries, unless he\nmakes some brilliant alliance. His desire will then be to win a woman\nof his own choice under conditions other than those of marriage, such\nas will secure her position and that of the children. However fair,\nreasonable, fit and proper these conditions may be, and the woman\nconsents by foregoing that undue amount of privilege which marriage\nalone can bestow, she to some extent loses her honor, because marriage\nis the basis of civic society; and she will lead an unhappy life,\nsince human nature is so constituted that we pay an attention to the\nopinion of other people which is out of all proportion to its value.\nOn the other hand, if she does not consent, she runs the risk either\nof having to be given in marriage to a man whom she does not like, or\nof being landed high and dry as an old maid; for the period during\nwhich she has a chance of being settled for life is very short. And\nin view of this aspect of the institution of monogamy, Thomasius'\nprofoundly learned treatise, _de Concubinatu_, is well worth reading;\nfor it shows that, amongst all nations and in all ages, down to the\nLutheran Reformation, concubinage was permitted; nay, that it was an\ninstitution which was to a certain extent actually recognized by law,\nand attended with no dishonor. It was only the Lutheran Reformation\nthat degraded it from this position. It was seen to be a further\njustification for the marriage of the clergy; and then, after that,\nthe Catholic Church did not dare to remain behind-hand in the matter.\n\nThere is no use arguing about polygamy; it must be taken as _de facto_\nexisting everywhere, and the only question is as to how it shall be\nregulated. Where are there, then, any real monogamists? We all live,\nat any rate, for a time, and most of us, always, in polygamy. And so,\nsince every man needs many women, there is nothing fairer than to\nallow him, nay, to make it incumbent upon him, to provide for many\nwomen. This will reduce woman to her true and natural position as\na subordinate being; and the _lady_--that monster of European\ncivilization and Teutonico-Christian stupidity--will disappear from\nthe world, leaving only _women_, but no more _unhappy women_, of whom\nEurope is now full.\n\nIn India, no woman is ever independent, but in accordance with the law\nof Mamu,[1] she stands under the control of her father, her husband,\nher brother or her son. It is, to be sure, a revolting thing that a\nwidow should immolate herself upon her husband's funeral pyre; but it\nis also revolting that she should spend her husband's money with her\nparamours--the money for which he toiled his whole life long, in the\nconsoling belief that he was providing for his children. Happy are\nthose who have kept the middle course--_medium tenuere beati_.\n\n[Footnote 1: Ch. V., v. 148.]\n\nThe first love of a mother for her child is, with the lower animals as\nwith men, of a purely _instinctive_ character, and so it ceases when\nthe child is no longer in a physically helpless condition. After that,\nthe first love should give way to one that is based on habit and\nreason; but this often fails to make its appearance, especially where\nthe mother did not love the father. The love of a father for his child\nis of a different order, and more likely to last; because it has its\nfoundation in the fact that in the child he recognizes his own inner\nself; that is to say, his love for it is metaphysical in its origin.\n\nIn almost all nations, whether of the ancient or the modern world,\neven amongst the Hottentots,[1] property is inherited by the male\ndescendants alone; it is only in Europe that a departure has taken\nplace; but not amongst the nobility, however. That the property which\nhas cost men long years of toil and effort, and been won with so much\ndifficulty, should afterwards come into the hands of women, who then,\nin their lack of reason, squander it in a short time, or otherwise\nfool it away, is a grievance and a wrong as serious as it is common,\nwhich should be prevented by limiting the right of women to inherit.\nIn my opinion, the best arrangement would be that by which women,\nwhether widows or daughters, should never receive anything beyond the\ninterest for life on property secured by mortgage, and in no case the\nproperty itself, or the capital, except where all male descendants\nfail. The people who make money are men, not women; and it follows\nfrom this that women are neither justified in having unconditional\npossession of it, nor fit persons to be entrusted with its\nadministration. When wealth, in any true sense of the word, that is to\nsay, funds, houses or land, is to go to them as an inheritance they\nshould never be allowed the free disposition of it. In their case a\nguardian should always be appointed; and hence they should never be\ngiven the free control of their own children, wherever it can be\navoided. The vanity of women, even though it should not prove to be\ngreater than that of men, has this much danger in it, that it takes an\nentirely material direction. They are vain, I mean, of their personal\nbeauty, and then of finery, show and magnificence. That is just why\nthey are so much in their element in society. It is this, too, which\nmakes them so inclined to be extravagant, all the more as their\nreasoning power is low. Accordingly we find an ancient writer\ndescribing woman as in general of an extravagant nature--[Greek: Gynae\nto synolon esti dapanaeron Physei][2] But with men vanity often takes\nthe direction of non-material advantages, such as intellect, learning,\ncourage.\n\n[Footnote 1: Leroy, _Lettres philosophiques sur l'intelligence et la\nperfectibilit\u00e9 des animaux, avec quelques lettres sur l'homme_, p.\n298, Paris, 1802.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Brunck's _Gnomici poetae graeci_, v. 115.]\n\nIn the _Politics_[1] Aristotle explains the great disadvantage which\naccrued to the Spartans from the fact that they conceded too much to\ntheir women, by giving them the right of inheritance and dower, and a\ngreat amount of independence; and he shows how much this contributed\nto Sparta's fall. May it not be the case in France that the influence\nof women, which went on increasing steadily from the time of Louis\nXIII., was to blame for that gradual corruption of the Court and the\nGovernment, which brought about the Revolution of 1789, of which all\nsubsequent disturbances have been the fruit? However that may be, the\nfalse position which women occupy, demonstrated as it is, in the most\nglaring way, by the institution of the _lady_, is a fundamental defect\nin our social scheme, and this defect, proceeding from the very heart\nof it, must spread its baneful influence in all directions.\n\n[Footnote 1: Bk. I, ch. 9.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat woman is by nature meant to obey may be seen by the fact that\nevery woman who is placed in the unnatural position of complete\nindependence, immediately attaches herself to some man, by whom she\nallows herself to be guided and ruled. It is because she needs a lord\nand master. If she is young, it will be a lover; if she is old, a\npriest.\n\n\n\n\nON NOISE.\n\n\nKant wrote a treatise on _The Vital Powers_. I should prefer to write\na dirge for them. The superabundant display of vitality, which takes\nthe form of knocking, hammering, and tumbling things about, has proved\na daily torment to me all my life long. There are people, it is\ntrue--nay, a great many people--who smile at such things, because they\nare not sensitive to noise; but they are just the very people who are\nalso not sensitive to argument, or thought, or poetry, or art, in a\nword, to any kind of intellectual influence. The reason of it is that\nthe tissue of their brains is of a very rough and coarse quality. On\nthe other hand, noise is a torture to intellectual people. In the\nbiographies of almost all great writers, or wherever else their\npersonal utterances are recorded, I find complaints about it; in the\ncase of Kant, for instance, Goethe, Lichtenberg, Jean Paul; and if it\nshould happen that any writer has omitted to express himself on the\nmatter, it is only for want of an opportunity.\n\nThis aversion to noise I should explain as follows: If you cut up a\nlarge diamond into little bits, it will entirely lose the value it\nhad as a whole; and an army divided up into small bodies of soldiers,\nloses all its strength. So a great intellect sinks to the level of\nan ordinary one, as soon as it is interrupted and disturbed, its\nattention distracted and drawn off from the matter in hand; for its\nsuperiority depends upon its power of concentration--of bringing all\nits strength to bear upon one theme, in the same way as a concave\nmirror collects into one point all the rays of light that strike upon\nit. Noisy interruption is a hindrance to this concentration. That is\nwhy distinguished minds have always shown such an extreme dislike\nto disturbance in any form, as something that breaks in upon and\ndistracts their thoughts. Above all have they been averse to that\nviolent interruption that comes from noise. Ordinary people are\nnot much put out by anything of the sort. The most sensible and\nintelligent of all nations in Europe lays down the rule, _Never\nInterrupt_! as the eleventh commandment. Noise is the most impertinent\nof all forms of interruption. It is not only an interruption, but\nalso a disruption of thought. Of course, where there is nothing to\ninterrupt, noise will not be so particularly painful. Occasionally it\nhappens that some slight but constant noise continues to bother and\ndistract me for a time before I become distinctly conscious of it. All\nI feel is a steady increase in the labor of thinking--just as though I\nwere trying to walk with a weight on my foot. At last I find out what\nit is. Let me now, however, pass from genus to species. The most\ninexcusable and disgraceful of all noises is the cracking of whips--a\ntruly infernal thing when it is done in the narrow resounding streets\nof a town. I denounce it as making a peaceful life impossible; it puts\nan end to all quiet thought. That this cracking of whips should be\nallowed at all seems to me to show in the clearest way how senseless\nand thoughtless is the nature of mankind. No one with anything like an\nidea in his head can avoid a feeling of actual pain at this sudden,\nsharp crack, which paralyzes the brain, rends the thread of\nreflection, and murders thought. Every time this noise is made, it\nmust disturb a hundred people who are applying their minds to business\nof some sort, no matter how trivial it may be; while on the thinker\nits effect is woeful and disastrous, cutting his thoughts asunder,\nmuch as the executioner's axe severs the head from the body. No sound,\nbe it ever so shrill, cuts so sharply into the brain as this cursed\ncracking of whips; you feel the sting of the lash right inside your\nhead; and it affects the brain in the same way as touch affects a\nsensitive plant, and for the same length of time.\n\nWith all due respect for the most holy doctrine of utility, I really\ncannot see why a fellow who is taking away a wagon-load of gravel or\ndung should thereby obtain the right to kill in the bud the thoughts\nwhich may happen to be springing up in ten thousand heads--the number\nhe will disturb one after another in half an hour's drive through the\ntown. Hammering, the barking of dogs, and the crying of children are\nhorrible to hear; but your only genuine assassin of thought is the\ncrack of a whip; it exists for the purpose of destroying every\npleasant moment of quiet thought that any one may now and then enjoy.\nIf the driver had no other way of urging on his horse than by making\nthis most abominable of all noises, it would be excusable; but quite\nthe contrary is the case. This cursed cracking of whips is not only\nunnecessary, but even useless. Its aim is to produce an effect upon\nthe intelligence of the horse; but through the constant abuse of it,\nthe animal becomes habituated to the sound, which falls upon blunted\nfeelings and produces no effect at all. The horse does not go any\nfaster for it. You have a remarkable example of this in the ceaseless\ncracking of his whip on the part of a cab-driver, while he is\nproceeding at a slow pace on the lookout for a fare. If he were to\ngive his horse the slightest touch with the whip, it would have much\nmore effect. Supposing, however, that it were absolutely necessary to\ncrack the whip in order to keep the horse constantly in mind of its\npresence, it would be enough to make the hundredth part of the noise.\nFor it is a well-known fact that, in regard to sight and hearing,\nanimals are sensitive to even the faintest indications; they are alive\nto things that we can scarcely perceive. The most surprising instances\nof this are furnished by trained dogs and canary birds.\n\nIt is obvious, therefore, that here we have to do with an act of pure\nwantonness; nay, with an impudent defiance offered to those members of\nthe community who work with their heads by those who work with their\nhands. That such infamy should be tolerated in a town is a piece of\nbarbarity and iniquity, all the more as it could easily be remedied by\na police-notice to the effect that every lash shall have a knot at the\nend of it. There can be no harm in drawing the attention of the mob to\nthe fact that the classes above them work with their heads, for any\nkind of headwork is mortal anguish to the man in the street. A fellow\nwho rides through the narrow alleys of a populous town with unemployed\npost-horses or cart-horses, and keeps on cracking a whip several yards\nlong with all his might, deserves there and then to stand down and\nreceive five really good blows with a stick.\n\nAll the philanthropists in the world, and all the legislators, meeting\nto advocate and decree the total abolition of corporal punishment,\nwill never persuade me to the contrary! There is something even more\ndisgraceful than what I have just mentioned. Often enough you may see\na carter walking along the street, quite alone, without any horses,\nand still cracking away incessantly; so accustomed has the wretch\nbecome to it in consequence of the unwarrantable toleration of this\npractice. A man's body and the needs of his body are now everywhere\ntreated with a tender indulgence. Is the thinking mind then, to be\nthe only thing that is never to obtain the slightest measure of\nconsideration or protection, to say nothing of respect? Carters,\nporters, messengers--these are the beasts of burden amongst mankind;\nby all means let them be treated justly, fairly, indulgently, and with\nforethought; but they must not be permitted to stand in the way of\nthe higher endeavors of humanity by wantonly making a noise. How many\ngreat and splendid thoughts, I should like to know, have been lost to\nthe world by the crack of a whip? If I had the upper hand, I should\nsoon produce in the heads of these people an indissoluble association\nof ideas between cracking a whip and getting a whipping.\n\nLet us hope that the more intelligent and refined among the nations\nwill make a beginning in this matter, and then that the Germans may\ntake example by it and follow suit.[1] Meanwhile, I may quote what\nThomas Hood says of them[2]: _For a musical nation, they are the most\nnoisy I ever met with_. That they are so is due to the fact, not that\nthey are more fond of making a noise than other people--they would\ndeny it if you asked them--but that their senses are obtuse;\nconsequently, when they hear a noise, it does not affect them much. It\ndoes not disturb them in reading or thinking, simply because they do\nnot think; they only smoke, which is their substitute for thought. The\ngeneral toleration of unnecessary noise--the slamming of doors, for\ninstance, a very unmannerly and ill-bred thing--is direct evidence\nthat the prevailing habit of mind is dullness and lack of thought. In\nGermany it seems as though care were taken that no one should ever\nthink for mere noise--to mention one form of it, the way in which\ndrumming goes on for no purpose at all.\n\n[Footnote 1: According to a notice issued by the Society for the\nProtection of Animals in Munich, the superfluous whipping and the\ncracking of whips were, in December, 1858, positively forbidden in\nNuremberg.]\n\n[Footnote 2: In _Up the Rhine_.]\n\nFinally, as regards the literature of the subject treated of in this\nchapter, I have only one work to recommend, but it is a good one. I\nrefer to a poetical epistle in _terzo rimo_ by the famous painter\nBronzino, entitled _De' Romori: a Messer Luca Martini_. It gives a\ndetailed description of the torture to which people are put by the\nvarious noises of a small Italian town. Written in a tragicomic style,\nit is very amusing. The epistle may be found in _Opere burlesche del\nBerni, Aretino ed altri_, Vol. II., p. 258; apparently published in\nUtrecht in 1771.\n\n\n\n\nA FEW PARABLES.\n\n\nIn a field of ripening corn I came to a place which had been trampled\ndown by some ruthless foot; and as I glanced amongst the countless\nstalks, every one of them alike, standing there so erect and bearing\nthe full weight of the ear, I saw a multitude of different flowers,\nred and blue and violet. How pretty they looked as they grew there so\nnaturally with their little foliage! But, thought I, they are quite\nuseless; they bear no fruit; they are mere weeds, suffered to remain\nonly because there is no getting rid of them. And yet, but for these\nflowers, there would be nothing to charm the eye in that wilderness\nof stalks. They are emblematic of poetry and art, which, in civic\nlife--so severe, but still useful and not without its fruit--play the\nsame part as flowers in the corn.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere are some really beautifully landscapes in the world, but the\nhuman figures in them are poor, and you had not better look at them.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe fly should be used as the symbol of impertinence and audacity; for\nwhilst all other animals shun man more than anything else, and run\naway even before he comes near them, the fly lights upon his very\nnose.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTwo Chinamen traveling in Europe went to the theatre for the first\ntime. One of them did nothing but study the machinery, and he\nsucceeded in finding out how it was worked. The other tried to get at\nthe meaning of the piece in spite of his ignorance of the language.\nHere you have the Astronomer and the Philosopher.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWisdom which is only theoretical and never put into practice, is like\na double rose; its color and perfume are delightful, but it withers\naway and leaves no seed.\n\nNo rose without a thorn. Yes, but many a thorn without a rose.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA wide-spreading apple-tree stood in full bloom, and behind it a\nstraight fir raised its dark and tapering head. _Look at the thousands\nof gay blossoms which cover me everywhere_, said the apple-tree; _what\nhave you to show in comparison? Dark-green needles! That is true_,\nreplied the fir, _but when winter comes, you will be bared of your\nglory; and I shall be as I am now_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOnce, as I was botanizing under an oak, I found amongst a number\nof other plants of similar height one that was dark in color, with\ntightly closed leaves and a stalk that was very straight and stiff.\nWhen I touched it, it said to me in firm tones: _Let me alone; I am\nnot for your collection, like these plants to which Nature has given\nonly a single year of life. I am a little oak_.\n\nSo it is with a man whose influence is to last for hundreds of years.\nAs a child, as a youth, often even as a full-grown man, nay, his whole\nlife long, he goes about among his fellows, looking like them and\nseemingly as unimportant. But let him alone; he will not die. Time\nwill come and bring those who know how to value him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe man who goes up in a balloon does not feel as though he were\nascending; he only sees the earth sinking deeper under him.\n\nThere is a mystery which only those will understand who feel the truth\nof it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nYour estimation of a man's size will be affected by the distance at\nwhich you stand from him, but in two entirely opposite ways according\nas it is his physical or his mental stature that you are considering.\nThe one will seem smaller, the farther off you move; the other,\ngreater.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNature covers all her works with a varnish of beauty, like the tender\nbloom that is breathed, as it were, on the surface of a peach or a\nplum. Painters and poets lay themselves out to take off this varnish,\nto store it up, and give it us to be enjoyed at our leisure. We drink\ndeep of this beauty long before we enter upon life itself; and when\nafterwards we come to see the works of Nature for ourselves, the\nvarnish is gone: the artists have used it up and we have enjoyed it in\nadvance. Thus it is that the world so often appears harsh and devoid\nof charm, nay, actually repulsive. It were better to leave us to\ndiscover the varnish for ourselves. This would mean that we should\nnot enjoy it all at once and in large quantities; we should have no\nfinished pictures, no perfect poems; but we should look at all things\nin that genial and pleasing light in which even now a child of Nature\nsometimes sees them--some one who has not anticipated his aesthetic\npleasures by the help of art, or taken the charms of life too early.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Cathedral in Mayence is so shut in by the houses that are built\nround about it, that there is no one spot from which you can see it\nas a whole. This is symbolic of everything great or beautiful in the\nworld. It ought to exist for its own sake alone, but before very long\nit is misused to serve alien ends. People come from all directions\nwanting to find in it support and maintenance for themselves; they\nstand in the way and spoil its effect. To be sure, there is nothing\nsurprising in this, for in a world of need and imperfection everything\nis seized upon which can be used to satisfy want. Nothing is exempt\nfrom this service, no, not even those very things which arise only\nwhen need and want are for a moment lost sight of--the beautiful and\nthe true, sought for their own sakes.\n\nThis is especially illustrated and corroborated in the case of\ninstitutions--whether great or small, wealthy or poor, founded, no\nmatter in what century or in what land, to maintain and advance human\nknowledge, and generally to afford help to those intellectual efforts\nwhich ennoble the race. Wherever these institutions may be, it is not\nlong before people sneak up to them under the pretence of wishing to\nfurther those special ends, while they are really led on by the desire\nto secure the emoluments which have been left for their furtherance,\nand thus to satisfy certain coarse and brutal instincts of their own.\nThus it is that we come to have so many charlatans in every branch\nof knowledge. The charlatan takes very different shapes according\nto circumstances; but at bottom he is a man who cares nothing about\nknowledge for its own sake, and only strives to gain the semblance\nof it that he may use it for his own personal ends, which are always\nselfish and material.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEvery hero is a Samson. The strong man succumbs to the intrigues of\nthe weak and the many; and if in the end he loses all patience he\ncrushes both them and himself. Or he is like Gulliver at Lilliput,\noverwhelmed by an enormous number of little men.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA mother gave her children Aesop's fables to read, in the hope of\neducating and improving their minds; but they very soon brought the\nbook back, and the eldest, wise beyond his years, delivered himself as\nfollows: _This is no book for us; it's much too childish and stupid.\nYou can't make us believe that foxes and wolves and ravens are able to\ntalk; we've got beyond stories of that kind_!\n\nIn these young hopefuls you have the enlightened Rationalists of the\nfuture.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA number of porcupines huddled together for warmth on a cold day in\nwinter; but, as they began to prick one another with their quills,\nthey were obliged to disperse. However the cold drove them together\nagain, when just the same thing happened. At last, after many turns of\nhuddling and dispersing, they discovered that they would be best off\nby remaining at a little distance from one another. In the same way\nthe need of society drives the human porcupines together, only to be\nmutually repelled by the many prickly and disagreeable qualities of\ntheir nature. The moderate distance which they at last discover to be\nthe only tolerable condition of intercourse, is the code of politeness\nand fine manners; and those who transgress it are roughly told--in\nthe English phrase--_to keep their distance_. By this arrangement the\nmutual need of warmth is only very moderately satisfied; but then\npeople do not get pricked. A man who has some heat in himself prefers\nto remain outside, where he will neither prick other people nor get\npricked himself.","title":"The Essays of Arthur Schopenhauer; Studies in Pessimism","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":30567}