{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_57369/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_57369","id":"gutenberg_57369","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/57369","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Russian Literature","Philosophy","Russian literature -- History and criticism"],"text":"ALL THINGS ARE POSSIBLE\n\nBY LEO SHESTOV\n\nAUTHORISED TRANSLATION\nBY S. S. KOTELIANSKY\nWITH A FOREWORD BY\nD. H. LAWRENCE\n\nLONDON: MARTIN SECKER\n\n1920\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNOTE\n\n\nLeo Shestov is one of the living Russians. He is about fifty years old.\nHe was born at Kiev, and studied at the university there. His first\nbook appeared in 1898, since which year he has gradually gained an\nassured position as one of the best critics and essayists in Russia. A\nlist of his works is as follows:--\n\n1898. Shakespeare and his Critic, Brandes.\n\n1900. Good in the Teaching of Dostoevsky and Nietzsche: Philosophy and\nPreaching.\n\n1903. Dostoevsky and Nietzsche: The Philosophy of Tragedy.\n\n1905. The Apotheosis of Groundlessness (here translated under the title\n\"All Things are Possible\").\n\n1908. Beginnings and Ends.\n\n1912. Great Vigils.\n\n\n\n\nFOREWORD\n\n\n_In his paragraph on The Russian Spirit, Shestov gives us the real clue\nto Russian literature. European culture is a rootless thing in the\nRussians. With us, it is our very blood and bones, the very nerve and\nroot of our psyche. We think in a certain fashion, we feel in a certain\nfashion, because our whole substance is of this fashion. Our speech and\nfeeling are organically inevitable to us_.\n\n_With the Russians it is different. They have only been inoculated with\nthe virus of European culture and ethic. The virus works in them like a\ndisease. And the inflammation and irritation comes forth as literature.\nThe bubbling and fizzing is almost chemical, not organic. It is an\norganism seething as it accepts and masters the strange virus. What\nthe Russian is struggling with, crying out against, is not life itself:\nit is only European culture which has been introduced, into his psyche,\nand which hurts him. The tragedy is not so much a real soul tragedy,\nas a surgical one. Russian art, Russian literature after all does not\nstand on the same footing as European or Greek or Egyptian art. It is\nnot spontaneous utterance. It is not the flowering of a race. It is a\nsurgical outcry, horrifying, or marvellous, lacerating at first; but\nwhen we get used to it, not really so profound, not really ultimate, a\nlittle extraneous_.\n\n_What is valuable, is the evidence against European culture, implied\nin the novelists, here at last expressed. Since Peter the Great Russia\nhas been accepting Europe, and seething Europe down in a curious\nprocess of katabolism. Russia has been expressing nothing inherently\nRussian. Russia's modern Christianity even was not Russian. Her\ngenuine Christianity, Byzantine and Asiatic, is incomprehensible to\nus. So with her true philosophy. What she has actually uttered is her\nown unwilling, fantastic reproduction of European truths. What she\nhas really to utter the coming centuries will hear. For Russia will\ncertainly inherit the future. What we already call the greatness of\nRussia is only her pre-natal struggling_.\n\n_It seems as if she had at last absorbed and overcome the virus of\nold Europe. Soon her new, healthy body will begin to act in its own\nreality, imitative no more, protesting no more, crying no more, but\nfull and sound and lusty in itself. Real Russia is born. She will\nlaugh at us before long. Meanwhile she goes through the last stages of\nreaction against us, kicking away from the old womb of Europe_.\n\n_In Shestov one of the last kicks is given. True, he seems to be only\nreactionary and destructive. But he can find a little amusement at last\nin tweaking the European nose, so he is fairly free. European idealism\nis anathema. But more than this, it is a little comical. We feel the\nnew independence in his new, half-amused indifference_.\n\n_He is only tweaking the nose of European idealism. He is preaching\nnothing: so he protests time and again. He absolutely refutes any\nimputation of a central idea He is so afraid lest it should turn out to\nbe another hateful hedge-stake of an ideal_.\n\n\"_Everything is possible\"--this is his really central cry. It is not\nnihilism. It is only a shaking free of the human psyche from old bonds.\nThe positive central idea is that the human psyche, or soul, really\nbelieves in itself, and in nothing else_.\n\n_Dress this up in a little comely language, and we have a real new\nideal, that will last us for a new, long epoch. The human soul itself\nis the source and well-head of creative activity. In the unconscious\nhuman soul the creative prompting issues first into the universe.\nOpen the consciousness to this prompting, away with all your old\nsluice-gates, locks, dams, channels. No ideal on earth is anything\nmore than an obstruction, in the end, to the creative issue of the\nspontaneous soul. Away with all ideals. Let each individual act\nspontaneously from, the forever-incalculable prompting of the creative\nwell-head within him. There is no universal law. Each being is, at his\npurest, a law unto himself, single, unique, a Godhead, a fountain from\nthe unknown_.\n\n_This is the ideal which Shestov refuses positively to state, because\nhe is afraid it may prove in the end a trap to catch his own free\nspirit. So it may. But it is none the less a real, living ideal for the\nmoment, the very salvation. When it becomes ancient, and like the old\nlion who lay in his cave and whined, devours all its servants, then it\ncan be despatched. Meanwhile it is a really liberating word_.\n\n_Shestov's style is puzzling at first. Having found the \"ands\" and\n\"buts\" and \"becauses\" and \"therefores\" hampered him, he clips them all\noff deliberately and even spitefully, so that his thought is like a man\nwith no buttons on his clothes, ludicrously hitching along all undone.\nOne must be amused, not irritated. Where the armholes were a bit tight,\nShestov cuts a slit. It is baffling, but really rather piquant.\nThe real conjunction, the real unification lies in the reader's own\namusement, not in the author's unbroken logic_.\n\nD. H. LAWRENCE.\n\n\n\n\nPART I\n\n\n_Zu fragmentarisch ist Welt und Leben_.\n\nH. HEINE.\n\n\n1\n\nThe obscure streets of life do not offer the conveniences of the\ncentral thoroughfares: no electric light, no gas, not even a kerosene\nlamp-bracket. There are no pavements: the traveller has to fumble his\nway in the dark. If he needs a light, he must wait for a thunderbolt,\nor else, primitive-wise, knock a spark out of a stone. In a glimpse\nwill appear unfamiliar outlines; and then, what he has taken in he\nmust try to remember, no matter whether the impression was right or\nfalse. For he will not easily get another light, except he run his head\nagainst a wall, and see sparks that way. What can a wretched pedestrian\ngather under such circumstances? How can we expect a clear account from\nhim whose curiosity (let us suppose his curiosity so strong) led him to\ngrope his way among the outskirts of life? Why should we try to compare\nhis records with those of the travellers through brilliant streets?\n\n\n2\n\nThe law of sequence in natural phenomena seems so plausible, so\nobvious, that one is tempted to look for its origin, not in the\nrealities of actual life, but in the promptings of the human mind. This\nlaw of sequence is the most mysterious of all the natural laws. Why so\nmuch order? Why not chaos and disorderliness? Really, if the hypothesis\nof sequence had not offered such blatant advantages to the human\nintelligence, man would never have thought of raising it to the rank of\neternal and irrefutable truth. But he saw his opportunity. Thanks to\nthe grand hypothesis, man is forewarned and forearmed. Thanks to this\nmaster-key, the future is at his mercy. He knows, in order that he may\nforeknow: _savoir pour pr\u00e9voir_. Here, is man, by virtue of one supreme\nassumption, dictator henceforward of all nature. The philosophers\nhave ever bowed the knee to success. So down they went before the\nnewly-invented law of natural sequence, they hailed it with the title\nof eternal truth. But even this seemed insufficient. _L'app\u00e9tit vient\nen mangeant_. Like the old woman in the fairy-tale about the golden\nfish, they had it in their minds that the fish should do their\nerrands. But some few people at last could not stand this impudence.\nSome very few began to object....\n\n\n3\n\nThe comfortable settled man says to himself: \"How could, one live\nwithout being sure of the morrow; how could one sleep without a roof\nover one's head?\" But misfortune turns him out of house and home.\nHe must perforce sleep under a hedge. He cannot rest, he is full of\nterrors. There may be wild beasts, fellow-tramps. But in the long run\nhe gets used to it. He will trust himself to chance, live like a tramp,\nand sleep his sleep in a ditch.\n\n\n4\n\nA writer, particularly a young and inexperienced writer, feels himself\nunder an obligation to give his reader the fullest answers to all\npossible questions. Conscience will not let him shut his eyes to\ntormenting problems, and so he begins to speak of \"first and ultimate\nthings.\" As he cannot say anything profitable on such subjects--for it\nis not the business of the young to be profoundly philosophical--he\ngrows excited, he shouts himself to hoarseness. In the end he is\nsilent from exhaustion. And then, if his words have had any success\nwith the public, he is astonished to find that he has become a prophet.\nWhereupon, if he be an average sort of person, he is filled with an\ninsatiable desire to preserve his influence till the end of his days.\nBut if he be more sensitive or gifted than usual, he begins to despise\nthe crowd for its vulgar credulity, and himself for having posed in the\nstupid and disgraceful character of a clown of lofty ideas.\n\n\n5\n\nHow painful it is to read Plato's account of the last conversations of\nSocrates! The days, even the hours of the old man are numbered, and\nyet he talks, talks, talks.... Crito comes to him in the early morning\nand tells him that the sacred ships will shortly return to Athens. And\nat once Socrates is ready to talk, to argue.... It is possible, of\ncourse, that Plato is not altogether to be trusted. It is said that\nSocrates observed, of the dialogues already written down by Plato.\n\"How much that youth has belied me!\" But then from all sources we have\nit, that Socrates spent the month following his verdict in incessant\nconversations with his pupils and friends. That is what it is to be a\nbeloved master, and to have disciples. You can't even die quietly....\nThe best death is really the one which is considered the worst: to die\nalone, in a foreign land, in a poor-house, or, as they say, like a dog\nunder a hedge. Then at least one may spend one's last moments honestly,\nwithout dissembling or ostentation, preparing oneself for the dreadful,\nor wonderful, event. Pascal, as his sister tells us, also talked a\ngreat deal before his death, and de Musset cried like a baby. Perhaps\nSocrates and Pascal talked so much, for fear they should start crying.\nIt is a false shame!\n\n\n6\n\nThe fact that some ideas, or some series of ideas, are materially\nunprofitable to mankind cannot serve as a justification for their\nrejection. Once an idea is there, the gates must be opened to it. For\nif you close the gates, the thought will force a way in, or, like the\nfly in the fable, will sneak through unawares. Ideas have no regard for\nour laws of honour or morality. Take for example realism in literature.\nAt its appearance it aroused universal indignation. Why need we know\nthe dirt of life? And honestly, there _is_ no need. Realism could give\nno straightforward justification for itself. But, as it had to come\nthrough, it was ready with a lie; it compared itself to pathology,\ncalled itself useful, beneficial, and so obtained a place. We can all\nsee now that realism is _not_ beneficial, but harmful, very harmful,\nand that it has nothing in common with pathology. Nevertheless, it is\nno longer easy to drive it from its place. The prohibition evaded,\nthere is now the _justus titulus possessions_.\n\n\n7\n\nCount Tolstoy preached inaction. It seems he had no need. We \"inact\"\nremarkably. Idleness, just that idleness Tolstoy dreamed of, a free,\nconscious idling that despises labour, this is one of the chief\ncharacteristics of our time. Of course I speak of the higher, cultured\nclasses, the aristocracy of spirit--\"We write books, paint pictures,\ncompose symphonies\"--But is that labour? It is only the amusement of\nidleness. SO that Tolstoy is much more to the point when, forgetting\nhis preaching of inaction, he bids us trudge eight hours a day at the\ntail of the plough. In this there is some sense. Idleness spoils\nus. We were returning to the most primitive of all the states of our\nforefathers. Like paradisal Adam and Eve, having no need to sweat for\nour bread, we were trying to pilfer the fruit from the forbidden tree.\nTruly we received a similar punishment. Divine laws are inscrutable.\nIn Paradise everything is permitted, except curiosity. Even labour\nis allowed, though it is not obligatory, as it is outside. Tolstoy\nrealised the dangers of the paradisal state. He stooped to talk of\ninaction for a moment--and then he began to work. Since in regular,\nsmooth, constant, rhythmical labour, whether it is efficient or whether\nit merely appears efficient, like Tolstoy's farming, there is peace\nof mind. Look at the industrious Germans, who begin and who end their\nday with a prayer. In Paradise, where there is no labour, and no need\nfor long rest and heavy sleep, all temptations become dangerous. It\nis a peril to live there.... Perhaps present-day people eschew the\nparadisal state. They prefer work, for where there is no work there\nis no smoothness, no regularity, no peacefulness, no satisfaction. In\nEden, even the well-informed individuals Cannot tell what will come\nnext, _savoir pour pr\u00e9voir_ does not answer, and everlasting laws are\nexposed to ridicule. Amongst ourselves also a few of the work-abjurors,\nthe idlers, are beginning to question our established knowledge. But\nthe majority of men, and particularly Germans, still defend _a priori_\njudgments, on the ground that without these, perfect knowledge would\nbe impossible, there could be no regulation of the course of natural\nphenomena, and no looking ahead.\n\n\n8\n\nTo escape from the grasp of contemporary ruling ideas, one should study\nhistory. The lives of other men in other lands in other ages teach\nus to realise that our \"eternal laws\" and infallible ideas are just\nabortions. Take a step further, imagine mankind living elsewhere than\non this earth, and all our terrestial eternalities lose their charm.\n\n\n9\n\nWe know nothing of the ultimate realities of our existence, nor shall\nwe ever know anything. Let that be agreed. But it does not follow that\ntherefore we must accept some or other dogmatic theory as a _modus\nvivendi_, no, not even positivism, which has such a sceptical face\non it. It only follows that man is free to change his conception of\nthe universe as often as he changes his boots or his gloves, and that\nconstancy of principle belongs only to one's relationships with other\npeople, in order that they may know where and to what extent they may\ndepend on us. Therefore, on principle man should respect order in the\nexternal world and complete chaos in the inner. And for those who find\nit difficult to bear such a duality, some internal order might also\nbe provided. Only, they should not pride themselves on it, but always\nremember that it is a sign of their weakness, pettiness, dullness.\n\n\n10\n\nThe Pythagoreans assumed that the sun is motionless and that the earth\nturns round. What a long time the truth had to wait for recognition!\n\n\n11\n\nIn spite of Epicurus and his exasperation we are forced to admit that\nanything whatsoever may result from anything whatsoever. Which does\nnot mean, however, that a stone ever turned into bread, or that our\nvisible universe was ever \"naturally\" formed from nebulous puffs. But\nfrom our own minds and our own experience we can deduce nothing that\nwould serve us as a ground for setting even the smallest limit to\nnature's own arbitrary behaviour. If whatever happens now had chanced\nto happen quite differently, it would not, therefore, have seemed any\nthe less _natural_ to us. In other words, although there may be an\nelement of inevitability in our human judgments concerning the natural\nphenomena, we have never been able and probably never shall be able\nto separate the grain of inevitable from the chaff of accidental and\ncasual truth. Moreover, we do not even know which is more essential\nand important, the inevitable or the casual. Hence we are forced to\nthe conclusion that philosophy must give up her attempt at finding the\n_veritates aeternae_. The business of philosophy is to teach man to\nlive in uncertainty--man who is supremely afraid of uncertainty, and\nwho is forever hiding himself behind this or the other dogma. More\nbriefly, the business of philosophy is not to reassure people, but to\nupset them.\n\n\n12\n\nWhen man finds in himself a certain defect, of which he can by no means\nrid himself, there remains but to accept the so-called failing as a\nnatural quality. The more grave and important the defect, the more\nurgent is the need to ennoble it. From sublime to ridiculous is only\none step, and an ineradicable vice in strong men is always rechristened\na virtue.\n\n\n13\n\nOn the whole, there is little to choose between metaphysics and\npositivism. In each there is the same horizon, but the composition and\ncolouring are different. Positivism chooses grey, colourless paint\nand ordinary composition; metaphysics prefers brilliant colouring\nand complicated design, and always carries the vision away into the\ninfinite; in which trick it often succeeds, owing to its skill in\nperspective. But the canvas is impervious, there is no melting through\nit into \"the other world.\" Nevertheless, skilful perspectives are very\nalluring, so that metaphysicians will still have something to quarrel\nabout with the positivists.\n\n\n14\n\nThe task of a writer: to go forward and share his impressions with his\nreader. In spite of everything to the contrary, he is not obliged to\n_prove_ anything. But, because every step of his progress is dogged by\nthose police agents, morality, science, logic, and so forth, he needs\nalways to have ready some sort of argument with which to frustrate\nthem. There is no necessity to trouble too deeply about the quality\nof the argumentation. Why fret about being \"inwardly right.\" It is\nquite enough if the reasoning which comes handiest will succeed in\noccupying those guardians of the verbal highways whose intention it is\nto obstruct his passage.\n\n\n15\n\nThe Secret of Poushkin's \"inner harmony.\"--To Poushkin nothing was\nhopeless. Nay, he saw hopeful signs in everything. It is agreeable to\nsin, and it is just as delightful to repent. It is good to doubt, but\nit is still better to believe. It is jolly \"with feet shod in steel\"\nto skate the ice, it is pleasant to wander about with gypsies, to pray\nin church, to quarrel with a friend, to make peace with an enemy, to\nswoon on waves of harmony, to weep over a passing fancy, to recall the\npast, to peep into the future. Poushkin could cry hot tears, and he who\ncan weep can hope. \"I want to live, so that I may think and suffer,\" he\nsays; and it seems as if the word \"to suffer,\" which is so beautiful\nin the poem, just fell in accidentally, because there was no better\nrhyme in Russian for \"to die.\" The later verses, which are intended to\namplify _to think and to suffer,_ prove this. Poushkin might repeat the\nwords of the ancient hero: \"danger is dangerous to others, but not to\nme.\" Therein lies the secret of his harmonious moods.\n\n\n16\n\nThe well-trodden field of contemporary thought should be dug up.\nTherefore, on every possible occasion, in season and out, the\ngenerally-accepted truths must be ridiculed to death, and paradoxes\nuttered in their place. Then we shall see....\n\n\n17\n\nWhat is a Weltanschauung, a world-conception, a philosophy? As we all\nknow, Turgenev was a realist, and from the first he tried to portray\nlife truthfully. Although we had had no precise exponents of realism,\nyet after Poushkin it was impossible for a Russian writer to depart too\nfar from actuality. Even those who did not know what to do with \"real\nlife\" had to cope with it as best they could. Hence, in order that\nthe picture of life should not prove too depressing, the writer must\nprovide himself in due season with a philosophy. This philosophy still\nplays the part of the magic wand in literature, enabling the author to\nturn anything he likes into anything else.\n\nMost of Turgenev's works are curious in respect of philosophy. But most\ncurious is his _Diary of a Superfluous Man_. Turgenev was the first to\nintroduce the term \"a superfluous man\" into Russian literature. Since\nthen an endless amount has been written about superfluous people,\nalthough up till now nothing important has been added to what was\nalready said fifty years ago. There are superfluous people, plenty of\nthem. But what is to be done with them? No one knows. There remains\nonly to invent philosophies on their behalf. In 1850 Turgenev, then\na young man, thus solved the problem. He ends the _Diary_--with a\nhumorous postscript, supposed to have been scribbled by an impertinent\nreader on the last fly-leaf of the MS.\n\n_This MS. was ready and contents thereof disapproved_,\n\n_by Peter Zudotyeshin. M.M.M.M_.\n\n_Dear Sir, Peter Zudotyeshin, My dear Sir_.\n\nIt is obvious Turgenev felt that after a tragedy must follow a farce,\nand therein lies the substance of his philosophy. It is also obvious\nthat in this feeling he has the whole of European civilisation behind\nhim. Turgenev was the most educated, the most cultured of all Russian\nwriters. He spent nearly all his life abroad, and absorbed into himself\nall that European learning could offer. He knew this, although he never\ndirectly admitted it, owing to an exaggerated modesty which sometimes\nirritates us by its obviousness. He believed profoundly that only\nlearning, only European science could open men's eyes to life, and\nexplain all that needed explanation. According to this belief he judges\neven Tolstoy. \"The saddest instance of the lack of real freedom,\" the\nsixty-year-old Turgenev writes _of War and Peace_, in his literary\nmemoirs: \"the saddest instance of the lack of real freedom, arising\nfrom the lack of real knowledge, is revealed to us in Leo Tolstoy's\nlatest work, a work which at the same time, by virtue of its creative,\npoetic force, ranks almost first among all that has appeared in\nRussian literature since 1840. No! without culture, without freedom in\nthe widest sense, freedom within oneself, freedom from preconceived\nideas, freedom with regard to one's own nation and history, without\nthis, the real artist is unthinkable; without this free air he cannot\nbreathe.\" Listening to Turgenev one might imagine that he had learned\nsome great secret in the West, a secret which gave him the right to\nbear himself cheerfully and modestly when other people despaired and\nlost their heads.... A year after the writing of the literary memoirs\nabove quoted, Turgenev happened to be present at the execution of the\nnotorious murderer, Tropman. His impressions are superbly rendered in a\nlong article called \"Tropman's Execution.\" The description produces a\nsoul-shaking effect upon the reader; for I think I shall not exaggerate\nif I say that the essay is one of the best, at least one of the most\nvigorous of Turgenev's writings. It is true that Tolstoy describes\nscenes of slaughter with no less vigour, and therefore the reader need\nnot yield too much to the artist's power. Yet when Turgenev relates\nthat, at the decisive moment, when the executioners like spiders on\na fly threw themselves on Tropman and bore him to the ground--\"the\nearth quietly swam away from under my feet\"--we are forced to believe\nhim. Men respond only faintly to the horrors that take place around\nthem, except at moments, when the savage, crying incongruity and\nghastliness of our condition suddenly reveals itself vivid before our\neyes, and we are forced to know what we are. Then the ground slides\naway from under our feet. But not for long. The horror of the sensation\nof groundlessness quickly brings man to himself. He must forget\neverything, he must only get his feet on earth again. In this sense\nTurgenev proved himself in as risky a state at sixty as he was when, as\na young man, he wrote his _Diary of a Superfluous Man._ The description\nof Tropman's execution ends with these words: \"Who can fail to feel\nthat the question of capital punishment is one of the urgent, immediate\nproblems which modern humanity must settle? I shall be satisfied ...\nif my story will provide even a few arguments for those who advocate\nthe abolition, or at least the suppression of the publicity of capital\npunishments.\" Again the mountain has brought forth a mouse. After\na tragedy, a farce. Philosophy enters into her power, and the earth\nreturns under one's feet.\n\nI emphasise and repeat: Turgenev is not alone responsible for his\nattitude. With his lips speaks the whole of European civilisation. On\nprinciple all insoluble problems are rejected. During her thousand\nyears of experience, the old civilisation has acquired the skill which\nallows her children to derive satisfaction and benefit out of anything,\neven the blood of their neighbour. Even the greatest horrors, even\ncrimes are beneficial, properly construed. Turgenev was, as we know,\na soft, \"humane\" man, an undoubted idealist. In his youth he had been\nthrough the Hegelian school. And from Hegel he learned what an enormous\nvalue education has, and how supremely important it is for an educated\nman to have a complete and finished--most certainly a \"finished\"\nphilosophy.\n\n\n18\n\nTo praise oneself is considered improper, immodest; to praise one's\nown sect, one's own philosophy, is considered the highest duty. Even\nthe best writers have taken at least as much trouble to glorify their\nphilosophy as to found it, and have always had more success in the\nformer case than in the latter. Their ideas, whether proven or not, are\nthe dearest possession in life to them, in sorrow a consolation, in\ndifficulty a source of counsel. Even death is not terrible to ideas;\nthey will follow man beyond the grave, they are the only imperishable\nriches. All this the philosophers repeat, very eloquently repeat and\nreiterate concerning their ideas, not less skilfully than advocates\nplead their cases on behalf of thieves and swindlers. But nobody has\never yet called a philosopher \"a hired conscience,\" though everybody\ngives the lawyer this nickname. Why this partiality?\n\n\n19\n\nCertain savage tribes believe that their kings need no food, neither\nto eat nor to drink. As a matter of fact, kings eat and drink, and\neven relish a good mouthful more than ordinary mortals. So, having\nno desire, even for the sake of form, to abstain too long, they not\ninfrequently interrupt the long-drawn-out religious ceremonies of\ntheir tribes, in order to command refreshment for their frail bodies.\nBut none must witness, or even be aware of this refreshing, and so\nwhile he eats the king is hidden within a purple pall. Metaphysicians\nremind one of these savage kings. They want everyone to believe that\nempiricism, which means all reality and substantial existence, is\nnothing to them, they need only pure ideas for their existence. In\norder to keep up this fiction, they appear before the world invested\nin a purple veil of fine words. The crowd knows perfectly well that\nit is all a take-in, but since it likes shows and bright colours, and\nsince also it has no ambition to appear too knowing, it rarely betrays\nthat it has caught the trick of the comedy. On the contrary, it loves\nto pretend to be fooled, knowing by instinct that actors always do\ntheir best when the audience believes implicitly in what happens. Only\ninexperienced youths and children, unaware of the great importance of\nthe conventional attitude, now and then cry out in indignation and\ngive the lie to the performance: like the child in Andersen's story,\nwho so unexpectedly and inopportunely broke the general, deliberate\nillusion by calling out--\"But the king is naked.\" Of course everybody\nknows without telling that the king is naked: that the metaphysicians\nnot only are unable to explain anything, but that hitherto they\nhave not been able to present even a single hypothesis free from\ncontradiction. It is necessary to pretend to believe that kings eat\nnothing, that philosophers have divined the secrets of the universe,\nthat arbitrary theories are more precious than empirical harvests, and\nso on. There remains only one difficulty: grownups may be won over to\nthe conventional lie, but what about the children? With them the only\nremedy is the Pythagorean system of upbringing, so glorified by Hegel.\nChildren must keep silent and not raise their voice until they realise\nthat _some_ things may not be talked about. This is our method. With\nus pupils remain silent, not only for five years, as the Pythagoreans\nrecommended, but for ten or more--until they have learned to speak like\ntheir masters. And then they are granted a freedom which is no longer\nany good to them. Perhaps they had wings, or might have had them, but\nthey have crawled all their life long in imitation of their masters,\nso how can they now dream of flight? To a well-informed man, who has\nstudied much, the very thought of the possibility of tearing himself\naway from the earth, even for a moment, is horrifying: as if he knew\nbeforehand what the result would be.\n\n\n20\n\nThe best, the most effective way of convincing a reader is to begin\none's argument with inoffensive, commonplace assertions. When suspicion\nhas been sufficiently lulled, and a certainty has been begot that what\nfollows will be a confirmation of the readers own accepted views--then\nhas the moment arrived to speak one's mind openly, but still in the\nsame easy tone, as if there were no break in the flow of truisms. The\nlogical connection is unimportant. Consequence of manner and intonation\nis much more impressive than consequence of ideas. The thing to do is\nto go on, in the same suave tone, from uttering a series of banalities\nto expressing a new and dangerous thought, without any break. If you\nsucceed in this, the business is done. The reader will not forget--the\nnew words will plague and torment him until he has accepted them.\n\n\n21\n\nThe habit of logical thinking kills imagination. Man is convinced that\nthe only way to truth is through logic, and that any departure from\nthis way leads to error and absurdity. The nearer we approach the\nultimate questions of existence, in our departure from logicality,\nthe more deadly becomes the state of error we fall into. The Ariadne\nball has become all unwound long ago, and man is at the end of the\ntether. But he does not know, he holds the end of the thread firmly,\nand marks time with energy on the same spot, imagining his progress,\nand little realising the ridiculous situation into which he has\nfallen. How should he realise, considering the innumerable precautions\nhe has taken to prevent himself from losing the logical way? He had\nbetter have stayed at home. Once he set out, once he decided to be\na Theseus and kill the Minotaur, he should have given himself up,\nforfeited the old attachment, and been ready _never to escape from the\nlabyrinth_. True, he would have risked losing Ariadne: and this is\nwhy long journeys should be undertaken only after family connections\nhave become a burden. Such being the case, a man deliberately cuts\nthe thread which binds him to hearth and home, so that he may have a\nlegitimate excuse to his conscience for not going back. Philosophy must\nhave nothing in common with logic; philosophy is an art which aims at\nbreaking the logical continuity of argument and bringing man out on\nthe shoreless sea of imagination, the fantastic tides where everything\nis equally possible and impossible. Certainly it is difficult, given\nsedentary habits of life, to be a good philosopher. The fact that the\nfate of philosophy has ever lain in the hands of professors can only be\nexplained by the reluctance of the envious gods to give omniscience to\nmortals. Whilst stay-at-home persons are searching for truth, the apple\nwill stay on the tree. The business must be undertaken by homeless\nadventurers, born nomads, to whom _ubi bene ibi patria_. It seems to me\nthat but for his family and his domesticity, Count Tolstoy, who lives\nto such a ripe old age, might have told us a great many important and\ninteresting things. Or, perhaps, had he not married, like Nietzsche\nhe would have gone mad. \"If you turn to the right, you will marry, if\nto the left, you will be killed.\" A true philosopher never chooses\nthe middle course; he needs no riches, he does not know what to do\nwith money. But whether he turns to the right or to the left, nothing\npleasant awaits him.\n\n\n22\n\nScratch a Russian and you will find a Tartar. Culture is an age-long\ndevelopment, and sudden grafting of it upon a race rarely succeeds.\nTo us in Russia, civilisation came suddenly, whilst we were still\nsavages. At once she took upon herself the responsibilities of a tamer\nof wild animals, first working with decoys and baits, and later, when\nshe felt her power, with threats. We quickly submitted. In a short\ntime we were swallowing in enormous doses those poisons which Europe\nhad been gradually accustoming herself to, gradually assimilating\nthrough centuries. Thanks to which, the transplanting of civilisation\ninto Russia turns out to be no mild affair. A Russian had only to\ncatch a whiff of European atmosphere, and his head began to swim. He\ninterpreted in his own way, savage-like, whatever he heard of western\nsuccess. Hearing about railways, agricultural machines, schools,\nmunicipalities, his imagination painted miracles: universal happiness,\nboundless freedom, paradise, wings, etc. And the more impossible his\ndreams, the more eager he was to believe them real. How disillusioned\nwith Europe the westerner _Herzen_ became, after living for years on\nend abroad! Yet, with all his acuteness, it did not occur to him that\nEurope was not in the least to blame for his disillusionment. Europe\nhad dropped miracles ages ago; she contented herself with ideals. It\nis we in Russia who will go on confusing miracles with ideals, as if\nthe two were identical, whereas they have nothing to do with each\nother. As a matter of fact, just because Europe had ceased to believe\nin miracles, and realised that all human problems resolve down to mere\narrangements here on earth, ideas and ideals had been invented. But\nthe Russian bear crept out of his hole and strolled to Europe for the\nelixir of life, the flying carpet, the seven-leagued shoes, and so on,\nthinking in all his na\u00efvet\u00e9 that railways and electricity were signs\nwhich clearly proved that the old nurse never told a lie in her fairy\ntales.... All this happened just at the moment when Europe had finally\nmade away with alchemy and astrology, and started on the positive\nresearches resulting in chemistry and astronomy.\n\n\n23\n\nThe first assumption of all metaphysics is, that by dialectic\ndevelopment of any concept a whole system can be evolved. Of course the\ninitial concept, the _a priori_, is generally unsound, so there is no\nneed to mention the deductions. But since it is very difficult in the\nrealm of abstract thought to distinguish a lie from truth, metaphysical\nsystems often have a very convincing appearance. The chief defect only\nappears incidentally, when the taste for dialectic play becomes blunted\nin man, as it did in Turgenev towards the end of his life, so that he\nrealises the uselessness of philosophical systems. It is related that\na famous mathematician, after hearing a musical symphony to the end,\ninquired, \"What does it prove?\" Of course, it proves nothing, except\nthat the mathematician had no taste for music. And to him who has no\ntaste for dialectics, metaphysics can prove nothing, either. Therefore,\nthose who are interested in the success of metaphysics must always\nencourage the opinion that a taste for dialectics is a high distinction\nin a man, proving the loftiness of his soul.\n\n\n24\n\nMan is used to having convictions, so there we are. We can none of us\ndo without our hangers-on, though we despise them at the bottom of our\nsouls.\n\n\n25\n\nSocrates and Plato tried to determine under the shifting change of\nappearance the immutable, unchanging reality. In the Platonic \"ideas\"\nthe attempt was incarnated. The visible reality, never true to itself,\nassuming numberless varying forms, this is not the genuine reality.\nThat which is real must be constant. Hence the ideas of objects are\nreal, and the objects themselves are fictitious. Thus the root of\nthe Platonic philosophy appears to be a fundamental defect in human\nreasoning--a defect regarded as the highest merit. It is difficult\nfor the philosopher to get a good grasp of this agitated, capricious\nlife, and so he decides that it is not life at all, but a figment.\nDialectics is supreme only over general concepts--and the general\nconcepts are promoted to an ideal. Since Plato and Socrates, only\nsuch philosophers have succeeded largely who have taught that the\nunchangeable is preferable to the changeable, the eternal to the\ntemporal. The ordinary individual, who lives unconsciously, never\nreckoning his spiritual credit against his spiritual debit, naturally\nregards the philosopher as his legitimate book-keeper, keeper of\nthe soul's accounts. Already in Greece the Athenian youth watched\nwith passionate interest the dexterity which Socrates displayed in\nhis endeavour to restore by means of dialectics the lost \"ultimate\nfoundations\" of human conduct. Now in book-keeping, as we are aware,\nnot a single farthing must disappear untraceably. Socrates was trying\nto come up to expectations. The balance between man's spiritual assets\nand liabilities was with him ideally established. Perhaps in this\nlies the secret of that strange attraction he exerted even over such\nvolatile and unsteady natures as that of Alcibiades, drawing the young\nmen to him so that they were attached to him with all their soul.\nAlcibiades had long since lost all count of his spiritual estate, and\ntherefore from time to time he had need to recourse to Socrates, who\nby speeches and dissertations could bring order into chaos and harmony\ninto the spiritual confusion of his young friend. Alcibiades turned to\nSocrates to be relieved. Of course, he sought relief in order that\nhe might begin again his riotous living: rest is so sweet to a tired\nman. But to conclude that because Alcibiades exhausted himself, and\nbecause rest is sweet, therefore all men must rest, this is absurd. Yet\nSocrates dictated this conclusion, in all his ideas. He wished that\nall men should rest, rest through eternity, that they should see their\nhighest fulfilment in this resting. It is easier to judge of Socrates\nsince we have Count Tolstoy with us. Probably the physiognomist Topir\nwould say of Tolstoy as he said of Socrates, that there are many evil\npropensities lurking in him. Topir is not here to speak, but Tolstoy\nhas told us himself how wicked he found his own nature, how he had to\nstruggle with it. Tolstoy is not naturally over-courageous; by long\neffort he has trained himself to be bold. How afraid of death he was\nin his youth And how cleverly he could conceal that fear. Later on,\nin mature age, it was still the fear of death which inspired him to\nwrite his confession. He was conquering that fear, and with it all\nother fears. For he felt that, since fear is very difficult to master\nin oneself, man must be a much higher being when he has learned not\nto be afraid any more. Meanwhile, who knows? Perhaps \"cowardice,\"\nthat miserable, despicable, much-abused weakness of the underworld,\nis not such a vice after all. Perhaps it is even a virtue. Think of\nDostoevsky and his heroes, think of Hamlet. If the underworld man in us\nwere afraid of nothing, if Hamlet was naturally a gladiator, then we\nshould have neither tragic poetry nor philosophy. It is a platitude,\nthat fear of death has been the inspiration of philosophers. Numberless\nquotations could be drawn from ancient and modern writers, if they\nwere necessary. Maybe the poetic daimon of Socrates, which made him\nwise, was only fear personified. Or perhaps it was his dark dreams.\nThat which troubled him by day did not quit him by night. Even after\nthe sentence of death Socrates dreamed that he ought to engage in the\narts, so in order not to provoke the gods he began to compose verses,\nat the age of seventy. Tolstoy also at the age of fifty began to\nperform good deeds, to which performance he had previously given not\nthe slightest attention. If it were our custom nowadays to express\nourselves mythologically, we should no doubt hear Tolstoy telling us\nabout his daimon or his dreams. Instead he squares his accounts with\nscience and morality, in place of gods or demons. Many a present-day\nAlcibiades, who laves all the week in the muddy waters of life, comes\non Sundays to cleanse himself in the pure stream of Tolstoyian ideas.\nBook-keeping is satisfied with this modest success, and assumes that\nif it commands universal attention one day in the week, then obviously\nit is the sum and essence of life, beyond which man needs nothing. On\nthe same grounds the keepers of public baths could argue that, since\nso many people come to them on Saturdays, therefore cleanliness is the\nhighest ambition of man, and during the week no one should stir at all,\nlest he sweat or soil himself.\n\n\n26\n\nIn an old French writer, a contemporary of Pascal, I came across\nthe following remarkable words: \"L'homme est si miserable que\n_l'inconstance avec laquelle il abandonne ses desseins est, en quelque\nsorte, sa plus grande vertu_; parce qu'il temoigne par l\u00e0 qu'il y a\nencore en lui quelque reste de grandeur qui le porte \u00e0 se d\u00e9gouter de\nchoses qui ne m\u00e9ritent pas son amour et son estime.\" What a long way\nmodern thought has travelled from even the possibility of such an\nassumption. To consider inconstancy the finest human virtue! Surely in\norder to get somewhere in life it is necessary to give the whole self,\none's whole energy to the service of some one particular purpose. In\norder to be a _virtuoso_, a master of one's art and one's instrument,\nit is necessary with a truly angelic or asinine patience to try over\nand over again, dozens, hundreds, thousands of times, different ways\nof expressing one's ideas or moods, sparing neither labour, nor time,\nnor health. Everything else must take a second place. The first must\nbe occupied by \"the Art.\" Goncharov, in his novel _Obryv_, cleverly\nrelates how a 'cellist struggled all day, like a fish against the ice,\nsawing and sawing away, so that later on, in the evening, he might play\nsuper-excellently well. And that is the general idea. Objectionable,\ntedious, irritating labour,--this is the condition of genius, which no\ndoubt explains the reason why men so rarely achieve anything. Genius\nmust submit to cultivate an ass within itself--the condition being so\nhumiliating that man will seldom take up the job. The majority prefer\ntalent, that medium which lies between genius and mediocrity. And many\na time, towards the end of life, does the genius repent of his choice.\n\"It would be better not to startle the world, but to live at one with\nit,\" says Ibsen in his last drama. Genius is a wretched, blind maniac,\nwhose eccentricities are condoned because of what is got from him. And\nstill we all bow to persevering talent, to the only god in whom we\nmoderns believe, and the eulogy of inconstancy will awake very little\nsympathy in our hearts. Probably we shall not even regard it seriously.\n\n\n27\n\nWe very often express in a categorical form a judgment of which we do\nnot feel assured, we even lay stress on its absolute validity. We want\nto see what opposition it will arouse, and this can be achieved only by\nstating our assumption not as a tentative suggestion, which no one will\nconsider, but as an irrefutable, all-important truth. The greater the\nvalue an assumption has for us, the more carefully do we conceal any\nsuggestion of its improbability.\n\n\n28\n\nLiterature deals with the most difficult and important problems of\nexistence, and, therefore, litt\u00e9rateurs consider themselves the most\nimportant of people. A bank clerk, who is always handing money out,\nmight just as well consider himself a millionaire. The high estimate\nplaced upon unexplained, unsolved questions ought really to discredit\nwriters in our eyes. And yet these literary men are so clever, so\ncunning at stating their own case and revealing the high importance of\ntheir mission, that in the long run they convince everybody, themselves\nmost of all. This last event is surely owing to their own limited\nintelligence. The Romans augurs had subtler, more versatile minds. In\norder to deceive others, they had no need to deceive themselves. In\ntheir own set they were not afraid to talk about their secrets, even\nto make fun of them, being fully confident that they could easily\nvindicate themselves before outsiders, in case of necessity, and pull\na solemn face befitting the occasion. But our writers of to-day,\nbefore they can lay their improbable assertions before the public,\nmust inevitably try to be convinced in their own minds. Otherwise they\ncannot begin.\n\n\n29\n\n\"The writer is writing away, the reader is reading away\"--the writer\ndoesn't care what the reader is after, the reader doesn't care what the\nwriter is about. Such a state of things hurt Schedrin very much. He\nwould have liked it different; no sooner has the writer said a word,\nthan the reader at once scales the wall. This was his ideal. But the\nreader is by no means so naive as all that. He prefers to rest easy,\nand insists that the writer shall climb the wall for him. So those\nauthors succeed with the public who write \"with their heart's blood.\"\nConventional tournaments, even the most brilliant, do not attract the\nmasses any more than the connoisseurs. People rush to see a fight of\ngladiators, where awaits them a scent of real, hot, smoking blood,\nwhere they are going to see real, not pretended victims.\n\nThus many writers, like gladiators, shed their blood to gratify that\nmodern Caesar, the mob. \"_Salve, Caesar, morituri te salutant_!\"\n\n\n30\n\nAnton Tchekhov tells the truth neither out of love or respect for the\ntruth, nor yet because, in the Kantian manner, a high duty bids him\nnever to tell a lie, even to escape death. Neither has he the impulse\nwhich so often pushes young and fiery souls into rashness; that desire\nto stand erect, to keep the head high. On the contrary, Tchekhov always\nwalks with a stoop, his head bent down, never fixing his eyes on the\nheavens, since he will read no signs there. If he tells the truth, it\nis because the most reeking lie no longer intoxicates him, even though\nhe swallow it not in the modest doses that idealism offers, but in\nimmoderate quantities, thousand-gallon-barrel gulps. He would taste the\nbitterness, but it would not make his head turn, as it does Schiller's,\nor Dostoevsky's, or even Socrates', whose head, as we know, could stand\nany quantity of wine, but went spinning with the most commonplace lie.\n\n\n31\n\n_Noblesse Oblige_.--The moment of obligation, compulsion, duty, that\nmoment described by Kant as the essential, almost the only predicate\nof moral concepts, serves chiefly to indicate that Kant was modest in\nhimself and in his attitude towards all whom he addressed, perceiving\nin all men beings subject to the ennobling effect of morality.\n_Noblesse oblige_ is a motto not for the aristocracy, which recognises\nin its privileges its own instant duties, but for the self-made,\nwealthy _parvenues_ who pant for an illustrious title. They have\nbeen accustomed to telling lies, to playing poltroon, swindling, and\nmeanness, and the necessity for speaking the truth impartially, for\nbravely facing danger, for freely giving of their fortunes scares\nthem beyond measure. Therefore it is necessary that they should\nrepeat it to themselves and to their children, in whose veins the\nlying, sneaking blood still runs, hourly, lest they forget: \"You must\nnot tell lies, you must be open, magnanimous.\" It is silly, it is\nincomprehensible--but \"_noblesse oblige_.\"\n\n\n32\n\n_Homo homini lupus_ is one of the most steadfast maxims of eternal\nmorality. In each of our neighbours we fear a wolf. \"This fellow is\nevil-minded, if he is not restrained by law he will ruin us,\" so we\nthink every time a man gets out of the rut of sanctified tradition.\n\nThe fear is just. We are so poor, so weak, so easily ruined and\ndestroyed! How can we help being afraid! And yet, behind danger and\nmenace there is usually hidden something significant, which merits\nour close and sympathetic attention. But fear's eyes are big. We see\ndanger, danger only, we build up a fabric of morality inside which\nas in a fortress we sit out of danger all our lives. Only poets have\nundertaken to praise dangerous people--Don Juans, Fausts, Tannha\u00fcsers.\nBut nobody takes the poets seriously. Common-sense values a\ncommercial-traveller or a don much more highly than a Byron, a Goethe,\nor a Moli\u00e8re.\n\n\n33\n\nThe possibilities which open out before mankind are sufficiently\nlimited. It is impossible to see everything, impossible to know\neverything, impossible to rise too high above the earth, impossible\nto penetrate too deeply down. What has been is hidden away, what will\nbe we cannot anticipate, and we know for certain that we shall never\ngrow wings. Regularity, immutably regular succession of phenomena puts\na term to our efforts, drives us into a regular, narrow, hard-beaten\nroad of everyday life. But even on this road we may not wander from\nside to side. We must watch our feet, consider each step, since the\nmoment we are off our guard disaster is upon us. Another life is\nconceivable, however: life in which the word disaster does not exist,\nwhere responsibility for one's actions, even if it be not completely\nabolished, at least has not such a deadly and accidental weight,\nand where, on the other hand, there is no \"regularity,\" but rather\nan infinite number of possibilities. In such a life the sense of\nfear--most disgraceful to us--disappears. There the virtues are not\nthe same as ours. Fearlessness in face of danger, liberality, even\nlavishness are considered virtues with us, but they are respected\nwithout any grounds. Socrates was quite right when he argued that not\nall courage, but only the courage which measures beforehand the risks\nand the chances of victory, is fully justifiable. To the same extent\nthose economical, careful people who condemn lavishness are in the\nright. Fearlessness and lavishness do not suit mortal men, rather it\nbecomes them to tremble and to count every penny, seeing what a state\nof poverty and impotence they exist in. That is why these two virtues\nare so rarely met with, and when they are met, why they arouse such\nsuperstitious reverence in the crowd. \"This man fears nothing and\nspares nothing: he is probably not a man, but a demi-god, perhaps even\na god.\" Socrates did not believe in gods, so he wanted to justify\nvirtue by reason. Kant also did not believe in God, and therefore he\nderived his morals from \"Law.\" But if there is God, and all men are the\nchildren of God, then we should be afraid of nothing and spare nothing.\nAnd then the man who madly dissipates his own life and fortunes, and\nthe lives and fortunes of others, is more right than the calculating\nphilosophers who vainly seek to regulate mankind on earth.\n\n\n34\n\nMoral people are the most revengeful of mankind, they employ their\nmorality as the best and most subtle weapon of vengeance. They are\nnot satisfied with simply despising and condemning their neighbour\n_themselves_, they want the condemnation to be universal and supreme:\nthat is, that all men should rise as one against the condemned, _and\nthat even the offender's own conscience shall be against him_. Then\nonly are they fully satisfied and reassured. Nothing on earth but\nmorality could lead to such wonderful results.\n\n\n35\n\n_Inveterate wickedness_.--Heretics were often most bitterly persecuted\nfor their least digression from accepted belief. It was just their\nobstinacy in trifles that irritated the righteous to madness. \"Why\ncan they not yield on so trifling a matter? They cannot possibly have\nserious cause for opposition. They only want to grieve us, to spite\nus.\" So the hatred mounted up, piles of faggots and torture machines\nappeared against obdurate wickedness.\n\n\n36\n\nI do not know where I came across the remark, whether in Tolstoy or\nTurgenev, that those who have been subjected to trial in the courts\nof justice always acquire a particularly noble expression of face.\nAlthough logic does so earnestly recommend caution in the forming\nof contradictory conclusions, come what may I shall for once risk a\ndeduction: a noble expression of face is a sign that a man has been\nunder trial--but certainly not a trial for political crime--for theft\nor bribe-taking.\n\n\n37\n\nThe most important and significant revelations come into the world\nnaked, without a wordy garment. To find words for them is a delicate,\ndifficult business, a whole art. Stupidities and banalities, on the\ncontrary, appear at once in ready-made apparel, gaudy even if shabby.\nSo that they are ready straight away to be presented to the public.\n\n\n38\n\nA strange impatience has taken possession of Russian writers lately.\nThey are all running a race after the \"ultimate words.\" They have no\ndoubt that the ultimate words will be attained. The question is, who\nwill lay hold of them first.\n\n\n39\n\nThe appearance of Socrates on the philosophic horizon is hailed by\nhistorians as the greatest event. Morals were beginning to work\nloose, Athens was threatened with ruin. Socrates' mission was to put\nan end to the violent oscillation in moral judgments which extreme\nindividualism on the one hand and the relativism of the sophists on\nthe other had set up. The great teacher did all he could. He gave\nup his usual occupations and his family life, he took no thought for\nthe morrow, he taught, taught, taught--simple people or eminent, wise\nor foolish, ignorant or learned. Notwithstanding, he did not save\nthe country. Under Pericles, Athens flourished without wisdom, or at\nleast independently of Socratic wisdom. After Pericles, in spite of\nthe fact that the Socratic teaching found such a genius as Plato to\ncontinue it, Athens steadily declined, and Aristotle is already master\nto the son of Philip of Macedon. Whence it is obvious that the wisdom\nof Socrates had not saved the country, and as this had been its chief\nobject, it had failed in its object, and therefore was not worthy of\nthe exaggerated respect it received. It is necessary to find some\njustification for philosophy other than country-saving. This would\nbe the easiest thing in the world. But altogether we must give up\nthe favourite device of the philosophers, of looking to find in the\nwell-being of society the _raison d'\u00eatre_ of philosophy. At the best,\nthe trick was a risky one. As a rule, wisdom goes one way, society the\nother. They are artificially connected. It is public orators who have\ntrained both the philosophers and the masses to regard as worthy of\nattention only those considerations which have absolutely everything on\ntheir side: social utility, morality, even metaphysical wisdom.... Why\nso much? Is it not sufficient if some new project will prove useful?\nWhy try to get the sanction of morality and metaphysics? Nay, once the\nlaws of morality are autonomous, and once ideas are allowed to stand\nabove the empirical needs of mankind, it is impossible to balance ideas\nand morality with social requirements, or even with the salvation of\nthe Country from ruin. _Pereat mundus, fiat philosophia_. If Athens\nwas ruined because of philosophy, philosophy is not impugned. So the\nautonomous thinker should hold. But _de facto_ a thinker does not like\nquarrelling with his country.\n\n\n40\n\nWhen a writer has to express an idea whose foundation he has not\nbeen able to establish, and which yet is dear to his heart, so that\nhe earnestly wishes to secure its general acceptance, as a rule he\ninterrupts his exposition, as if to take breath, and makes a small, or\nat times a serious digression, during which he proves the invalidity\nof this or that proposition, often without any reference to his\nreal theme. Having triumphantly exposed one or more absurdities, and\nthus acquired the aplomb of a solid expert, he returns to his proper\ntask, calculating that now he will inspire his reader with greater\nconfidence. His calculation is perfectly justified. The reader is\nafraid to attack such a skilled dialectician, and prefers to agree\nrather than to risk himself in argument. Not even the greatest\nintellects, particularly in philosophy, disdain such stratagems. The\nidealists, for example, before expounding their theories, turn and rend\nmaterialism. The materialists, we remember, at one time did the same\nwith the idealists, and achieved a vast success.\n\n\n41\n\nTheories of sequence and consequence are binding only upon the\ndisciples, not upon the masters. Fathers of great ideas tend to be\nvery, careless about their progeny, giving very little heed to their\nfuture career. The offspring of one and the same philosopher frequently\nbear such small resemblance to one another, that it is impossible to\ndiscern the family connection. Conscientious disciples, wasting away\nunder the arduous effort to discover that which does not exist, are\nbrought to despair of their task. Having got an inkling of the truth\nconcerning their difficulty, they give up the job for ever, they cease\ntheir attempt at reconciling glaring contradictions. But then they only\ninsist the harder upon the necessity for studying the philosophers,\nstudying them minutely, circumstantially, historically, philologically\neven. So the history of philosophy is born, which now is taking the\nplace of philosophy. Certainly the history of philosophy may be an\nexact science, since by means of historical research it is often\npossible to decide what exactly a certain philosopher did mean, and in\nwhat sense he employed his peculiar terms. And seeing that there have\nbeen a fair number of philosophers, the business of clearing them all\nup is a respectable undertaking, and deserves the name of a science.\nFor a good translation or a commentary on the chief works of Kant a\nman may be given the degree of doctor of philosophy, and henceforth\nrecognised as one who is initiated in the profundities of the secrets\nof the universe. Then why ever should anybody think out new systems--or\neven write them?\n\nThe raptures of creative activity!--empty words, invented by men who\nnever had an opportunity of judging from their own experience, but who\nderive their conclusion syllogistically: \"if a creation gives us such\ndelight, what must the creator himself experience!\" Usually the creator\nfeels only vexations. Every creation is created out of the Void. At the\nbest, the maker finds himself confronted with a formless, meaningless,\nusually obstinate and stiff matter, which yields reluctantly to\nform. And he does not know how to begin. Every time a new thought is\ngendered, so often must that new thought, which for the moment seems\nso brilliant and fascinating, be thrown aside as worthless. Creative\nactivity is a continual progression from failure to failure, and the\ncondition of the creator is usually one of uncertainty, mistrust, and\nshattered nerves. The more serious and original the task which a man\nsets himself, the more tormenting is the self-misgiving. For this\nreason even men of genius cannot keep up the creative activity to the\nlast. As soon as they have acquired their technique, they begin to\nrepeat themselves, well aware that the public willingly endures the\nmonotony of a favourite, even finds virtue in it. Every connoisseur of\nart is satisfied if he recognises in a new work the accepted \"manner\"\nof the artist. Few realise that the acquiring of a manner is the\nbeginning of the end. Artists realise well enough, and would be glad\nto be rid of their manner, which seems to them a hackneyed affair. But\nthis requires too great a strain on their powers, new torments, doubts,\nnew groping. He who has once been through the creative raptures is not\neasily tempted to try again. He prefers to turn out work according\nto the pattern he has evolved, calmly and securely, assured of his\nresults. Fortunately no one except himself knows that he is not any\nlonger a creator. What a lot of secrets there are in the world, and how\neasy it is to keep one's secret safe from indiscreet glances!\n\n\n43\n\nA writer works himself up to a pitch of ecstasy, otherwise he does\nnot take up his pen. But ecstasy is not so easily distinguished from\nother kinds of excitement. And as a writer is always in haste to write,\nhe has rarely the patience to wait, but at the first promptings of\nanimation begins to pour himself forth. So in the name of ecstasy we\nare offered such quantities of banal, by no means ecstatic effusions.\nParticularly easy it is to confound with ecstasy that very common\nsort of spring-time liveliness which in our language is well-named\ncalf-rapture. And calf-rapture is much more acceptable to the public\nthan true inspiration or genuine transport. It is easier, more familiar.\n\n\n44\n\nA school axiom: logical scepticism refutes itself, since the denial\nof the possibility of positive knowledge is already an affirmation.\nBut, in the first place, scepticism is not bound to be logical, for\nit has no desire whatever to gratify that dogma which raises logic to\nthe position of law. Secondly, where is the philosophic theory which,\nif carried to its extreme, would not destroy itself? Therefore, why is\nmore demanded from scepticism than from other systems? especially from\nscepticism, which honestly avows that it cannot give that which all\nother theories claim to give.\n\n\n45\n\nThe Aristotelian logic, which forms the chief component in modern\nlogic, arose, as we know, as a result of the permanent controversies\nwhich were such sport to the Greeks. In order to argue, it is indeed\nnecessary to have a common ground; in other words, to agree about the\nrules of the game. But in our day dialectic tournaments, like all\nother bouts of contention, no longer attract people. Thus logic may be\nrelegated to the background.\n\n\n46\n\nIn Gogol's _Portrait_, the artist despairs at the thought that he has\nsacrificed art for the sake of \"life.\" In Ibsen's drama, _When We Dead\nAwaken_, there is also an artist, who has become world-famous, and who\nrepents that he has sacrificed his life--to art. Now, choose--which of\nthe two ways of repentance do you prefer?\n\n\n47\n\nMan is often quite indifferent to success whilst he has it. But once he\nloses his power over people, he begins to fret. And--vice versa.\n\n\n48\n\nTurgenev's Insarov strikes the imagination of Elena because he is a\nman preparing for battle. She prefers him to Shubin the painter, or to\nBerseniev the savant. Since ancient days women have looked with favour\non warriors rather than on peaceful men. Had Turgenev invested that\nidea with less glamour, he would probably not have become the ideal of\nthe young. Who does not get a thrill from Elena and her elect? Who has\nnot felt the fascination of Turgenev's women! And yet all of them give\nthemselves to the _strong_ male. With such \"superior people,\" as with\nbeasts, the males fight with each other, the woman looks on, and when\nit is over, she submits herself the slave of the conqueror.\n\n\n49\n\nA caterpillar is transformed into a chrysalis, and for a long\ntime lives in a warm, quiet little world. Perhaps if it had human\nconsciousness it would declare that _that_ world was the best, perhaps\nthe only one possible to live in. But there comes a time when some\nunknown influence causes the little creature to begin the work of\ndestruction. If other caterpillars could see it how horrified they\nwould be, revolted to the bottom of their soul by the awful work in\nwhich the insurgent is engaged. They would call it immoral, godless,\nthey would begin to talk about pessimism, scepticism, and so on. To\ndestroy what has cost such labour to construct! Why, what is wrong\nwith this complete, cosy, comfortable little world? To keep it intact\nthey call to their aid sacred morality and the idealistic theory of\nknowledge. Nobody cares that the caterpillar has grown wings, that when\nit has nibbled its old nest away it will fly out into space--nobody\ngives a thought to this.\n\nWings--that is mysticism; self-nibbling--this is actuality. Those who\nare engaged in such actuality deserve torture and execution. And there\nare plenty of prisons and voluntary hangmen on the bright earth. The\nmajority of books are prisons, and great authors are not bad hangmen.\n\n\n50\n\nNietzsche and Dostoevsky seem to be typical \"inverted simulators,\" if\none may use the expression. They imitated spiritual sanity, although\nthey were spiritually insane. They knew their morbidity well enough,\nbut they exhibited their disease only to that extent where freakishness\npasses for originality. With the sensitiveness peculiar to all who are\nin constant danger, they never went beyond the limits. The axe of the\nguillotine of public opinion hung over them: one awkward move, and\nthe execution automatically takes place. But they knew how to avoid\nunwarrantable moves.\n\n\n51\n\nThe so-called ultimate questions troubled mankind in the world's dawn\nas badly as they trouble us now. Adam and Eve wanted \"to know,\" and\nthey plucked the fruit at their risk. Cain, whose sacrifice did not\nplease God, raised his hand against his brother: and it seemed to him\nhe committed murder in the name of justice, in vindication of his\nown injured rights. Nobody has ever been able to understand why God\npreferred Abel's sacrifice to that of Cain. In our own day Sallieri\nrepeats Cain's vengeance and poisons his friend and benefactor Mozzart,\naccording to the poem of Poushkin. \"All say, there is no justice on\nearth; but there is no justice up above: this is as clear to me as a\nsimple scale of music.\" No man on earth can fail to recognise in these\nwords his own tormenting doubts. The outcome is creative tragedy,\nwhich for some mysterious reason has been considered up till now as\nthe highest form of human creation. Everything is being unriddled and\nexplained. If we compare our knowledge with that of the ancients,\nwe appear very wise. But we are no nearer to solving the riddle\nof eternal justice than Cain was. Progress, civilisation, all the\nconquests of the human mind have brought us nothing new here. Like our\nancestors, we stand still with fright and perplexity before ugliness,\ndisease, misery, senility, death. All that the wise men have been able\nto do so far is to turn the earthly horrors into problems. We are told\nthat perhaps all that is horrible only _appears_ horrible, that perhaps\nat the end of the long journey something new awaits us. Perhaps! But\nthe modern educated man, with the wisdom of all the centuries of\nmankind at his command, knows no more about it than the old singer\nwho solved universal problems at his own risk. We, the children of a\nmoribund civilisation, we, old men from our birth, in this respect are\nas young as the first man.\n\n\n52\n\nThey say it is impossible to set a bound between the \"I\" and society.\n_Na\u00efvet\u00e9_! Crusoes are to be found not only on desert islands. They\nare there, in populous cities. It is true they are not clad in skins,\nthey have no dark Fridays in attendance, and so nobody recognises them.\nBut surely Friday and a fur jacket do not make a Crusoe. Loneliness,\ndesertion, a boundless, shoreless sea, on which no sail has risen for\ntens of years,--do not many of our contemporaries live in such a\ncircumstance? And are they not Crusoes, to whom the rest of people have\nbecome a vague reminiscence, barely distinguishable from a dream?\n\n\n53\n\nTo be irremediably unhappy--this is shameful. An irremediably unhappy\nperson is outside the laws of the earth. Any connection between him\nand society is severed finally. And since, sooner or later, every\nindividual is doomed to irremediable unhappiness, _the last word, of\nphilosophy is loneliness_.\n\n\n54\n\n\"It is better to be an unhappy man, than a happy pig.\" The utilitarians\nhoped by this golden bridge to get over the chasm which separates them\nfrom the promised land of the ideal. But psychology stepped in and\nrudely interrupted: _There are no unhappy people, the unhappy ones are\nall pigs_. Dostoevsky's philosopher of the underworld, Raskolnikov,\nalso Hamlet, and such-like, are not simply unhappy men whose fate\nmight be esteemed, or even preferred before some happy fates; they\nare simply unhappy swine. And they themselves are principally aware of\nit.... He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.\n\n\n55\n\nIf you want people to envy you your sorrow or your shame, look as if\nyou were proud of it. If you have only enough of the actor in you, rest\nassured, you will become the hero of the day. Since the parable of the\nPharisee and the publican was uttered, what a lot of people who could\nnot fulfil their sacred duties pretended to be publicans and sinners,\nand so aroused sympathy, even envy.\n\n\n56\n\nPhilosophers dearly love to call their utterances \"truths,\" since\nin that guise they become binding upon us all. But each philosopher\ninvents his own truths. Which means that he asks his pupils to deceive\nthemselves in the way he shows, but that he reserves for himself the\noption of deceiving himself in his own way. Why? Why not allow everyone\nto deceive himself just as he likes?\n\n\n57\n\nWhen Xanthippe poured slops over Socrates, as he returned from his\nphilosophical occupations, tradition says that he observed: \"After a\nstorm there is always rain.\" Would it not be more worthy (not of the\nphilosopher, but of philosophy) to say: After one's philosophical\nexercise, one feels as if one had had Slops emptied over one's head.\nAnd therefore Xanthippe did but give outward expression to what had\ntaken place in Socrates' soul. Symbols are not always beautiful.\n\n\n58\n\nFrom the notes of an underworld man--\"I read little, I write little,\nand, it seems to me, I think little. He who is ill-disposed towards\nme will say that this shows a great defect in my character, perhaps\nhe will call me lazy, an Oblomov, and will repeat the copy-book maxim\nthat idleness is the mother of all the vices. A friend, on the other\nhand, will say it is only a temporary state, that perhaps I am not\nquite well--in short, he will find random excuses for me, more with the\nidea of consoling me than of speaking the truth. But for my part, I say\nlet us wait. If it turns out at the end of my life that I have 'done'\nnot less than others--why, then--it will mean that idleness may be a\nvirtue.\"\n\n\n59\n\nB\u00f6rne, a contemporary of Heine, was very much offended when his enemies\ninsisted on explaining his misanthropic outpourings as the result of a\nstomach and liver disease. It seemed to him much nobler and loftier to\nbe indignant and angry because of the triumph of evil on earth, than\nbecause of the disorders of his own physical organs. Sentimentality\napart--was he right, and is it really nobler?\n\n\n60\n\nA real writer _disdains_ to repeat from hearsay events which he has\nnot witnessed. It seems to him tedious and humiliating to tell \"in\nhis own words,\" like a schoolboy, things which he has fished out of\nanother man's books. But there--how can we expect him to stoop to such\ninsignificance!\n\n\n61\n\nWhilst conscience stands between the educated and the lower classes,\nas the only possible mediator, there can be no hope for mutual\nunderstanding. Conscience demands sacrifices, nothing but sacrifices.\nIt says to the educated man: \"You are happy, well-off, learned--the\npeople are poor, unhappy, ignorant; renounce therefore your well-being,\nor else soothe your conscience with suave speeches.\" Only he who has\nnothing to sacrifice, nothing to lose, having lost everything, can hope\nto approach the people as an equal.\n\nThis is why Dostoevsky and Nietzsche were not afraid to speak in their\nown name, and did not feel compelled either to stretch up or to stoop\ndown in order to be on a level with men.\n\n\n62\n\nNot to know what you want is considered a shameful weakness. To confess\nit is to lose for ever not only the reputation of a writer, but even\nof a man. None the less, \"conscience\" demands such a confession. True,\nin this case as in most others the demands of conscience are satisfied\nonly when they incur no very dire consequences. Leaving aside the fact\nthat people are no longer terrified of the once-so-terrible public\nopinion (the public has been tamed, it listens with reverence to what\nis told to it, and never dares judge)--the admission \"I do not know\nmyself what I want\" seems to offer a guarantee of something important.\nThose who know what they want generally want trifles, and attain to\ninglorious ends: riches, fame, or at the best, progress or a philosophy\nof their own. Even now it is sometimes not a sin to laugh at such\nwonders, and may-be the time is coming when a rehabilitated Hamlet will\nannounce, not with shame but with pride: \"I don't in the least know\nwhat I want.\" And the crowd will applaud him, for the crowd always\napplauds heroes and proud men.\n\n\n63\n\nFear of death is explained conclusively by the desire for\nself-preservation. But at that rate the fear should disappear in old\nand sick people, who ought by nature to look with indifference on\ndeath. Whereas the horror of death is present in all living things.\nDoes not this suggest that there is still some other reason for the\ndread, and that even where the pangs of horror cannot save a man\nfrom his end, still it is a necessary and purposeful anguish? The\nnatural-scientific explanation here, as usual, stops halfway, and\nfails to lead the human mind to the promised goal.\n\n\n64\n\nMoral indignation is only a refined form of ancient vengeance. Once\nanger spoke with daggers, now words will do. And happy is the man who,\nloving and thirsting to chastise his offender, yet is appeased when the\noffence is punished. On account of the gratification it offers to the\npassions, morality, which has replaced bloody chastisement, will not\neasily' lose its charm. But there are offences, deep, unforgettable\noffences, inflicted not by people, but by \"laws of nature.\" How are we\nto settle these? Here neither dagger nor indignant word will serve.\nTherefore, for him who has once run foul of the laws of nature morality\nsinks, for ever or for a time, into subsidiary importance.\n\n\n65\n\nFatalism frightens people particularly in that form which holds it just\nto say, of anything that happens, or has happened, or will happen: be\nit so! How can one acquiesce in the actuality of life, when it contains\nso many horrors? But _amor fati_ does not imply eternal acquiescence\nin actuality. It is only a truce, for a more or less lasting period.\nTime is needed in which to estimate the forces and intentions of the\nenemy. Under the mask of friendship the old enmity persists, and an\nawful revenge is in preparation.\n\n\n66\n\nIn the \"ultimate questions of life\" we are not a bit nearer the truth\nthan our ancestors were. Everybody knows it, and yet so many go on\ntalking about infinity, without any hope of ever saying anything. It\nis evident that a result--in the usual acceptance of the word--is\nnot necessary. In the very last resort we trust to instinct, even in\nthe field of philosophy, where reason is supposed to reign supreme,\nuttering its eternal \"Why?\" \"Why?\" laughs at all possible \"becauses.\"\nInstinct, however, does not mock. It simply ignores the whys, and\nleads us by impossible ways to ends that our divine reason would hold\nabsurd, if it could only see them in time. But reason is a laggard,\nwithout much foresight, and, therefore, when we have run up to an\nunexpected conclusion, nothing remains but for reason to accept: or\neven to justify, to exalt the new event. And therefore,--\"reality is\nreasonable,\" say the philosophers: reasonable, not only when they\ndraw their philosophic Salaries, as the socialists, and with them our\nphilosopher Vladimir Soloviov, explain; but still reasonable even\nwhen philosophers have their maintenance taken away from them. Nay,\nin the latter case, particularly in the latter case, in spite of the\nsocialists and VI. Soloviov, reality shows herself most reasonable. A\nphilosopher persecuted, downtrodden, hungry, cold, receiving no salary,\nis nearly always an extreme fatalist--although this, of course, by no\nmeans hinders him from abusing the existing order. Theories of sequence\nand consequence, as we already know, are binding only upon disciples,\nwhose single virtue lies in their scrupulous, logical developing of the\nmaster's idea. But masters themselves _invent_ ideas, and, therefore,\nhave the right to substitute one for another. The sovereign power which\nproclaims a law has the same power to abolish it. But the duty of the\nsubordinate consists in the praise, in the consequential interpretation\nand the strict observance of the dictates of the higher will.\n\n\n67\n\nThe Pharisee in the parable fulfilled all that religion demanded of\nhim: kept his fasts, paid his tithes, etc. Had he a right to be pleased\nwith his own piety, and to despise the erring publican? Everybody\nthought so, including the Pharisee himself. _The judgment of Christ\ncame as the greatest surprise to him_. He had a clear conscience.\nHe did not merely pretend before others to be righteous, he himself\nbelieved in his own righteousness. And suddenly he turns out guilty,\nawfully guilty. But if the conscience of a righteous man does not help\nhim to distinguish between good and evil, how is he to avoid sin? What\ndoes Kant's moral law mean, that law which was as consoling as the\nstarry sky? Kant lived his life in profound peace of soul, he met his\ndeath quietly, in the consciousness of his own purity. But if Christ\ncame again, he might condemn the serene philosopher for his very\nserenity. For the Pharisee, we repeat, was righteous, if purity of\nintentions, together with a firm readiness to fulfil everything which\nappears, to him in the light of duty, be righteousness in a man.\n\n\n68\n\nWe jeer and laugh at a man not because he is ridiculous, but because\n_we_ want to have a laugh out of him. In the same way we are indignant,\nnot because this or the other act is revolting to us, but because we\nwant to let off our steam. But it does not follow from this that we\nought always to be calm and smooth. Woe to him who would try to realise\nthe ideal of justice on earth.\n\n\n69\n\nWe think with peculiar intensity during the hard moments of our\nlife--we write when we have nothing else to do. So that a writer can\nonly communicate something of importance in reproducing the past. When\nwe are driven to think, we have unfortunately no mind to write, which\naccounts for the fact that books are never more than a feeble echo of\nwhat a man has gone through.\n\n\n70\n\nTchekhov has a story called _Misfortune_ which well illustrates the\ndifficulty a man finds in adapting himself to a new truth, if this\ntruth threaten the security of his condition. The Merchant Avdeyer\ndoes not believe that he is condemned, that he has been brought to\ntrial, and tried, and found guilty, for his irregularities in a public\nbank. He still thinks the verdict is yet to come--he still waits. In\nthe world of learning something like this is happening. The educated\nhave become so accustomed to think themselves not guilty, perfectly\nin the right, that they do not admit for a moment even now that they\nare brought to court. When threatening voices reach them, calling\nthem to give an account of themselves, they only suspiciously shrug\ntheir shoulders. \"All this will pass away\"--they think. Well, when at\nlast they are convinced that misfortune has befallen them, they will\nprobably begin to justify themselves, like Avdeyer, declaring that they\ncannot even read printed matter sufficiently well. As yet, they pass\nfor respectable, wise, experienced, omniscient men.\n\n\n71\n\nIf a man had come to Dostoevsky and said to him, \"I am hopelessly\nunhappy,\" the great artist in human misery would probably, at the\nbottom of his soul, have laughed at the na\u00efvet\u00e9 of the poor creature.\nMay one confess such things of oneself? May one go to such lengths of\ncomplaint, and still expect consolation from his neighbour?\n\nHopelessness is the most solemn and supreme moment in life. Till that\npoint we have been assisted--now we are left to ourselves. Previously\nwe had to do with men and human laws--now with eternity, and with the\ncomplete absence of laws. Is it not obvious?\n\n\n72\n\nByelinsky, in his famous letter, accuses Gogol, among other things,\nthat in his _Correspondence with Friends_, he, Gogol, succumbs to the\nfear of death, of devils, and of hell. I find the accusation just:\nGogol definitely feared death, demons, and hell. The point is, whether\nit is not right to fear these things, and whether fearlessness would\nbe a proof of the high development of a man's soul. Schopenhauer\nasserts that death inspired philosophy. All the best poetry, all the\nwonderful mythology of the ancients and of modern peoples have for\ntheir source the fear of death. Only modern science forbids men to\nfear, and insists on a tranquil attitude towards death. So we arrive\nat utilitarianism and the positivist philosophy. If you wish to be rid\nof both these creeds you must be allowed to think again of death, and\nwithout shame to fear hell and its devils. It may be there is really\na certain justification for concealing fears of such kind: in the\nability to conceal one's agitation at moments of great danger there\nis a true beauty. But to deaden human sensitiveness and to keep the\nhuman intelligence within the bounds of perception, such a task can\nhave charms only for a petty creature. Happily, mankind has no means by\nwhich to perform on itself such monstrous castration. Persecuted Eros,\nit is true, has hidden himself from the eyes of his enemies, but he\nhas never abjured himself; and even the strictest medieval monks could\nnot completely tear out their hearts from their breasts. Similarly\nwith the aspiration towards the infinite: science persecuted it and\nput a veto on it. But laboratory workers themselves, sooner or later,\nrecover their senses, and thirstily long to get out of the enclosure of\npositive knowledge, with that same thirsty longing that tortured the\nmonks who wanted to get out of the enclosure of monastery walls.\n\n\n73\n\nIf fate--and they say there is such a law--punishes criminals, it has\nits penalty also for the lovers of good. The former it throttles, the\nlatter it spits upon. The former end in bitter torment, the latter--in\nignominy.\n\n\n74\n\nPhilosophy has always loved to occupy the position of a servant. In\nthe Middle Ages she was the _ancilla theologi\u00e6_, nowadays she waits on\nscience. At the same time she calls herself the science of sciences.\n\n\n75\n\nI wonder which more effectually makes a man rush forwards without\nlooking back: the knowledge that behind him hovers the head of Medusa,\nwith horrible snakes, ready to turn him into stone; or the certainty\nthat in the rear lies the unchangeable order laid down by the law of\ncausality and by modern science. Judging from what we see, judging\nfrom the degree of tension which human thought has reached to-day,\nit would seem that the head of Medusa is less terrible than the law\nof causality. In order to escape the latter, man will face anything.\nRather than return to the bosom of scientific cause and effect, he\nembraces madness: not that fine frenzy of madness which spends itself\nin fiery speeches, but technical madness, for which one is stowed away\nin a lunatic asylum.\n\n\n76\n\n\"To experience a feeling of joy or sorrow, of triumph or despair,\n_ennui_ or happiness, and so on, without having sufficient cause for\nsuch feeling, is an unfailing sign of mental disease....\" One of the\nmodern truths which is seeing its last days.\n\n\n77\n\nCount Tolstoy's German biographer regrets the constant misunderstanding\nand quarrels which took place between Tolstoy and Turgenev. He reminds\nus of Goethe and Schiller, and thinks that Russian literature would\nhave gained a great deal if the two remarkable Russian writers had\nbeen more pacific, had remained on constantly friendly terms with one\nanother, and bequeathed to posterity a couple of volumes of letters\ndealing with literary and philosophic subjects. It might have been very\nnice--but I refuse to imagine Tolstoy and Turgenev keeping up a long,\npeaceful correspondence, particularly on high subjects. Nearly every\none of Turgenev's opinions drove Tolstoy to madness, or was capable of\nso driving him. Dostoevsky's dislike of Turgenev was even stronger than\nTolstoy's; he wrote of him very spitefully and offensively, libelling\nhim rather than drawing a caricature. Evidently Dostoevsky, like\nTolstoy, detested the \"European\" in their _confrere._ But here he was\nmistaken, in spite of his psychological acuteness. To Dostoevsky, it\nwas enough that Turgenev wore European clothes and tried to appear like\na westerner. He himself did the opposite: he tried to get rid of every\ntrace of Europeanism from himself, apparently without great success,\nsince he failed to make clear to himself wherein lay the strength of\nEurope, and where her sting. Nevertheless, the late Mikhailovsky is not\nwrong in calling Dostoevsky a seeker of buried treasure. Surely, in the\nsecond half of his literary activity Dostoevsky no longer sought for\nthe real fruits of life. There awoke in him the Russian, the elemental\nman, with a thirst for the miraculous. Compared with what he wanted,\nthe fruits of European civilisation seemed to him trivial, flat,\ninsipid. The age-long civilisation of his neighbours told him that\nthere never had been a miracle, and never would be. But all his being,\nnot yet broken-in by civilisation, craved for the stupendous unknown.\nTherefore, the apparently-satisfied progressivist enraged him. Tolstoy\nonce said of Turgenev: \"I hate his democratic backside.\" Dostoevsky\nmight have repeated these words.... And now, for the gratification\nof the German critic, please reconcile the Russian writers and make\nthem talk serenely on high-flown matters! Dostoevsky was within a\nhair's-breath of a quarrel with Tolstoy, with whom, not long before\ndeath interrupted him, he began a long controversy concerning \"Anna\nKarenina.\" Even Tolstoy seemed to him too compliant, too accommodating.\n\n\n78\n\nWe rarely make a display of that which is dear to us, near and dear\nand necessary. On the other hand, we readily exhibit that which is\nof no importance to us--there is nothing else to be done with it. A\nman takes his mistress to the theatre and sticks her in full view of\neverybody; he prefers to remain at home with the woman he loves, or to\ngo about with her quietly, unnoticed. So with our \"Virtues.\" Every time\nwe notice in ourselves some quality we do not prize we haste to make a\nshow of it, thinking perhaps that someone would be glad of it. If it\nwins us approval, we are pleased--so there is some gain. To an actor,\na writer, or an orator, his own antics, without which he can have no\nsuccess with the public, are often disgusting. And yet his knack of\nmaking-such antics he considers a talent, a divine gift, and he would\nrather die than that it should be lost to the public. Talent, on the\nwhole, is accounted a divine gift, only because it is always on show,\nbecause it serves the public in some way or other. All our judgments\nare permeated through and through with utilitarianism, and were we to\nattempt to purify them from this adulteration what would remain of\nmodern philosophy? That is why youngish, inexperienced writers usually\nbelieve in _harmonia praestabilitata_, even though they have never\nheard of Leibnitz. They persuade themselves that there is no breach\nbetween egoistic and idealistic aspirations; that, for instance, thirst\nfor fame and desire to serve mankind are one and the same thing. Such\na persuasion is usually very tenacious of life, and lasts long in men\nof vigorous and courageous mind. It seems to me that Poushkin would not\nhave lost it, even had he lived to a prolonged old age. It was also\npart of Turgenev's belief--if a man of his spiritual fibre could have\nany belief. Tolstoy now believed, and now disbelieved, according to the\nwork he had in hand. When he had other people's ideas to destroy he\ndoubted the identity of egoistic and idealist aspirations; when he had\nhis own to defend, he believed in it. Which is a line of conduct worthy\nof attention, and supremely worthy of imitation; for human truths are\nproper exclusively for ancillary purposes....\n\n\n79\n\nMan is such a conservative creature that any change, even a change for\nthe better, scares him, he prefers the bad old way to the new good\none. A man who has been all his life a confirmed materialist would\nnot consent to believe that the soul was immortal, not if it were\nproved to him _more geometrico,_ and not if he were a constitutional\ncoward, fearing death like Shakespeare's Falstaff. Then we must take\nhuman conceit into account. Men do not like to admit themselves\nwrong. It is absurd, but it is so. Men, trivial, wretched creatures,\nproved by history and by every common event to be bunglers, yet must\nneeds consider themselves infallible, omniscient. What for? Why not\nadmit their ignorance flatly and frankly? True, it is easier said\nthan done. But why should slavish intellect, in spite of our desire\nto be straightforward, deck us out with would-be truths, of which we\ncannot divest ourselves even when we know their flimsiness. Socrates\nwanted to think that he knew nothing--but he could not bring it off.\nHe most absorbedly believed in his own knowledge; nothing could be\n\"truth,\" except his teaching; he accepted the decree of the oracle,\nand sincerely esteemed himself the wisest of men. And so it will be,\nas long as philosophers feel it their duty to teach and to save their\nneighbours. If a man wants to help people, he is bound to become a\nliar. We should undertake doubt seriously, not in order to return at\nlength to established beliefs, for that would be a vicious circle.\nExperience shows us that such a process, certainly in the development\nof ultimate questions, only leads from error to error; we should doubt\n_so that doubt becomes a continuous creative force, inspiring the\nvery essence of our life_. For established knowledge argues in us a\ncondition of imperfect receptivity. The weak, flabby spirit cannot\nbear quick, ceaseless change. It must look round, it must have time\nto gather its wits, and so it must undergo the same experience time\nafter time. It needs the support and the security of habit, But the\nwell-grown soul despises your crutches. He is tired of crawling on his\nown cabbage patch, he tears himself away from his own \"native\" soil,\nand takes himself off into the far distances, braving the infinitude\nof space. Surely everybody knows we are not to live in the world for\never. But cowardice prevents one straightforward admitting of it, we\nkeep it close till there is an occasion to air it as a truism. Only\nwhen misfortune, disease, old age come upon us, then the dread fear of\ndeparture walks with us like our own skeleton. We cannot dismiss him.\nAt length, involuntarily, we begin to examine our gruesome companion\nwith curiosity. And then, strangely enough, we observe that he not only\ntortures us, but, keeping pace with us, he has begun to gnaw through\nall the threads that bind us to the old existence. At moments it seems\nas if, a few more threads gone, nothing, nothing will remain to hold\nus back, the eternal dream of crawling man will be fulfilled, we shall\nbe released from the bonds, we shall betake ourselves in liberty to\nregions far from this damned vale of earth....\n\n\n80\n\nMoralists are abused because they offer us \"moral consolations.\"\nThis is not quite fair. Moralists would joyfully substitute palpable\nblessings for their abstract gifts, _if they could_. When he was young,\nTolstoy wanted to make men happy; when he was old, and knew he could\nnot make them happy, he began to preach renunciation, resignation, and\nso forth. And how angry he got when people wouldn't have his teaching!\nBut if, instead of foisting his doctrines off on us as the solution\nof the ultimate problems, and as optimism, he had only spoken of the\nimpossibility of finding satisfactory answers, and have offered himself\nas a pessimist, he would probably have obtained a much more willing\nhearing. Now he is annoying, because, finding himself unable to relieve\nhis neighbours, he turns to them and insists that they shall consider\nthemselves relieved by him, nay, even made happy by him. To which many\nwill not agree: for why should they voluntarily renounce their rights?\nSince although, God knows, the right of quarrelling with one's fate,\nand cursing it, is not a very grand right, still, it _is_ a right ...\n\n81\n\nIvanov, in Tchekhov's drama of that name, compares himself to an\noverstrained labourer. The labourer dies, so that all that remains to\nIvanov is to die. But logic, as you know, recommends great caution in\ncoming to conclusions by analogy. Behold Tchekhov himself, who, as far\nas we can judge, had endured in his own soul all the tragedy, just as\nIvanov had, did not die or think of dying, or even turn out a wasted\nman. He is doing something, he struggles, he seeks, his work seems\nimportant and considerable to us, just like other human works. Ivanov\nshot himself because the drama _must_ end, while Tchekhov had not yet\nfinished his own struggle. Our aesthetics demand that the drama must\nhave a climax and a finale: though we have abandoned the Aristotelian\nunities. Given a little more time, however, dramatic writers will have\ngot rid of this restriction also. They will frankly confess that they\ndo not know how, or with what event to end their dramas. Stories have\nalready learnt to dispense with an ending.\n\n\n82\n\nMore of the same.--Ivanov says: \"Now, where is my salvation? In what?\nIf an intelligent, educated, healthy man for no discoverable reason\nsets up a Lazarus lament and starts to roll down an inclined plane,\nthen he is rolling without resisting, and there is no salvation for\nhim.\" One way out would be to accept the inclined plane and the\ngathering impetus as normal. Even further, one might find in the\nrolling descent a proof of one's spiritual superiority to other men.\nOf course in such a case one should go apart from the rest, not court\nyoung girls or fraternise with those who are living the ordinary life,\nbut be alone. \"Love is nonsense, caresses maudlin, work is meaningless,\nand song and fiery speeches are banal, played-out,\" continued\nIvanov. To young Sasha these words are horrible,--but Ivanov will be\nresponsible for them. He is already responsible for them. That he is\ntottering is nothing: it is still full early for him to shoot himself.\nHe will live whilst his creator, Tchekhov, lives. And we shall listen\nto the shaky, vacillating philosophy. We are so sick of symmetry and\nharmony and finality, sick as we are of bourgeois self-complacency.\n\n\n83\n\nIt will be seen from the above that already in _Ivanov_, one of his\nearly works, Tchekhov has assumed the r\u00f4le of _advocatus diaboli_.\nWherever Ivanov appears he brings ruin and destruction. It is true,\nTchekhov hesitates to take his side openly, and evidently does not know\nwhat to do with his hero, so that in the end he shakes him off, so\nto speak, he washes his hands of him in the accepted fashion: Ivanov\nshoots himself in the sight of everybody, has not even time to go\ndiscreetly into a corner. The only justification of _Ivanov_ is that\ncaricature of honesty, Doctor Lvov. Lvov is not a living figure--that\nis obvious. But this is why he is remarkable. It is remarkable that\nTchekhov should deem it necessary to resurrect the forgotten Starodoum,\nthat utterer of truisms in Fon-Visin's comedy; and to resurrect him\nno longer that people may bow their heads before the incarnation of\nvirtue, but so that they shall jeer at him. Look at Doctor Lvov! Is he\nnot Starodoum alive again? He is honesty personified. From force of\nold habit, honesty sticks his chest out, and speaks in a loud voice,\nwith imperious tone, and yet not one of this old loyal subjects gives\na brass farthing for him. They don't even trouble to gibe at him,\nbut spit on him and shove him through the door, as a disgusting and\nimpudent toady. Poor honesty! What has he sunk to! Evidently virtues,\nlike everything else, should not live too long on earth.\n\nTchekhov's \"Uncle Vanya\" is waiting to throw himself on the neck of\nhis friend and rival, the doctor, throw himself on his neck and sob\nthere like a little child, But he finds that the doctor himself has\nan unquenchable thirst for consolation and encouragement, whilst poor\nSonia can bear her maiden sorrows no longer. They all go wandering\nround with big, lost eyes, looking for someone to relieve them from\n_part_ of their woes, at least. And lo, everybody is in the same street\nas themselves. All are over-heavy-laden, not one can carry his own\nburden, let alone give a lift to another's. The last consolation is\ntaken away. It is no use complaining: there is no sympathetic response.\nOn all faces the same expression of hopelessness and despair. Each must\nbear his cross in silence. None may weep nor utter pitiful cries--it\nwould be uncalled-for and indecent. When Uncle Vanya, who has not\nrealised at once the extremity of his situation, begins to cry out:\n\"My life's a waste!\" nobody wants to listen to him. \"Waste, waste!\nEverybody knows it's a waste! Shut your mouth, howling won't help you:\nneither will pistol-shots solve anything. Everyone of us might start\nyour cry--but we don't, neither do we shout:\n\n    _--You think I'll weep_;\n    _No, I'll not weep: I have full cause of weeping,_\n    _But this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws_,\n    _Or ere I'll weep; O Fool, I shall go mad_.\"\n\nGradually there settles down a dreadful, eternal silence of the\ncemetery. All go mad, without words, they realise what is happening\nwithin them, and make up their minds for the last shift: to hide\ntheir grief for ever from men, and to speak in commonplace, trivial\nwords which will be accepted as sensible, serious, and even lofty\nexpressions. No longer will anyone cry: \"Life is a waste,\" and intrude\nhis feelings on his neighbours. Everybody knows that it is shameful for\none's life to be a waste, and that this shame should be hidden from\nevery eye. The last law on earth is--loneliness.\n\n_R\u00e9signe-toi, mon c\u0153ur, dors ton sommeil de brute_!\n\n\n85\n\n_Groundless assumptions_.--\"Based on nothing,\" because they seem to\nderive from common assumption of the reasonableness of human existence,\nwhich assumption surely is the child of our desires, and probably a\nbastard at that..... In his _Miserly Knight_ Poushkin represented a\nmiser as a romantic figure. Gogol, with his Plyushkin, creates on the\ncontrary a repulsive figure of a miser. Gogol was nearer to reality. A\nmiser is ugly, whatever view you take of him--inward or outward. Yet\nGogol ought not to teach people to preserve in their age the ideals of\ntheir youth. Once old age is upon us--it must not be improved upon,\nmuch less apologised for. It must be accepted, and its essence brought\nto light. Plyushkin, the vulgar, dirty maniac is disgusting--but who\nknows? perhaps he is fulfilling the serious mission of his own being.\nHe is possessed by one desire--to everything else, to all happenings in\nthe outer world he is indifferent. It is the same to him whether he is\nhungry or full, warm or cold, clean or dirty. Practically no event can\ndistract his attention from his single purpose. He is disinterestedly\nmean, if one may say so. He has no need for his riches. He lets them\nrot in a disgusting heap, and does not dream, like Poushkin's knight,\nof palaces and power, or of sportive nymphs. Upon what end is he\nconcentrated? No one has the time to think it out. At the sight of\nPlyushkin everyone recalls the damage the miser has done. Everyone\nof course is right: Plyushkins, who heap up fortunes to let them rot,\nare very harmful. The social judgment is nearly always to the point.\nBut not quite always. It won't hurt morals and social considerations\nif at times they have to hold their tongue--and at such times we might\nsucceed in guessing the riddle of meanness, sordidness, old age.\n\n\n86\n\nWe have sufficient grounds for taking life mistrustfully: it has\ndefrauded us so often of our cherished expectations. But we have still\nstronger grounds for mistrusting reason: since if life deceived us, it\nwas only because futile reason let herself be deceived. Perhaps reason\nherself invented the deception, and then to serve her own ambitious\nends, threw the blame on life, so that life shall appear sick-headed.\nBut if we have to choose between life and reason, we choose life, and\nthen we no longer need try to foresee and to explain, we can wait, and\naccept all that is unalterable as part of the game. And thus Nietzsche,\nhaving realised that all his hopes had gradually crumbled, and that\nhe could never get back to his former strength, but must grow worse\nand worse every day, wrote in a private letter of May 28, 1883: \"_Ich\nwill es so schwer haben, wie nur irgend ein Mensch es hat; erst writer\ndiesem Drucke gewinne ich das gute Gewissen daf\u00fcr, etwas zu besitzen,\ndas wenige Menschen haben und gehabt haben: Fl\u00fcgel, um im Gleichnisse\nzu reden_.\" In these few simple words lies the key to the philosophy of\nNietzsche.\n\n\n87\n\n\"So long as Apollo calls him not to the sacred offering, of all the\ntrifling children of men the most trifling perhaps is the poet.\" Put\nPoushkin's expression into plain language, and you will get a page\non neuropathology. All neurasthenic individuals sink from a state of\nextreme excitation to one of complete prostration. Poets too: and they\nare proud of it.\n\n\n88\n\nShy people usually receive their impressions post-dated. During those\nmoments when an event is taking place before their eyes, they can see\nnothing, only later on, having evoked from their memory a fragment of\nwhat happened, they make for themselves an impression of the whole\nscene. And then, retrospectively arise in their soul feelings of pity,\noffence, surprise, so vivid, as if they were the flames of the instant\nmoment, not rekindlings from the past. Thus shy people always think a\ngreat deal, and are always too late for their work. It is never too\nlate for thought. Timid before others, they reach great heights of\ndaring when alone. They are bad speakers--but often excellent writers.\nTheir life is insignificant and tedious, they are not noticed,--until\nthey become famous. And by the time fame comes, they do not need\npopular attention any more.\n\n\n89\n\nIf Tchekhov's Layevsky, in _The Duel_, had been a writer with a\nliterary talent, people would have said of him that he was original,\nand that he was engaged in the study of the \"mysticism of sex,\" like\nGabriele D'Annunzio for example; whereas, as he stands, he is only\nbanal. His idleness is a reproach to him: people would prefer that at\nleast he should copy out extracts from documents.\n\n\n90\n\n_From observations on children_.--Egoism in a man strikes us\nunpleasantly because it betrays our poverty. \"I cannot dole out my\nabundance to my neighbour, for if I do I myself shall be left with\nlittle.\" We should like to be able to scatter riches with a royal hand;\nand, therefore, when we see someone else clutching his rags with the\nphrase, \"property is sacred,\" we are hurt. What is sacred comes from\nthe gods, and the gods have plenty of everything, they do not count and\nskimp, like mortals.\n\n\n91\n\nWe see a man repent for his actions, and conclude that such actions\nshould be avoided: an instance of false, but apparently irreproachable\nreasoning. Time passes, and we see the same man repenting again of the\nself-same acts. If we love logic, this will confirm us in our first\nconclusion. But if we do not care for logic, we shall say: man is\nunder an equal necessity to commit these acts, and to repent of them.\nSometimes, however, the first conclusion is corrected differently.\nHaving decided that repentance proves that a certain course of action\nshould be avoided, man avoids it all his life; only to realise in the\nend, suddenly, with extraordinary clarity, how bitter is his regret\nthat he has not trodden the forbidden course. But by this time a new\nconclusion is already useless. Life is over, and the newly-enlightened\nmind no longer knows how to rid itself of the Superfluous light.\n\n\n92\n\nA version of one of the scenes of Tolstoy's _Power of Darkness_ reminds\nus exactly of a one-act piece of Maeterlinck. There can be no question\nof imitation. When the _Power of Darkness_ was written nobody had\nheard of Maeterlinck. Tolstoy evidently wanted to try a new method\nof creating, and to get rid of his own manner, which he had evolved\nthrough tens of years of dogged labour. But the risk was too great. He\npreferred to cure himself of his doubts by the common expedient, manual\ntoil and an outdoor life. So he took up the plough.\n\n\n93\n\nEvery woodcock praises its own fen; Lermontov saw the sign of spiritual\npre-eminence in dazzling white linen, and therefore his heroes always\ndressed with taste. Dostoevsky, on the other hand, despised show:\nDmitri Karamazov wears dirty linen--and this is assigned to him as a\nmerit, or almost a merit.\n\n\n94\n\nWhile he was yet young, when he wrote his story, _Enough_, Turgenev\nsaw that something terrible hung over his life. He saw, but did not\nget frightened, although he understood that in time he ought to become\nfrightened, because life without a continual inner disturbance would\nhave no meaning for him.\n\n\n95\n\nNapoleon is reputed to have had a profound insight into the human soul;\nShakespeare also. And their vision has nothing in common.\n\n\n96\n\nWhat we call imagination, which we value so highly in great poets--is,\nessentially, unbridled, loose, or if you will, even perverted\nmentality. In ordinary mortals we call it vice; but to the poets\neverything is forgiven on account of the benefit and pleasure we derive\nfrom their works. In spite of our high-flown theories we have always\nbeen extremely practical, great utilitarians. Two-and-a-half-thousand\nyears went by before Tolstoy got up, and, in his turn, offered the\npoets their choice: either to be virtuous, or to stop creating and\nforfeit the fame of teachers. If Tolstoy did not make a laughing-stock\nof himself, he has to thank his grey hairs and the respect which was\nfelt for his past. Anyhow, nobody took him seriously. Far from it;\nfor never yet did poets feel so free from the shackles of morality\nas they do now. If Schiller were writing his dramas and philosophic\nessays to-day, he would scarcely find a reader. In Tolstoy himself it\nis not so much his virtues as his vices which we find interesting.\nWe begin to understand his works, not so much in the light of his\nstriving after ideals, but from the standpoint of that incongruity\nwhich existed between the ideas he artificially imposed upon himself,\nand the demands of his own non-virtu ous soul, which struggled ever\nfor liberty. Nicolenka Irtenyev, in _Childhood, and Youth_, would sit\nfor hours on the terrace, turning over in his mind his elder brother\nVolodya's love-making with the chambermaids. But, although he desired\nit \"_more than anything on earth_\" he could never bring himself to\nbe like Volodya. The maid said to the elder brother, \"Why doesn't\nNicolai Fetrovitch ever come here and have a lark?\" She did not know\nthat Nicolai Petrovitch was sitting at that moment under the stairs,\nready to give _anything on earth_ to take the place of the scamp\nVolodya. \"_Everything on earth_\" is twice repeated. Tolstoy gives a\npsychological explanation of his little hero's conduct. \"I was timid\nby nature,\" Nicolenka tells us, \"but my shyness was increased by the\nconviction of my ugliness.\" Ugliness, the consciousness of one's\nugliness, leads to shyness! What good can there be in virtue which\nhas such a suspicious origin? And how can the morality of Tolstoy's\nheroes be trusted i Consciousness of one's ugliness begets shyness,\nshyness drives the passions inwards and allows them no natural outlet.\nLittle by little there develops a monstrous discrepancy between the\nimagination and its desires, on the one hand, and the power to satisfy\nthese desires, on the other. Permanent hunger, and a contracted\nalimentary canal, which does not pass the food through. Hence the\nhatred of the imagination, with its unrealised and unrealisable\ncravings.... In our day no one has scourged love so cruelly as Tolstoy\nin _Power of Darkness_. But the feats of the village Don Juan need not\nnecessarily end in tragedy. \"More than anything on earth,\" however,\nTolstoy hates the Don Juans, the handsome, brave, successful, the\nself-confident, who spontaneously act upon suggestion, the conquerors\nof women, who stretch out their hands to living statues cold as stone.\nAs far as ever he can he has his revenge on them in his writing.\n\n\n97\n\nIn the drama of the future the whole presentation will be different.\nFirst of all, the difficulties of the d\u00e9nouement will be set aside.\nThe new hero has a past-reminiscent--but no present; neither wife,\nnor sweetheart, nor friends, nor occupation. He is alone, he communes\nonly with himself or with imaginary listeners. He lives a life apart.\nSo that the stage will represent either a desert island or a room in\na large densely-populated city, where among millions of inhabitants\none can live alone as on a desert island. The hero must not return\nto people and to social ideals. He must go forward to loneliness, to\nabsolute loneliness. Even now nobody, looking at Gogol's Plyushkin,\nwill feel any more the slightest response to the pathetic appeal for\nmen to preserve the ideals of youth on into old age. Modern youths go\nto see Plyushkin, not for the sake of laughing at him or of benefiting\nfrom the warning which his terrible miserly figure offers them, but in\norder to see if there may not be some few little pearls there where\nthey could be least expected, in the midst of his heap of dirt.\n\n... Lycurgus succeeded in fixing the Spartans like cement for some\ncenturies--but after that came the thaw, and all their hardness\nmelted. The last remains of the petrified Doric art are now removed to\nmuseums.... Is something happening----?\n\n\n98\n\nIf I sow not in the spring, in autumn I shall eat no bread. Every\nday brings troubles and worries enough for poor, weak man. He had\nto forget his work for a moment, and now he is lost: he will die of\nhunger or cold. In order merely to preserve our existence we have to\nstrain mind and body to the utmost: nay more, we have to think of the\nsurrounding world exclusively with a view to gaining a livelihood from\nit. There is no time to think about truth! This is why positivism was\ninvented, with its theory of natural development. Really, everything\nwe see is mysterious and incomprehensible. A tiny midge and a huge\nelephant, a caressing breeze and a blizzard, a young tree and a\nrocky mountain--what are all these? What are they, why are they? we\nincessantly ask ourselves, but we may not speak out. For philosophy is\never pushed aside to make room for the daily needs. Only those think\nwho are unable to trouble about self-preservation, or who will not\ntrouble, or who are too careless: that is, sick, desperate, or lazy\npeople. These return to the riddle which workaday men, confirmed in the\ncertainty that they are right, have construed into \"naturalness.\"\n\n\n99\n\nKant, and after him Schopenhauer, was exceedingly fond of the epithet\n\"disinterested,\" and used it on every occasion when the supply of\nlaudatory terms he had at his disposal was exhausted. \"Disinterested\nthinking,\" which does not pursue any practical aim, is, according to\nSchopenhauer, the highest ideal towards which man can strive. This\ntruth he considered universal, an _a priori_. But had he chanced to\nbe brought amongst Russian peasants he would have had to change his\nopinion. With them thoughts about destiny and the why and wherefore of\nthe universe and infinity and so on, would by no means be considered\ndisinterested, particularly if the man who devoted himself to such\nthoughts were at the same time to announce, as becomes a philosopher,\nthat he claimed complete freedom from physical labour. There the\nphilosopher, were he even Plato, would be stigmatised with the\ndisgraceful nickname, \"Idle-jack.\" There the highest activity is\ninterested activity, directed towards strictly practical purposes; and\nif the peasants could speak learnedly, they would certainly call the\nprinciple upon which their judgment is founded an _a priori_. Tolstoy,\nwho draws his wisdom from the folk-sources, attacks the learned for\nthe very fact that they do not want to work, but are disinterestedly\noccupied in the search for truth.\n\n\n100\n\nIt is clear to any impartial observer that practically every man\nchanges his opinion ten times a day. Much has been said on this\nsubject, it has served for innumerable satires and humorous sketches.\nNobody has ever doubted that it was a vice to be unstable is one's\nopinions. Three-fourths of our education goes to teaching us most\ncarefully to conceal within ourselves the changeableness of our moods\nand judgments. A man who cannot keep his word is the last of men:\nnever to be trusted. Likewise, a man with no firm convictions: it is\nimpossible to work together with him. Morality, here as always making\ntowards utilitarian ends, issues the \"eternal\" principle: thou shalt\nremain true to thy convictions. In cultured circles this commandment\nis considered so unimpeachable that men are terrified even to appear\ninconstant in their own eyes. They become petrified in their beliefs,\nand no greater shame can happen to them than that they should be\nforced to admit that they have altered in their convictions. When a\nstraightforward man like Montaigne plainly speaks of the inconstancy of\nhis mind and his views, he is regarded as a libeller of himself. One\nneed neither see, nor hear, nor understand what is taking place around\none: once your mind is made up, you have lost your right to grow, you\nmust remain a stock, a statue, the qualities and defects of which are\nknown to everybody.\n\n\n101\n\nEvery philosophic world-conception starts from some or other solution\nof the general problem of human existence, and proceeds from this to\ndirect the course of human life in some particular direction or other.\nWe have neither the power nor the data for the solution of general\nproblems, and consequently all our moral deductions are arbitrary,\nthey only witness to our prejudices if we are naturally timid, or to\nour propensities and tastes if we are self-confident. But to keep up\nprejudices is a miserable, unworthy business: nobody will dispute that.\nTherefore let us cease to grieve about our differences in opinion,\nlet us wish that in the future there should be many more differences,\nand much less unanimity. There is no arbitrary truth: it remains to\nsuppose that truth lies in changeable human tastes and desires. In so\nfar as our common social existence demands it--let us try to come to\nan understanding, to agree: but not one jot more. Any agreement which\ndoes not arise out of common necessity will be a crime against the Holy\nSpirit.\n\n\n102\n\nTchekhov was very good at expounding a system of philosophy--even\nseveral systems. We have examples in more than one of his stories,\nparticularly in _The Duel,_ where Fon-Koren speaks _ex cathedra_.\nBut Tchekhov had no use for such systems, save for purely literary\npurposes. When you write a story, and your hero must speak clearly\nand consistently, a system has its value. But when you are left to\nyourself, can you seriously trouble your soul about philosophy? Even\na German cannot, it seems, go so far in his \"idealism.\" Vladimir\nSemionovitch, the young author in Tchekhov's _Nice People_, sincerely\nand deeply believes in his own ideas, but even of him, notwithstanding\nhis blatantly comical limitations, we cannot say more than that\nhis ideas were constant little views or pictures to him, which had\ngradually become a second natural setting to everything he saw.\nCertainly he did not live by ideas. Tchekhov is right when he says that\nthe singing of _Gaudeamus igitur_ and the writing of a humanitarian\nappeal were equally important to Vladimir Semionovitch. As soon as\nVladimir's sister begins to think for herself, her brother's highest\nideas, which she has formerly revered, become banal and objectionable\nto her. Her brother cannot understand her, neither her hostility\nto progress and humanitarianism, nor to the university spree and\n_Gaudeamus igitur._ But Tchekhov _does_ understand. Only, let us\nadmit, the word \"understand\" does not carry its ordinary meaning\nhere. So long as the child was fed on its mother's milk, everything\nseemed to it smooth and easy. But when it had to give up milk and take\nto vodka,--and this is the inevitable law of human development--the\nchildish suckling dreams receded into the realm of the irretrievable\npast.\n\n\n103\n\nThe summit of human existence, say the philosophers, is spiritual\nserenity, _aequanimitas_: But in that case the animals should be our\nideal, for in the matter of imperturbability they leave nothing to be\ndesired. Look at a grazing sheep, or a cow. They do not look before\nand after, and sigh for what is not. Given a good pasture, the present\nsuffices them perfectly.\n\n\n104\n\nA hungry man was given a piece of bread, and a kind word. The kindness\nseemed more to him than the bread. But had he been given only the kind\nword and no bread, he would perhaps have hated nice phrases. Therefore,\ncaution is always to be recommended in the drawing of conclusions:\nand in none more than in the conclusion that truth is more urgently\nrequired than a consoling lie. The connections of isolated phenomena\ncan very rarely be discerned. As a rule, several causes at once produce\none effect. Owing to our propensity for idealising, we always make\nprominent that cause which seems to us loftiest.\n\n\n105\n\nA strange anomaly! we see thousands of human beings perish around us,\nyet we walk warily lest we crush a worm. The sense of compassion is\nstrong in us, but it is adapted to the conditions of our existence. It\ncan relieve an odd case here and there--and it raises a terrific outcry\nover a trifling injustice. Yet Schopenhauer wanted to make compassion\nthe metaphysical basis of morality.\n\n\n106\n\nTo discard logic as an instrument, a means or aid for acquiring\nknowledge, would be extravagant. Why should we? For the sake of\nconsequentialism? _i.e._ for logic's very self? But logic, as an aim\nin itself, or even as the _only_ means to knowledge, is a different\nmatter. Against this one must fight even if he has against him all the\nauthorities of thought--beginning with Aristotle.\n\n\n107\n\n\"When the yellowing corn-fields sway and are moved, and the fresh\nforest utters sound to the breeze ... then I see happiness on earth,\nand God in heaven.\" It may be so, to the poet; but it may be quite\ndifferent. Sometimes the corn-field waves, the woods make noise in\nthe wind, the stream whispers its best tales: and still man cannot\nperceive happiness, nor forget the lesson taught in childhood, that\nthe blue heavens are only an optical illusion. But if the sky and the\nboundless fields do not convince, is it possible that the arguments of\nKant and the commentations of his dozens of talentless followers can do\nanything?\n\n\n108\n\n_The greatest temptation_.--In Dostoevsky's _Grand Inquisitor_\nlurks a dreadful idea. Who can be sure, he says--metaphorically, of\ncourse--that when the crucified Christ uttered His cry: \"Lord, why hast\nthou forsaken me?\" He did not call to mind the temptation of Satan, who\nfor one word had offered Him dominion over the world? And, if Jesus\nrecollected this offer, how can we be sure that He did not repent not\nhaving taken it?... One had better not be told about such temptations.\n\n\n109\n\nFrom the \"_Future Opinions concerning contemporary Europe_.\"--\"Europe\nof the nineteenth and twentieth centuries presented a strange\npicture. After Luther, Christianity degenerated into morality, and\nall the threads connecting man with God were cut. Together with\nthe rationalisation of religion, all life took on a fiat, rational\ncharacter. Knights were replaced by a standing army, recruited on the\nprinciple of compulsory military service for all, and existing chiefly\nfor the purpose of parades and official needs. Alchemy, which had been\ntrying to find the philosopher's stone, was replaced by chemistry,\nwhich tried to discover the best means for cheap preparation of cheap\ncommodities. Astrology, which had sought in the stars the destinies\nof men, was replaced by astronomy, which foretold the eclipses of the\nsun and the appearing of comets. Even the dress of the people became\nstrangely colourless; not only men, but women also wore uniform,\nmonochromatic clothes. Most remarkable of all, that epoch did not\nnotice its own insignificance, but was even proud of itself. It seemed\nto the man of that day that never before had the common treasury of\nspiritual riches been so well replenished. We, of course, may smile at\ntheir na\u00efvet\u00e9, but if one of their own number had allowed himself to\nexpress an opinion disdainful of the bases of the contemporary culture\nhe would have been declared immoral, or put away in a mad-house: a\nterrible punishment, very common in that coarse period, though now\nit is very difficult even to imagine what such a proceeding implied.\nBut in those days, to be known as immoral, or to find oneself in a\nmad-house, was worse than to die. One of the famous poets of the\nnineteenth century, Alexander Poushkin, said: 'God forbid that I should\ngo mad. Rather let me be a starving beggar.' In those times people,\non the whole, were compelled to tell lies and play the hypocrite, so\nthat not infrequently the brightest minds, who saw through the shams of\ntheir epoch, yet pretended to believe in science and morality, only in\norder to escape the persecution of public opinion.\"\n\n\n110\n\n_Writers of tragedies on Shakespeare's model._--To obtain a spark,\none must strike with all one's might with an iron upon a stone.\nWhereupon there is a loud noise, which many are inclined to believe\nmore important than the little spark. Similarly, writers having shouted\nvery loudly, are deeply assured that they have fulfilled their sacred\nmission, and are amazed that all do not share their raptures, that some\neven stop their ears and run away.\n\n\n111\n\n_Metamorphoses_.--Sense and folly are not at all native qualities\nin a man. In a crisis, a stupid man becomes clever. We need not go\nfar for an example. What a gaping simpleton Dostoevsky looks in his\n_Injured and Insulted_, not to mention _Poor Folk_. But in _Letters\nfrom the Underworld_ and the rest of his books he is the shrewdest and\ncleverest of writers. The same may be said of Nietzsche, Tolstoy, or\nShakespeare. In his _Birth of Tragedy_ Nietzsche seems just like the\nordinary honest, rather simple, blue-eyed provincial German student,\nand in _Zarathustra_ he reminds one of Machiavelli. Poor Shakespeare\ngot himself into a row for his Brutus--but no man could deny the great\nmind in _Hamlet._ The best instance of all, however, is Tolstoy. Right\nup to to-day, whenever he likes he can be cleverer than the cleverest.\nYet at times he is a schoolboy. This is the most interesting and\nenviable trait in him.\n\n\n112\n\nIn _Troilus and Cressida_ Thersites says: \"Shall the elephant Ajax\ncarry it thus? He beats me, and I rail at him: O worthy satisfaction!\nwould it were otherwise; that I could beat him, whilst he railed at\nme.\" Dostoevsky might have said the same of his opponents. He pursued\nthem with stings, sarcasm, abuse, and they drove him to a white heat\nby their quiet assurance and composure.... The present-day admirers of\nDostoevsky _quietly believe_ in the teachings of their master. Does it\nnot mean that _de facto_ they have betrayed him and gone over to the\nside of his enemies.\n\n\n113\n\nThe opinion has gained ground that Turgenev's ideal women--Natalie,\nElena, Marianna--are created in the image and likeness of Poushkin's\nTatyana. The critics have been misled by external appearances. To\nPoushkin his Tatyana appears as a vestal guarding the sacred flame\nof high morality--because such a job is not fitting for a male. The\nPretender in _Boris Godunov_ says to the old monk Pimen, who preaches\nmeekness and submission: \"But you fought under the walls of Kazan,\netc.\" That is a man's work. But in the hours of peace and leisure the\nfighter needs his own hearth-side, he must feel assured that at home\nhis rights are safely guarded. This is the point of Tatyana's last\nwords: \"I belong to another, and shall remain forever true to him.\" But\nin Turgenev woman appears as the judge and the reward, sometimes even\nthe inspirer of victorious man. There is a great difference.\n\n\n114\n\nFrom a German _Introduction to Philosophy_.--\"We shall maintain the\nopinion that metaphysics, as the crown of the particular sciences, is\npossible and desirable, and that to it falls the task intermediate\nbetween theory and practice, experiment and anticipation, mind and\nfeeling, the task of weighing probabilities, balancing arguments,\nand reconciling difficulties.\" Thus metaphysics is a weighing of\nprobabilities. _Ergo_--further than probable conclusions it cannot\ngo. Thus why do metaphysicians pretend to universal and obligatory,\nestablished and eternal judgments? They go beyond themselves. In the\ndomain of metaphysics there cannot and must not be any established\nbeliefs. The word established loses all its sense in the connection. It\nis reasonable to speak of eternal hesitation and temporality of thought.\n\n\n115\n\nFrom another _Introduction to Philosophy,_ also German. \"Compared\nwith the delusion of the materialists ... the wretchedest worshipper\nof idols seems to us a being capable of apprehending to a certain\ndegree the great meaning and essence of things,\" Perhaps this thought\nstrayed in accidentally among the huge herd of the other thoughts of\nthe professor, so little does it resemble the rest. But even so, it\nloses none of its interest. If the materialists here spoken of, those\nof the nineteenth century, Buchner, Vogt, Moleschot, all of them men\nwho stood on the pinnacle of natural science, were capable of proving\nin the realm of philosophy more uninformed than the nakedest savage,\nthen it follows, not only that science has nothing in common with\nphilosophy, but that the two are even hostile. Therefore we ought to\ngo to the savages, not to civilise them, but even to learn philosophy\nfrom them. A Papuan or a Tierra del Fuegan delivering a lecture in\nphilosophy to the professors of the Berlin University--Friedrich\nPaulsen, for example--is a curious sight. I say to Friedrich Paulsen,\nand not to Buchner or Moleschot, because Paulsen is also an educated\nperson, and therefore his _philosophic_ sensibility may have suffered\nfrom contact with science, even if not so badly as that of the\nmaterialists. He needs the assistance of a red-skinned master. Why\nhave German professors so little daring or enterprise? Why should not\nPaulsen, on his own initiative, go to Patagonia to perfect himself in\nphilosophy?--or at least send his pupils there, and preach broadcast\nthe new pilgrimage. And now lo and behold he has hatched an original\nand fertile idea, so he will stick in a corner with it, so that even if\nyou wanted you could not get a good look at it. The idea is important\nand weighty: our philosophers would lose nothing by sitting at the feet\nof the savages.\n\n\n116\n\nFrom a _History of Ethics_.--\"Doubts concerning the existence or\nthe possibility of discovering a moral norm have, _of course_ (I\nunderline it), proved a stimulus to a new speculative establishing\nof ethics, just as the denial of the possibility of knowledge led to\nthe discovery of the condition of knowledge.\" With this proposition\nthe author does not play hide-and-seek, as Paulsen with his. He places\nit in a conspicuous position, in a conspicuous section of his book,\nand accompanies it with the trumpeting herald \"of course.\" But only\none thing is clear: namely, that the majority share the opinion of\nProfessor Yodl, to whom the quoted words belong. So that the first\nassumption of ethics has as its foundation the _consensus sapientium_.\nIt is enough.\n\n\n117\n\n\"The normative theory,\" which has taken such hold in Germany and\nRussia, bears the stamp of that free and easy self-assurance which\ncharacterises the state of contentment, and which does not desire, even\nfor the sake of theoretical perfection, to take into consideration the\ndivided state of soul which usually accompanies discontent. Windelband\n(_Praeludien_, p. 313) is evidence of this. He exposes himself with\nthe naive frankness almost of an irrational creature, and is not only\nunashamed, but even proud of his part. \"Philosophic research,\" he says,\n\"is possible only to those who are convinced that the norm of the\nuniversal imperative is supreme above individual activities, and that\nsuch a norm is discoverable.\" Not every witness will give evidence so\nhonestly. It amounts to this: that philosophic research is not a search\nafter truth, but a conspiracy amongst people who _dethrone truth_ and\nexalt instead the all-binding norm. The task is truly ethical: morality\nalways was and always will be utilitarian and bullying. Its active\nprinciple is: He who is not with us, is against us.\n\n\n118\n\n\"If, besides the reality which is evident to us, we were susceptible to\nanother form of reality, chaotic, lawless, then this latter could not\nbe the subject of thought.\" (Riehl--_Philosophie der Gegenwart_.) This\nis one of the _a priori_ of critical philosophy--one of the unproved\nfirst assumptions, evidently. It is only an expression in other\nwords of Windelband's assertion quoted above, concerning the ethical\nbasis of the law of causation. Thus, the _a priori_ of contemporary\nthought convince us more and more that Nietzsche's instinct was not\nat fault. The root of all our philosophies lies, not in our objective\nobservations, but in the demands of our own heart, in the subjective,\nmoral _will_, and therefore science cannot be uprooted except we first\ndestroy morality.\n\n\n119\n\nOne of the lofty truisms--\"The philosopher conquers passion by\nperceiving it, the artist by bodying it forth.\" In German it sounds\nstill more lofty: but does not for that reason approach any nearer\nto the truth. \"_Der Philosoph \u00fcberwindet die Leidenschaft, indem er\nsie begreift--der K\u00fcnstler, indem er sie darstellt_.\" (Windelband,\n_Praeludien_, p. 198.)\n\n\n120\n\nThe Germans always try to get at _Allgemeing\u00fcltigkeit_. Well, if the\nproblem of knowledge is to fathom all the depths of actual life, then\nexperience, in so far as it repeats itself, is uninteresting, or at\nleast has a limit of interest. It is necessary, however, to know what\nnobody yet knows, and therefore we must walk, not on the common road\nof _Allgemeing\u00fcltigkeit_, but on new tracks, which have never yet seen\nhuman feet. Thus morality, which lays down definite rules and thereby\nguards life for a time from any surprise, exists only by convention,\nand in the end collapses before the non-moral surging-up of individual\nhuman aspirations. Laws--all of them--have only a regulating value, and\nare necessary only to those who want rest and security. But the first\nand essential condition of life is lawlessness. Laws are a refreshing\nsleep--lawlessness is creative activity.\n\n\n121\n\nA = A.--They say that logic does not need this postulate, and could\neasily develop it by deduction. I think not. On the contrary, in my\nopinion, logic could not exist without this premiss. Meanwhile it has\na purely empirical origin. In the realm of fact, A is always more or\nless equal to A. But it might be otherwise. The universe might be so\nconstituted as to admit of the most fantastic metamorphoses. That which\nnow equals A would successively equal B and then C, and so on. At\npresent a stone remains long enough a stone, a plant a plant, an animal\nan animal. But it might be that a stone changed into a plant before our\neyes, and the plant into an animal. That _there is nothing unthinkable_\nin such a supposition is proved by the theory of evolution. This\ntheory only puts centuries in place of seconds. So that, in spite of\nthe risk to which I expose myself from the admirers of the famous\nEpicurean system, I am compelled to repeat once more that anything\nyou please may come from anything you please, that A may not equal A,\nand that consequently logic is dependent, for its soundness, on the\nempirically-derived law of the unchangeableness of the external world.\nAdmit the possibility of supernatural interference--and logic will lose\nthat certitude and inevitability of its conclusions which at present is\nso attractive to us.\n\n\n122\n\nThe effort to _understand_ people, life, the universe prevents us from\ngetting to know them at all. Since \"to know\" and \"to understand\" are\ntwo concepts which are not only non-identical, but just the opposite\nof one another in meaning; in spite of their being in constant use\nas synonyms. We think we have understood a phenomenon if we have\nincluded it in a list of others, previously known to us. And, since all\nour mental aspiration reduces itself to understanding the universe,\nwe refuse to know a great deal which will not adapt itself to the\nplane surface of the contemporary world-conceptions. For instance\nthe Leibnitz question, put by Kant into the basis of the critique of\nreason: \"How can we know a thing outside us, if it does not enter into\nus?\" It is non-understandable; that is, it does not agree with our\nnotion of understanding. Hence it follows that it must be squeezed out\nof the field of view--which is exactly what Kant attempted to do. To\nus it seems, on the contrary, that in the interests of _knowing_ we\nshould sacrifice, and gladly, understanding, since understanding in any\ncase is a secondary affair.-_Zu fragmentarisch ist Welt und Leben_!...\n\n\n\n\nPART II\n\n_Nur f\u00fcr Schwindelfreie_.\n\n(From _Alpine Recollections_.)\n\n\n\n\n1\n\nLight reveals to us beauty--but also ugliness. Throw vitriol in the\nface of a beautiful woman, and the beauty is gone, no power on earth\nwill enable us to look upon her with the same rapture as before. Could\neven the sincerest, deepest love endure the change? True, the idealists\nwill hasten to say that love overcomes all things. But idealism needs\nbe prompt, for if she leaves us one single moment in which to _see_,\nwe shall see such things as are not easily explained away. That is why\nidealists stick so tight so logic. In the twinkling of an eye logic\nwill convey us to the remotest conclusions and forecasts. Reality could\nnever overtake her. Love is eternal, and consequently a disfigured face\nwill seem as lovely to us as a fresh one. This is, of course, a lie,\nbut it helps to preserve old tastes and obscures danger. Real danger,\nhowever, was never dispelled by words. In spite of Schiller and eternal\nlove, in the long run vitriol triumphs, and the agreeable young man is\nforced to abandon his beloved and acknowledge himself a fraud. Light,\nthe source of his life and hope, has now destroyed hope and life for\nhim. He will not return to idealism, and he will hate logic: light,\nthat seemed to him so beautiful, will have become hideous. He will turn\nto darkness, where logic and its binding conclusions have no power, but\nwhere the fancy is free for all her vagaries. Without light we should\nnever have known that vitriol ruins beauty. No science, nor any art can\ngive us what darkness gives. It is true, in our young days when all\nwas new, light brought us great happiness and joy. Let us, therefore,\nremember it with gratitude, as a benefactor we no longer need. Do after\nall let us dispense with gratitude, for it belongs to the calculating,\nbourgeois virtues. _Do ut des_. Let us forget light, and gratitude, and\nthe qualms of self-important idealism, let us go bravely to meet the\ncoming night. She promises us great power over reality. Is it worth\nwhile to give up our old tastes and lofty convictions? Love and light\nhave not availed against vitriol. What a horror would have seized us\nat the thought, once upon a time! That short phrase can annul all\nSchiller. We have shut our eyes and stopped our ears, we have built\nhuge philosophic systems to shield us from this tiny thought. And\nnow--now it seems we have no more feeling for Schiller and the great\nsystems, we have no pity on our past beliefs. We now are seeking for\nwords with which to sing the praises of our former enemy. Night, the\ndark, deaf, impenetrable night, peopled with horrors--does she not\nnow loom before us, infinitely beautiful? Does she not draw us with\nher still, mysterious, fathomless beauty, far more powerfully than\nnoisy, narrow day? It seems as if, in a short while, man will feel that\nthe same incomprehensible, cherishing power which threw us out into\nthe universe and set us, like plants, to reach to the light, is now\ngradually transferring us to a new direction, where a new life awaits\nus with all its stores. _Fata volentem ducunt, nolentem trahunt._ And\nperhaps the time is near when the impassioned poet, casting a last look\nto his past, will boldly and gladly cry:\n\n_Hide thyself, sun! O darkness, be welcome_!\n\n\n2\n\nPsychology at last leads us to conclude that the most generous\nhuman impulses spring from a root of egoism. Tolstoy's \"love to\none's neighbour,\" for example, proves to be a branch of the old\nself-love. The same may be said of Kant's idealism, and even of\nPlato's. Though they glorify the service of the idea, in practice\nthey succeed in getting out of the vicious circle of egoism no better\nthan the ordinary mortal, who is neither a genius nor a flower of\nculture. In my eyes this is \"almost\" an absolute truth. (It is never\nwrong to add the retractive \"almost\"; truth is too much inclined to\nexaggerate its own importance, and one must guard oneself against\nits despotic authority.) Thus--all men are egoists. Hence follows\na great deal. I even think this proposition might provide better\ngrounds for metaphysical conclusions than the doubtful capacity for\ncompassion and love for one's neighbour which has been so tempting\nto dogma. For some reason men have imagined that love for oneself\nis more natural and comprehensible than love for another. Why? Love\nfor others is only a little-rarer, less widely diffused than love\nto oneself. But then hippopotami and rhinoceros, even in their own\ntropical regions, are less frequent than horses and mules. Does it\nfollow that they are less natural and transcendental? Positivism is\nnot incumbent upon blood-thirsty savages. Nay, as we know, many of\nthem are less positive-minded than our learned men. For instance, a\nfuture life is to them such an infallible reality that they even enter\ninto contracts, part of which is to be fulfilled in the next world. A\nGerman metaphysician won't go as far as that. Hence it follows that\nthe way to know the other world is not by any means through love,\nsympathy, and self-denial, as Schopenhauer taught. On the contrary, it\nappears as if love for others were only an impediment to metaphysical\nflights. Love and sympathy chain the eye to the misery of this earth,\nwhere such a wide field for active charity opens out. The materialists\nwere mostly very good men--a fact which bothered the historians of\nphilosophy. They preached Matter, believed in nothing, and were\nready to perform all kinds of sacrifices for their neighbours. How\nis this? It is a case of clearest logical consequence: man loves his\nneighbour, he sees that heaven is indifferent to misery, therefore\nhe takes upon himself the r\u00f4le of Providence. Were he indifferent\nto the sufferings of others, he would easily become an idealist and\nleave his neighbours to their fate. Love and compassion kill belief,\nand make a man a positivist and a materialist in his philosophical\noutlook. If he feels the misery of others, he leaves off meditating\nand wants to act. Man only thinks properly when he realises he has\nnothing to do, his hands are tied. That is why any profound thought\nmust arise from despair. Optimism, on the other hand, the readiness\nto jump hastily from one conclusion to another, may be regarded as an\ninevitable sign of narrow self-sufficiency, which dreads doubt and\nis consequently always superficial. If a man offers you a solution\nof eternal questions, it shows he has not even begun to think about\nthem. He has only \"acted.\" Perhaps it is not necessary to think--who\ncan say how we ought or ought not to live? And how could we be brought\nto live \"as we ought,\" when our own nature is and always will be an\nincalculable mystery. There is no mistake about it, nobody _wants_\nto think, I do not speak here of logical thinking. That, like any\nother natural function, gives man great pleasure. For this reason\nphilosophical systems, however complicated, arouse real and permanent\ninterest in the public provided they only require from man the logical\nexercise of the mind, and nothing else. But to think---really to\nthink--surely this means a relinquishing of logic. It means living a\nnew life. It means a permanent sacrifice of the dearest habits, tastes,\nattachments, without even the assurance that the sacrifice will bring\nany compensation. Artists and philosophers like to imagine the thinker\nwith a stern face, a profound look which penetrates into the unseen,\nand a noble bearing--an eagle preparing for flight. Not at all. A\nthinking man is one who has lost his balance, in the vulgar, not in\nthe tragic sense. Hands raking the air, feet flying, face scared and\nbewildered, he is a caricature of helplessness and pitiable perplexity.\nLook at the aged Turgenev, his Poems in Prose and his letter to\nTolstoy. Maupassant thus tells of his meeting with Turgenev: \" There\nentered a giant with a silvery head.\" Quite so! The majestic patriarch\nand master, of course! The myth of giants with silver locks is firmly\nestablished in the heart of man. Then suddenly enters Turgenev in his\nProse Poems--pale, pitiful, fluttering like a bird that has been\n\"winged.\" Turgenev, who has taught us everything--how can he be so\nfluttered and bewildered? How could he write his letter to Tolstoy?\nDid he not know that Tolstoy was finished, the source of his creative\nactivity dried up, that he must seek other activities. Of course he\nknew--and still he wrote that letter. But it was not for Tolstoy, nor\neven for Russian literature, which, of course, is not kept going by the\ndeath-bed letters and covenants of its giants. In the dreadful moments\nof the end, Turgenev, in spite of his noble size and silver locks, did\nnot know what to say or where to look for support and consolation. So\nhe turned to literature, to which he had given his life.... He yearned\nthat she, whom he had served so long and loyally, should just once\nhelp him, save him from the horrible and thrice senseless nightmare.\nHe stretched out his withered, numbing hands to the printed sheets\nwhich still preserve the traces of the Soul of a living, suffering\nman. He addressed his late enemy Tolstoy with the most flattering\nname: \"Great writer of the Russian land\"; recollected that he was his\ncontemporary, that he himself was a great writer of the Russian land.\nBut this he did not express aloud. He only said, \"I can no longer----\"\nHe praised a strict school of literary and general education. To the\nlast he tried to preserve his bearing of a giant with silvery locks.\nAnd we were gratified. The same persons who are indignant at Gogol's\ncorrespondence, quote Turgenev's letter with reverence. The attitude\nis everything. Turgenev knew how to pose passably well, and this is\nascribed to him as his greatest merit. _Mundus vult decipi, ergo\ndecipiatur_. But Gogol and Turgenev felt substantially the same. Had\nTurgenev burnt his own manuscripts and talked of himself instead of\nTolstoy, before death, he would have been accounted mad. Moralists\nwould have reproached him for his display of extreme egoism.... And\nPhilosophy? Philosophy seems to be getting rid of certain prejudices.\nAt the moment when men are least likely to play the hypocrite and lie\nto themselves Turgenev and Gogol placed their personal fate higher\nthan the destinies of Russian literature. Does not this betray a\n\"secret\" to us? Ought we not to see in absolute egoism an inalienable\nand great, yes, very great quality of human nature? Psychology,\nignoring the threats of morality, has led us to a new knowledge. Yet\nstill, in spite of the instances we have given, the mass of people\nwill, as usual, see nothing but malice in every attempt to reveal\nthe human impulses that underlie \"lofty\" motives. To be merely men\nseems humiliating to men. So now malice will also be detected in my\ninterpretation of Turgenev's letter, no matter what assurance I offer\nto the contrary.\n\n\n3\n\n_On Method_.--A certain naturalist made the following experiment:\nA glass jar was divided into two halves by a perfectly transparent\nglass partition. On the one side of the partition he placed a pike,\non the other a number of small fishes such as form the prey of the\npike. The pike did not notice the partition, and hurled itself on its\nprey, with, of course, the result only of a bruised nose. The same\nhappened many times, and always the same result. At last, seeing all\nits efforts ended so painfully, the pike abandoned the hunt, so that\nin a few days, when the partition had been removed it continued to\nswim about among the small fry without daring to attack them.... Does\nnot the same happen with us? Perhaps the limits between \"this world\"\nand \"the other world\" are also essentially of an experimental origin,\nneither rooted in the nature of things, as was thought before Kant, or\nin the nature of our reason, as was thought after Kant. Perhaps indeed\na partition does exist, and make vain all attempts to cross over.. But\nperhaps there comes a moment when the partition is removed. In our\nminds, however, the conviction is firmly rooted that it is impossible\nto pass certain limits, and painful to try: a conviction founded on\nexperience. But in this case we should recall the old scepticism of\nHume, which idealist philosophy has regarded as mere subtle mind-play,\nvalueless after Kant's critique. The most lasting and varied experience\ncannot lead to any binding and universal conclusion. Nay, all our\n_a priori_, which are so useful for a certain time, become sooner\nor later extremely harmful. A philosopher should not be afraid of\nscepticism, but should go on bruising his jaw. Perhaps the failure\nof metaphysics lies in the caution and timidity of metaphysicians,\nwho seem ostensibly so brave. They have sought for rest--which they\ndescribe as the highest boon. Whereas they should have valued more than\nanything restlessness, aimlessness, even purposelessness. How can you\ntell when the partition will be removed? Perhaps at the very moment\nwhen man ceased his painful pursuit, settled all his questions and\nrested on his laurels, inert, he could with one strong push have swept\nthrough the pernicious fence which separated him from the unknowable.\nThere is no need for man to move according to a carefully-considered\nplan. This is a purely aesthetic demand which need not bind us. Let\nman senselessly and deliriously knock his head against the wall--if\nthe wall go down at last, will he value his triumph any the less?\nUnfortunately for us the illusion has been established in us that plan\nand purpose are the best guarantee of success. What a delusion it is!\nThe opposite is true. The best of all that genius has revealed to us\nhas been revealed as the result of fantastic, erratic, apparently\nridiculous and useless, but relentlessly stubborn seeking. Columbus,\ntired of sitting on the same spot, sailed west to look for India. And\ngenius, in spite of vulgar conception, is a condition of chaos and\nunutterable restlessness. Not for nothing has genius been counted kin\nto madness. Genius flings itself hither and thither because it has not\nthe _Sitzfleisch_ necessary for industrious success in mediocrity.\nWe may be sure that earth has seen much more genius than history\nhas recorded; since genius is acknowledged only when it has been\nserviceable. When the tossing-about has led to no useful issue--which\nis the case in the majority of instances--it arouses only a feeling\nof disgust and abomination in all witnesses. \"He can't rest and he\ncan't let others rest.\" If Lermontov and Dostoevsky had lived in times\nwhen there was no demand for books, nobody would have noticed them.\nLermontov's early death would have passed unregretted. Perhaps some\nsettled and virtuous citizen would have remarked, weary of the young\nman's eternal and dangerous freaks: \"For a dog a dog's death.\" The same\nof Gogol, Tolstoy, Poushkin. Now they are praised because they left\ninteresting books.... And so we need pay no attention to the cry about\nthe futility and worthlessness of scepticism, even scepticism pure and\nunadulterated, scepticism which has no ulterior motive of clearing\nthe way for a new creed. To knock one's head against the wall out of\nhatred for the wall: to beat against established and obstructive ideas,\nbecause one detests them: is it not an attractive proposition? And\nthen, to see ahead uncertainly and limitless possibilities, instead of\nup-to-date \"ideals,\" is not this too fascinating? The highest good is\nrest! I shall not argue: _de gustibus aut nihil aut bene_.... By the\nway, isn't it a superb principle? And this superb principle has been\narrived at perfectly by chance, unfortunately not by me, but by one of\nthe comical characters in Tchekhov's _Seagull_. He mixed up two Latin\nproverbs, and the result was a splendid maxim which, in order to become\nan _a priori_, awaits only universal acceptance.\n\n\n4\n\nMetaphysicians praise the transcendental, and carefully avoid it.\nNietzsche hated metaphysics, he praised the earth--_bleib nur der\nErde treu, O meine Bruder_--and always lived in the realm of the\ntranscendental. Of course the metaphysicians behave better: this is\nindisputable. He who would be a teacher must proclaim the metaphysical\npoint of view, and he may become a hero without ever smelling powder.\nIn these anxious days, when positivism seems to fall short, one cannot\ndo better than turn to metaphysics. Then the young man need not any\nmore envy Alexander the Macedonian. With the assistance of a few\nbooks not only earthly states are conquered, but the whole mysterious\nuniverse. Metaphysics is the great art of swerving round dangerous\nexperience. So metaphysicians should be called the positivists _par\nexcellence_. They do not despise all experience, as they assert, but\n_only the dangerous experiences_. They adapt the safest of all methods\nof selfdefence, what the English call protective mimicry. Let us repeat\nto all students--professors know it already: he who would be a sincere\nmetaphysician must avoid risky experience. Schiller once asked: How can\ntragedy give delight? The answer--to put it in our own words--was: If\nwe are to obtain delight from tragedy, it must be seen only upon the\nstage.--In order to love the transcendental it also should be known\nonly from the stage, or from books of the philosophers. This is called\nidealism, the nicest word ever invented by philosophising men.\n\n\n5\n\n_Poetae nascuntur_.--Wonderful is man. Knowing nothing about it, he\nasserts the existence of an objective impossibility. Even a little\nwhile ago, before the invention of the telephone and telegraph, men\nwould have declared it impossible for Europe to converse with America.\nNow it is possible. We cannot produce poets, therefore we say they are\nborn. Certainly we cannot make a child a poet by forcing him to study\nliterary models, from the most ancient to the most modern. Neither will\nanybody hear us in America no matter how loud we shout here. To make a\npoet of a man, he must not be developed along ordinary lines. Perhaps\nbooks should be kept from him. Perhaps it is necessary to perform some\napparently dangerous operation on him: fracture his skull or throw\nhim out of a fourth-storey window. I will refrain from recommending\nthese methods as a substitute for paedagogy. But that is not the\npoint. Look at the great men, and the poets. Except John Stuart Mill\nand a couple of other positivist thinkers, who had learned fathers\nand virtuous mothers, none of the great men can boast of, or better,\ncomplain of, a proper upbringing. In their lives nearly always the\ndecisive part was played by accident, accident which reason would dub\nmeaninglessness, if reason ever dared raise its voice against obvious\nsuccess. Something like a broken skull or a fall from the fourth\nfloor--not metaphorically, but often absolutely literally--has proved\nthe commencement, usually concealed but occasionally avowed, of the\nactivity of genius. But we repeat automatically: _poetae nascuntur_,\nand are deeply convinced that this extraordinary truth is so lofty it\nneeds no verification.\n\n\n6\n\n\"Until Apollo calls him to the sacrifice, ignobly the poet is plunged\nin the cares of this shoddy world; silent is his lyre, cold sleeps his\nsoul, of all the petty children of earth most petty it seems is he.\"\nPisaryev, the critic, was exasperated by these verses. Presumably, if\nthey had not belonged to Poushkin, all the critics along with Pisaryev\nwould have condemned them and their author to oblivion. Suspicious\nverse! Before Apollo calls to him--the poet is the most insignificant\nof mortals! In his free hours, the ordinary man finds some more or less\ndistinguished distraction fox himself: he hunts, attends exhibitions\nof pictures, or the theatre, and finally rests in the bosom of his\nfamily. But the poet is incapable of normal existence. Immediately he\nhas finished with Apollo, forgetting all about altars and sacrifices,\nhe proceeds to occupy himself with unworthy objects. Or he abandons\nhimself to the _dolce far niente_, the customary pastime of all\nfavourites of the Muses. Let us here remark that not only all poets,\nbut all writers and artists in general are inclined to lead bad lives.\nThink what Tolstoy tells us, in _Confession_ and elsewhere, of the best\nrepresentatives of literature in the fifties. On the whole it is just\nas Poushkin says in his verses. Whilst he is engaged in composition,\nan author is a creature of some consequence: apart from this, he is\nnothing. Why are Apollo and the Muses so remiss? Why do they draw to\nthemselves wayward or vicious votaries, instead of rewarding virtue?\nWe dare not suspect the gods, even the dethroned, of bad intentions.\nApollo loved virtuous persons--and yet virtuous persons are evidently\nmediocre and unfit for the sacred offices. If any man is overcome with\na great desire to serve the god of song, let him get rid of his virtues\nat once. Curious that this truth is so completely unknown to men. They\nthink that through virtue they can truly deserve the favour and choice\nof Apollo. And since industry is the first virtue, they peg away,\nmorning, noon, and night. Of course, the more they work the less they\ndo. Which really puzzles and annoys them. They even fling aside the\nsacred arts, and all the labours of a devotee; they give themselves up\nto idleness and other bad habits. And sometimes it so happens, that\njust as a man decides that it is all no good, the Muses suddenly visit\nhim. So it was with Dostoevsky and others; Schiller alone managed\nto get round Apollo. But perhaps it was only his biographers he got\nround. Germans are so trustful, so easy to deceive. The biographers\nsaw nothing unusual in Schiller's habit of keeping his feet in cold\nwater whilst he worked. No doubt they felt that if the divine poet had\nlived in the Sahara, where water is precious as gold, and the inspired\ncannot take a footbath every day, then the speeches of the Marquis of\nPola would have lacked half their nobleness, at least. And apparently\nSchiller was not so wonderfully chaste, if he needed such artificial\nresources in the composition of his fine speeches. In a word, we must\nbelieve Poushkin. A poet is, on the one hand, among the elect; on the\nother hand, he is one of the most insignificant of mortals. Hence we\ncan draw a very consoling conclusion: the most insignificant of men\nare not altogether so worthless as we imagine. They may not be fit to\noccupy government positions or professorial chairs, but they are often\nextremely at home on Parnassus and such high places. Apollo rewards\nvice, and virtue, as everybody knows, is so satisfied with herself she\nneeds no reward. Then why do the pessimists lament? Leibnitz was quite\nright: we live in the best possible of worlds. I would even suggest\nthat we leave out the modification \"possible.\"\n\n\n7\n\nIt is _Das Ewig Weibliche_, with Russian writers. Poushkin and\nLermontov loved women and were not afraid of them; Poushkin, who\ntrusted his own nature, was often in love, and always sang his love of\nthe moment. When infatuated with a bacchante, he glorified bacchantes.\nWhen he married, he warbled of a modest, nun-like beauty, his wife.\nA synthesising mind would probably not know what to do with all\nPoushkin's sorts of love. Nor is Lermontov any better. He abused women,\nbut, as Byelinsky observed after meeting him, he loved women more than\nanything in the world. And again, not women of one mould only: any and\nall attractive females: the wild Bella, the lovely Mary, Thamar; one\nand all, no matter of what race or condition. Every time Lermontov is\nin love, he assures us his love is so deep and ardent and even moral,\nthat we cannot judge him without conpunction. Vladimir Soloviov alone\nwas not afraid to condemn him. He brought Poushkin as well as Lermontov\nto account for their moral irregularities, and he even went so far as\nto say that it was not he himself who judged them, but Fate, in whose\nservice he acted as public denouncer. Lermontov and Poushkin, both\ndying young, had deserved death for their frivolities. But there was\nnobody else besides Vladimir Soloviov to darken the memories of the two\npoets. It is true Tolstoy cannot forgive Poushkin's dissolute life, but\nhe does not apply to Fate for a verdict. According to Tolstoy morality\ncan cope even with a Titan like Poushkin. In Tolstoy's view morality\ngrows stronger the harder the job it has to tackle. It pardons the\nweak offenders without waste of words, but it never forgives pride and\nself-confidence. If Tolstoy's edicts had been executed, all memorials\nto Poushkin would have disappeared; chiefly because of the poet's\naddiction to the eternal female. In such a case Tolstoy is implacable.\nHe admits the the kind of love whose object is the establishing of\na family, but no more. Don Juan is a hateful transgressor. Think of\nLevin, and his attitude to prostitutes. He is exasperated, indignant,\neven forgets the need for compassion, and calls them \"beasts.\" In the\neternal female Tolstoy sees temptation, seduction, sin, _great danger_.\nTherefore it is necessary to keep quite away from the danger. But\nsurely danger is the dragon which guards every treasure on earth. And\nagain, no matter what his precautions, a man will meet his fate sooner\nor later, and come into conflict with the dragon. Surely this is an\naxiom. Poushkin and Lermontov loved danger, and therefore sought women.\nThey paid a heavy price, but while they lived they lived freely and\nlightly. If they had cared to peep in the book of destinies, they might\nhave averted or avoided their sad end. But they preferred to trust\ntheir star--lucky or unlucky. Tolstoy was the first among us--we cannot\nspeak of Gogol--who began to fear life. He was the first to start open\nmoralising. In so far as public opinion and personal dignity demand\nit, he did go to meet his dangers: but not a step further. So he\navoided women, art, and philosophy. Love _per se_, that is, love which\ndoes not lead to a family, like wisdom _per se_, which is wisdom that\nhas no utilitarian motive, and like art for art's sake, seemed to him\nthe worst of temptations, leading to the destruction of the soul. When\nhe plunged too deep in thinking, he was seized with panic. \"It seemed\nto me I was going mad, so I went away to the Bashkirs for koumiss.\"\nSuch confessions are common in his works. And surely there is no other\nway with temptations, than to cut short, at once, before it is too\nlate. Tolstoy preserved himself on account of his inborn instinct for\ndeparting betimes from a dangerous situation. Save for this cautious\nprompting he would probably have ended like Lermontov or Poushkin.\nTrue, he might have gone deeper into nature, and revealed us rare\nsecrets, instead of preaching at us abstinence, humility, simplicity\nand so on. But such luck fell to the fate of Dostoevsky. Dostoevsky\nhad very muddled relations with morality. He was too racked by disease\nand circumstance to get much profit out of the rules of morality. The\nhygiene of the soul, like that of the body, is beneficial only to\nhealthy men. To the sick it is simply harmful. The more Dostoevsky\nengaged himself with high morality, the more inextricably entangled\nhe became. He wanted to respect the personality in a woman, and only\nthe personality, and so he came to the point where he could not look\non any woman, however ugly, with indifference. The elder Karamazov and\nhis affair with Elizabeth Smerdyascha (Stinking Lizzie)--in what other\nimagination could such a union have been contemplated? Dostoevsky, of\ncourse, reprimands Karamazov, and thanks to the standards of modern\ncriticism, such a reprimand is accounted sufficient to exonerate our\nauthor. But there are other standards. If a writer sets out to tell you\nthat no drab could be so loathsome that her ugliness would make you\nforget she was woman; and if for illustration of this novel idea we\nare told the history of Fiodov Karamazov with the deformed, repulsive\nidiot, Stinking Lizzie; then, in face of such \"imaginative art\" it is\nsurely out of place to preserve the usual confidence in that writer.\nWe do not speak of the interest and _appreciation_ of Dostoevsky's\ntastes and ideas. Not for one moment will I assert that those who\nwith Poushkin and Lermontov can see the Eternal Female only in young\nand charming women, have any advantage over Dostoevsky. Of course,\nwe are not forbidden to live according to our tastes, and we may,\nlike Tolstoy, call certain women \"beasts.\" But who has given us the\nright to assert that we are higher or better than Dostoevsky? Judging\n\"objectively,\" all the points go to show that Dostoevsky is better--at\nany rate he saw further, deeper. He could find an original interest,\nhe could discover _das ewig Weibliche_ where we should see nothing of\nattraction at all, where Goethe would avert his face. Stinking Lizzie\nis not a beast, as Levin would say, but a woman who is able, if even\nfor a moment, to arouse a feeling of love in a man. And we thought she\nwas worse than nothing, since she roused in us only disgust. Dostoevsky\nmade a discovery, we with our refined feelings missed it. His\ndistorted, abnormal sense showed a greater sensitiveness, in which our\nhigh morality was deficient.... And the road to the great truth this\ntime, as ever, is through deformity. Idealists will not agree. They are\nquite justly afraid that one may not reach the truth, but may get stuck\nin the mud. Idealists are careful men, and not nearly so stupid as\ntheir ideals would lead us to suppose.\n\n\n8\n\nNew ideas, even our own, do not quickly conquer our sympathies. We must\nfirst get accustomed to them.\n\n\n9\n\n_A point of view_.--Every writer, thinker--even every educated person\nthinks it necessary to have a permanent point of view. He climbs up\nsome elevation and never climbs down again all his days. Whatever\nhe sees from this point of view, he believes to be reality, truth,\njustice, good--and what he does not see he excludes from existence.\nMan is not much to blame for this. Surely there is no very great joy\nin moving from point of view to point of view, shifting one's camp\nfrom peak to peak. We have no wings, and \"a winged thought\" is only\na nice metaphor--unless, of course, it refers to logical thinking.\nThere to be sure great volatility is usual, a lightness which comes\nfrom perfect na\u00efvet\u00e9, if not ignorance. He who really wishes to know\nsomething, and not merely to have a philosophy, does not rely on logic\nand is not allured by reason. He must clamber from summit to summit,\nand, if necessary, hibernate in the dales. For a wide horizon leads\nto illusions, and in order to familiarise oneself with any object,\nit is essential to go close up to it, touch it, feel it, examine it\nfrom top to bottom and on every side. One must be ready, should this\nbe impossible otherwise, to sacrifice the customary position of the\nbody: to wriggle, to lie flat, to stand on one's head, in a word, to\nassume the most unnatural of attitudes. Can there be any question of a\npermanent point of view? The more mobility and elasticity a man has,\nthe less he values the ordinary equilibrium of his body; the oftener\nhe changes his outlook, the more he will take in. If, on the other\nhand, he imagines that from this or the other pinnacle he has the most\ncomfortable survey of the world and life, leave him alone; he will\nnever know anything. Nay, he does not want to know, he cares more about\nhis personal convenience than about the quality of his work. No doubt\nhe will attain to fame and success, and thus brilliantly justify his\n\"point of view.\"\n\n\n10\n\n_Fame_.--\"A thread from everyone, and the naked will have a shirt.\"\nThere is no beggar but has his thread of cotton, and he will not\ngrudge it to a naked man--no, nor even to a fully dressed one; but\nwill bestow it on the first comer. The poor, who want to forget their\npoverty, are very ready with their threads. Moreover, they prefer to\ngive them to the rich, rather than to a fellow-tramp. To load the rich\nwith benefits, must not one be very rich indeed? That is why fame is\nso easily got. An ambitious person asks admiration and respect from\nthe crowd, and is rarely denied. The mob feel that their throats are\ntheir own, and their arms are strong. Why not vociferate and clap,\nseeing that you can turn the head not only of a beggar like yourself,\nbut of a future hero, God knows how almighty a person. The humiliated\ncitizen who has hitherto been hauled off to the police station if he\nshouted, suddenly feels that his throat has acquired a new value. Never\nbefore has anyone given a rap for his worthless opinion, and now seven\ncities are ready to quarrel for it, as for the right to claim Homer.\nThe citizen is delighted, he shouts at the top of his voice, and is\nready to throw all his possessions after his shouts. So the hero is\nsatisfied. The greater the shout, the deeper his belief in himself\nand his mission. What will a hero not believe! For he forgets so soon\nthe elements of which his fame and riches are made. Heroes usually\nare convinced that they set out on their noble career, not to beg\nshouts from beggars, but to heap blessings on mankind. If they could\nonly call to mind with what beating hearts they awaited their first\napplause, their first alms, how timidly they curried favour with ragged\nbeggars, perhaps they would speak less assuredly of their own merits.\nBut our memory is fully acquainted with Herbert Spencer and his law of\nadaptability, and thus many a worthy man goes gaily on in full belief\nin his own stupendous virtue.\n\n\n11\n\n_In defence of righteousness_.--Inexperienced and ingenuous people see\nin righteousness merely a burden which lofty people have assumed out\nof respect for law or for some other high and inexplicable reason. But\na righteous man has not only duties but rights. True, sometimes, when\nthe law is against him, he has to compromise. Yet how rarely does the\nlaw desert him! No cruelty matters in him, so long as he does not\ninfringe the statutes. Nay, he will ascribe his cruelty as a merit to\nhimself, since he acts out of no personal considerations, but in the\nname of sacred justice. No matter what he may do, once he is sanctioned\nhe sees in his actions only merit, merit, merit. Modesty forbids him to\nsay too much--but if he were to let go, what a luxurious panegyric he\nmight deliver to himself! Remembering his works, he praises himself at\nall times; not aloud, but inwardly. The nature of virtue demands it:\nman must rejoice in his morality and ever keep it in mind. And after\nthat, people declare that it is hard to be righteous. Whatever the\nother virtues may be, certainly righteousness has its selfish side. As\na rule it is decidedly worth while to make considerable sacrifices in\norder later on to enjoy in calm confidence all that surety and those\nrights bestowed on a man by morality and public approval. Look at a\nGerman who has paid his contribution to a society for the assistance of\nthe indigent. Not one stray farthing will he give, not to a poor wretch\nwho is starving before his eyes. And in this he feels right. This is\nrighteousness out and out: pay your tax and enjoy the privileges of a\nhigh-principled man. So righteousness is much in vogue with cultured,\ncommercial nations. Russians have not quite got there. They are\nafraid of the exactions of righteousness, not guessing the enormous\nadvantages derived. A Russian has a permanent relationship with his\nconscience, which costs him far more than the most moral German, or\neven Englishman, has to pay for his righteousness.\n\n\n12\n\nThe best way of getting rid of tedious, played-out truths is to stop\npaying them the tribute of respect and to treat them with a touch of\neasy familiarity and derision. To put into brackets, as Dostoevsky did,\nsuch words as good, self-sacrifice, progress, and so on, will alone\nachieve you much more than many brilliant arguments would do. Whilst\nyou still contest a certain truth, you still believe in it, and this\neven the least penetrating individual will perceive. But if you favour\nit with no serious attention, and only throw out a scornful remark now\nand then, the result is different. It is evident you have ceased to be\nafraid of the old truth, you no longer respect it. And this sets people\nthinking.\n\n\n13\n\n_Four walls_.--Arm-chair philosophy is being condemned--rightly.\nAn arm-chair thinker is busy deciding on everything that is taking\nplace in the world: the state of the world market, the existence of\na world-soul, wireless telegraphy and the life after death, the cave\ndweller and the perfectibility of man, and so on and so on. His chief\nbusiness is so to select his statements that there shall be no internal\ncontradiction; and this will give an appearance of truth. Such work,\nwhich is quite amusing and even interesting, leads at last to very\npoor results. Surely verisimilitudes of truth are not truth: nor have\nnecessarily anything in common with truth. Again, a man who undertakes\nto talk of everything probably knows nothing. Thus a swan can fly, and\nwalk, and swim. But it flies indifferently, walks badly, and swims\npoorly. An arm-chair philosopher, enclosed by four walls, sees nothing\nbut those four walls, and yet of these precisely he does not choose\nto speak. If by accident he suddenly realised them and spoke of them\nhis philosophy might acquire an enormous value. This may happen when a\nstudy is converted into a prison: the same four walls, but impossible\nnot to think of them! Whatever the prisoner turns his mind to--Homer,\nthe Greek-Persian wars, the future world-peace, the bygone geological\ncataclysms--still the four walls enclose it all. The calm of the study\nsupplanted by the pathos of imprisonment. The prisoner has no more\ncontact with the world, and no less. But now he no longer slumbers\nand has grayish dreams called world-conceptions. He is wide awake and\nstrenuously living. His philosophy is worth hearing. But man is not\ndistinguished for his powers of discrimination. He sees solitude and\nfour walls, and says: a study. He dreams of the market-place, where\nthere is noise and jostling, physical bustle, and decides that there\nalone life is to be met. He is wrong as usual. In the market-place,\namong the crowd, do not men sleep their deadest sleep? And is not the\nkeenest spiritual activity taking place in seclusion?\n\n\n14\n\nThe Spartans made their helots drunk as an example and warning to their\nnoble youths. A good method, no doubt, but what are we of the twentieth\ncentury to do? Whom shall we make drunk? We have no slaves, so we have\ninstituted a higher literature. Novels and stories describe drunken,\ndissolute men, and paint them in such horrid colours that every reader\nfeels all his desire for vice depart from him. Unfortunately only our\nRussians are either too conscientious or not sufficiently rectilinear\nin their minds. Instead of showing the drunken helot as an object of\nrepugnance, as the Spartans did, they try to describe vice truthfully.\nRealism has taken hold. Indeed, why make a fuss? What does it matter if\nthe writer's description is a little more or less ugly than the event?\nWas justice invented that everything, _even evil,_ should be kept\nintact? Surely evil must be simply rooted out, banned, placed outside\nthe pale. The Spartans did not stand on ceremony with living men, and\nyet our novelists are afraid of being unjust to imaginary drunken\nhelots. And, so to speak, out of humane feeling too.... How naive one\nmust be to accept such a justification! Yet everybody accepts it.\nTolstoy alone, towards the end, guessed that humanitarianism is only\na pretext in this case, and that we Russians have described vice not\nonly for the purpose of scaring our readers. In modern masters the word\nvice arouses not disgust, but insatiable curiosity. Perhaps the wicked\nthing has been persecuted in vain, like so many other good things.\nPerhaps it should have been studied, perhaps it held mysteries.... On\nthe strength of this \"perhaps\" morality was gradually abandoned, and\nTolstoy remained almost alone in his indignation. Realism reigns, and\na drunken helot arouses envy in timid readers who do not know where to\nput their trust, whether in the traditional rules or in the appeal of\nthe master. A drunken helot an ideal! What have we come to? Were it not\nbetter to have stuck to Lycurgus? Have we not paid too dearly for our\nprogress?\n\nMany people think we have paid too dearly--not to mention Tolstoy,\nwho is now no longer taken quite seriously, though still accounted\na great man. Any mediocre journalist enjoys greater influence than\nthis master-writer of the Russian land. It is inevitable. Tolstoy\ninsists on thinking about things which are nobody's concern. He has\nlong since abandoned this world--and does he continue to exist in\nany other? Difficult question! \"Tolstoy writes books and letters,\ntherefore he exists.\" This inference, once so convincing, now has\nhardly any effect on us: particularly if we take into account what it\nis that Tolstoy writes. In several of his last letters he expresses\nopinions which surely have no meaning for an ordinary man. They can\nbe summed up in a few words. Tolstoy professes an extreme egoism,\nsollipsism, solus-ipse-ism. That is, in his old age, after infinite\nattempts to love his neighbour, he comes to the conclusion that not\nonly is it impossible to love one's neighbour, but that there _is_ no\nneighbour, that in all the world Tolstoy alone exists, that there is\neven no world, but only Tolstoy: a view so obviously absurd, that it\nis not worth refuting. By the way, there is also no possibility of\nrefuting it, unless you admit that logical inferences are non-binding.\nSollipsism dogged Tolstoy already in early youth, but at that time\nhe did not know what to do with the impertinent, oppressive idea,\nso he ignored it. Finally, he came to it. The older a man becomes,\nthe more he learns how to make use of impertinent ideas. Fairly\nrecently Tolstoy could pronounce such a dictum: \"Christ taught men\nnot to do stupid things.\" Who but Tolstoy could have ventured on such\nan interpretation of the gospels? Why have we all held--all of us\nbut Tolstoy--that these words contained the greatest blasphemy on\nChrist and His teaching? But it was Tolstoy's last desperate attempt\nto save himself from sollipsism, without at the same time flying in\nthe face of logic: even Christ appeared among men only to teach them\ncommon sense. Whence follows that \"mad\" thoughts may be rejected\nwith an easy conscience, and the advantage, as usual, remains with\nthe wholesome, reasonable, sensible thoughts. There is room for good\nand for reason. Good is self-understood; it need not be explained.\nIf only good existed in the world, there would exist no questions,\nneither simple nor ultimate. This is why youth never questions. What\nindeed should it question: the song of the nightingale, the morning\nof May, happy laughter, all the predicates of youth? Do these need\ninterpretation? On the contrary, any explanation is reduced to these\nThe proper questions arise only on contact with evil. A hawk struck\na nightingale, flowers withered, Boreas froze laughing youth--and in\nterror our questions arose. \"That is evil. The ancients were right.\nNot in vain is our earth called a vale of tears and sorrow.\" And\nonce questions are started, it is impossible and unseemly to hurry\nthe answers, still less anticipate the questions. The nightingale\nis dead and will sing no longer, the listener is frozen to death and\ncan hear no more songs. The situation is so palpably absurd that only\nwith the intention of getting rid of the question at any cost will\none strive for a sensible answer. The answer must be absurd--if you\ndon't want it, don't question. But if you must question, then be ready\nbeforehand to reconcile yourself with something like sollipsism or\nmodern realism. Thought is in a dilemma, and dare not take the leap to\nget out. We laugh at philosophy, and, as long as possible, avoid evil.\nBut nearly all men feel the intolerable cramp of such a situation, and\neach at his risk ventures to swim to shore on some more or less witty\ntheory. A few courageous ones speak the truth--but they are neither\nunderstood nor respected. When a man's words show the depth of the\npain through which he has passed, he is not, indeed, condemned, but\nthe world begins to talk of his tragic state of soul, and to take\non a mournful look fitting to the occasion. Others more scrupulous\nfeel that phrases and mournful looks are unfitting, yet they cannot\ndwell at length on the tragedies of outsiders, so they take on an\nexaggeratedly stern bearing, as if to say, \"We feel deeply, but we do\nnot wish to show our feeling.\" They really feel nothing, only want\nto make others believe how sensitive and modest they are. At times\nthis leads to curious results, even in writers of the first order\nof renown. Thus Anatole France, the inventor of that most charming\nsmile which is intended to convince men that he feels everything and\nunderstands everything, but does not cry out, because that would not\nbe fitting, in one of his novels takes upon himself the noble r\u00f4le of\nadvocate of the victims of a crime, against the criminal. \"Our time,\"\nhe says, \"out of _pity_ to the criminal forgets the sufferings of his\nvictim.\" This, I repeat, is one of the most curious misrepresentations\nof modern endeavour. It is true we in Russia talk a good deal about\ncompassion, particularly to criminals, and Anatole France is by no\nmeans the only man who thinks that our distinguishing characteristic is\nextreme sensitiveness and tender-heartedness. But as a matter of fact\nthe modern man who thinks for himself is not drawn to the criminal by\na sense of compassion, which would incontestably be better applied to\nthe victim, but by curiosity, or if you like, inquisitiveness. For\nthousands of years man has sought to solve the great mystery of life\nthrough a God-conception--with theodicy and metaphysical theories as\na result, both of which deny the possibility of a mystery. Theodicy\nhas long ago wearied us. The mechanistic theories, which contend that\nthere is nothing special in life, that its appearance and disappearance\ndepend on the same laws as those of the conservation of energy and\nthe indestructibility of matter, these look more plausible at first\nsight, but people do not take to them. And no theory can survive men's\nreluctance to believe in it. In a word, good has not justified the\nexpectations placed on it. Reason has done no better. So overwrought\nmankind has turned from its old idols and enthroned madness and evil.\nThe smiling Anatole argues, and proves--proves excellently. But who\ndoes not know what his proofs amount to?--and who wants them? It may be\nour children will take fright at the task we have undertaken, will call\nus \"squandering parents,\" and will set themselves again to heaping up\ntreasures, spiritual and material. Again they will believe in ideals,\nprogress, and such like. For my own part, I have hardly any doubt of\nit. Sollipsism and the cult of groundlessness are not lasting, and,\nmost of all, they are not to be handed down. The final triumph, in life\nas in old comedies, rests with goodness and common sense. History has\nknown many epochs like ours, and gone through with them. Degeneration\nfollows on the heels of immoderate curiosity, and sweeps away all\nrefined and exaggerately well-informed individuals. Men of genius have\nno posterity--or their children are idiots. Not for nothing is nature\nso majestically serene: she has hidden her secrets well enough. Which\nis not surprising, considering how unscrupulous she is. No despot, not\nthe greatest villain on earth, has ever wielded power with the cruelty\nand heartlessness of nature. The least violation of her laws--and\nthe severest punishment follows. Disease, deformity, madness, death\n--what has not our common mother contrived to keep us in subjection?\nTrue, certain optimists think that nature does not punish us, but\neducates us. So Tolstoy sees it. \"Death and sufferings, like animated\nscarecrows, boo at man and drive him into the one way of life open to\nhim: for life is subject to its own law of reason.\" Not a bad method\nof upbringing. Exactly like using wolves and bears. Unfortunate man,\nbolting from one booing monster, is not always able in time to dodge\ninto the one correct way, and dashes straight into the maw of another\nbeast of prey. Then what? And this often happens. Without disparagement\nof the optimists, we may say that sooner or later it happens to every\nman. After which no more running. You won't tear yourself out of the\nclaws of madness or disease. Only one thing is left: in spite of\ntraditions, theodicy, wiseacres, and most of all in spite of oneself,\nto go on praising mother nature and her great goodness. Let future\ngenerations reject us, let history stigmatise our names, as the names\nof traitors to the human cause--still we will compose hymns to\ndeformity, destruction, madness, chaos, darkness. And after that--let\nthe grass grow.\n\n\n15\n\nAstrology and alchemy lived their day and died a natural death.\nBut they left a posterity--chemistry inventing dyes, and astronomy\naccumulating formulae. So it is. Geniuses beget idiots: especially when\nthe mothers are very virtuous, as in this case, when their virtue\nis extraordinary. For the mothers are public utility and morality.\nThe alchemists wasted their time seeking the philosopher's stone; the\nastrologers, swindled people telling fortunes by the stars. Wedded to\nutility these two fathers have begotten the chemists and astronomers.\n... Nobody will dispute the genealogy. Perhaps even none will dispute\nthat, from idiotic children one may, with a measure of probability,\ninfer genius in the parents. There are certain indications that this is\nso--though of course one may not go beyond supposition. But supposition\nis enough. There are more arguments in store. For instance--our day is\nso convinced of the absolute nonsense and uselessness of alchemy and\nastrology that no one dreams of verifying the conviction. We know there\nwere many charlatans and liars amongst alchemists and astrologers. But\nwhat does this prove? In every department there are the same mediocre\ncreatures who speculate on human credulity. However positive our\nscience of medicine is, there are many fraudulent doctors who rob their\npatients. The alchemists and astrologers were, in all probability,\nthe most remarkable men of their time. I will go further: in spite\nof dye-stuffs and formulae, even in our nineteenth century, which\nwas so famous for its inventions and discoveries, the most eminent,\ntalented men still sought the philosopher's stone and forecast the\ndestinies of man. And those among them who were possessed of a poetic\ngift won universal attention. In the old days, _consensu sapientium_,\na poet was allowed all kinds of liberties: he might speak of fate,\nmiracles, spirits, the life beyond--indeed of anything, provided he was\ninteresting. That was enough. The nineteenth century paid its tribute\nto restlessness. Never were there so many disturbing, throbbing writers\nas during the epoch of telephones and telegraphs. It was held indecent\nto speak in plain language of the vexed and troubled aspirations of\nthe human spirit. Those guilty of the indecency were even dosed with\nbromides and treated with shower-baths and concentrated foods. But all\nthis is external, it belongs to a history of \"fashions\" and cannot\ninterest us here. The point is that alchemy and astrology did not die,\nthey only shammed death and left the stage for a time. Now, apparently,\nthey are tired of seclusion and are coming forward again, having pushed\ntheir unsuccessful children into the background. Well, so be it. _A la\nbonne heure_!...\n\n\n16\n\nMan comes to the pass where all experience seems exhausted. Wherever he\ngo, whatever he see, all is old and wearyingly familiar. Most people\nexplain this by saying that they really know everything, and that from\nwhat they have experienced they can infer all experience. This phase\nof the exhaustion of life usually comes to a man between thirty-five\nand forty--the best period, according to Karamzin. Not seeing anything\nnew, the individual assumes he is completely matured and has the right\nto judge of everything. Knowing what has been he can forecast what will\nbe. But Karamzin was mistaken about the best period, and the \"mature\"\npeople are mistaken about the \"nothing new can happen.\" The fact of\nspiritual stagnation should not be made the ground for judging all\nlife's possibilities from known possibilities. On the contrary, such\nstagnation should prove that however rich and multifarious the past may\nhave been, it has not exhausted a tittle of the whole possibilities.\nFrom that which has been it is impossible to infer what will be.\nMoreover, it is unnecessary--except, perhaps, to give us a sense of\nour full maturity and let us enjoy all the charms of the best period\nof life, so eloquently described by Karamzin. The temptation is not\noverwhelming. So that, if man is under the necessity of enduring a\nperiod of arrest and stagnation, and until such time as life re-starts\nis doomed to meditation, would it not be better to use this meditating\n_interregnum_ for a directly opposite purpose from the one indicated:\nthat is to say, for the purpose of finding in our past signs which tell\nus that the future has every right to be anything whatsoever, like or\nutterly unlike the past. Such signs, given a good will to find them,\nmay be seen in plenty. At times one comes to the conclusion that the\nnatural connection of phenomena, as hitherto observed, is not at all\ninevitable for the future, and that miracles which so far have seemed\nimpossible, may come to seem possible, even natural, far more natural\nthan that loathsome law of sequence, the law of the regularity of\nphenomena. We are bored stiff with regularity and sequence--confess\nit, you also, you men of science. At the mere thought that, however we\nmay think, we can get no further than the acknowledgment of the old\nregularity, an invincible disgust to any kind of mental work overcomes\nus. To discover another law--still another--when already we have far\nmore than we can do with! Surely if there is any will-to-think left\nin us, it is established in the supposition that the mind cannot and\nmust not have any bounds, any limits; and that the theory of knowledge,\nwhich is based on the _history_ of knowledge and on a few very doubtful\nassumptions, is only a piece of property belonging to a certain caste,\nand has nothing to do with us others_--und die Natur zuletzt sich doch\nergr\u00fcnde._ What a mad impatience seizes us at times when we realise\nthat we shall never fathom the great mystery! Every individual in\nthe world must have felt at one time the mad desire to unriddle the\nuniverse. Even the stodgy philosophers who invented the theory of\nknowledge have at times made surreptitious sorties, hoping to open a\npath to the unknown, in spite of their own fat, senseless books that\ndemonstrate the advantages of scientific knowledge. Man either lives in\ncontinuous experience, or he frees himself from conclusions imposed by\nlimited experience. All the rest is the devil. From the devil come the\nblandishments with which Karamzin charmed himself and his readers....\nOr is it the contrary? Who will answer! Once again, as usual, at the\nend of a pathetic speech one is left with a conjecture. Let every man\nplease himself. But what about those who would like to live according\nto Karamzin, but cannot? I cannot speak for them. Schiller recommended\nhope. Will it do? To be frank, hardly. He who has once lost his peace\nof mind will never find it again.\n\n\n17\n\nEver since Kant succeeded in convincing\nthe learned that the world of phenomena is quite other than the world\nof true reality, and that even our own existence is not our real\nexistence, but only the visible manifestation of a mysterious, unknown\nsubstance (substantia)--philosophy has been stuck in a new rut, and\ncannot move a single millimetre out of the track laid out by the\ngreat K\u00f6nigsbergian. Backward or forward it can go, but necessarily\nin the Kantian rut. For how can you get out of the counterposing\nof the phenomenon against the thing-in-itself? This proposition,\nthis counterposing seems inalterable, so there is nothing left but\nto stick your head in the heavy draught-collar of the theory of\nknowledge. Which most philosophers do, even with a glad smile, which\ninevitably rouses a suspicion that they have got what they wanted,\nand their \"metaphysical need\" was nothing more than a need for a\nharness. Otherwise they would have kicked at the sight of the collar.\nSurely the contraposition between the world of phenomena and the\nthing-in-itself is an invention of the reasoning mind, as is the\ntheory of knowledge deduced from this contraposing. Therefore the\nfreedom-loving spirit could reject it in the very beginning--and\n_basta!_ With the devil one must be very cautious. We know quite well\nthat if he only gets hold of the tip of your ear he will carry off\nyour whole body. So it is with Reason. Grant it one single assumption,\nadmit but one proposition--and _finita la commedia_. You are in the\ntoils. Metaphysics cannot exist side-by-side with reason. Everything\nmetaphysical is absurd, everything reasonable is--positive. So we come\nupon a dilemma. The fundamental predicate of metaphysics is absurdity:\nand yet surely many positive assertions can lay legitimate claim to\nthat self-same, highly-respectable predicate. What then? Is there means\nof distinguishing a metaphysical absurdity from a perfectly ordinary\none? May one have recourse to criteria? Will not the very criterion\nprove a pitfall wherein cunning reason will catch the poor man who was\nrushing out to freedom? There can be no two answers to this question.\nAll services rendered by reason must be paid for sooner or later at\nthe exorbitant price of self-renunciation. Whether you accept the\nassistance in the noble form of the theory of knowledge, or merely as\na humble criterion, at last you will be driven forth into the streets\nof positivism. This happens all the time to young, inexperienced minds.\nThey break the bridle and dash forward into space, to find themselves\nrushing into the same old Rome, whither, as we know, all roads lead:\nor, to use more lofty language, rushing into the stable whither also\nall roads lead. The only way to guard against positivism--granting,\nof course, that positivism no longer attracts your sympathies--is to\ncease to fear any absurdities, whether rational or metaphysical, and\nsystematically to reject all the services of reason. Such behaviour has\nbeen known in philosophy; and I make bold to recommend it. _Credo, quia\nabsurdum_ comes from the Middle Ages. Modern instances are Nietzsche\nand Schopenhauer. Both present noble examples of indifference to logic\nand common-sense: particularly Schopenhauer, who, a Kantian, even in\nthe name of Kant made such daring sallies against reason, driving her\ninto confusion and shame. That astounding Kantian even went so far, in\nthe master's name still, as to attempt the overthrow of the space and\ntime notions. He admitted clairvoyance--and to this day the learned are\nbothered whether to class that admission among the metaphysical or the\nordinary absurdities. Really, I can't advise them. A very clever man\ninsists on an enormous absurdity, so I am satisfied. Schopenhauer's\nwhole campaign against intellect is very comforting. It is evident\nthat, though he set out from the Kantian stable, he soon got sick\nof hauling along down the cart-ruts, and having broken the shafts,\nhe trotted jauntily into a jungle of irreconcilable contradictions,\nwithout reflecting in the least where he was making for. The primate\nof will over reason; and music as the expression of our deepest\nessence; are not these assertions sufficient to show us how dexterously\nhe wriggled out from the harness of synthetic judgments _a priori_\nwhich Kant had placed upon every thinker. There is indeed much more\nmusic than logic in the philosophy of Schopenhauer; Not for nothing\nis he excluded from the universities. But of course one may speak of\nhim in the open; not of his ideas, naturally, but of his music. The\nEuropean market is glutted with ideas. How neat and nicely-finished and\nlogically well-turned-out those ideas are. Schopenhauer had no such\ngoods. But what lively and splendid contradictions he boldly spreads\non his stall, often even without suspicion that he ought to hide them\nfrom the police. Schopenhauer cries and laughs and gets furious or\nglad, without ever realising that this is forbidden to a philosopher.\n\"Do not speak, but sing,\" said Zarathustra, and Schopenhauer ready\nfulfilled the command in great measure. Philosophy may be music--though\nit doesn't follow that music may be called philosophy. When a man\nhas done his work, and gives himself up to looking and listening and\npleasantly accepting everything, hiding nothing from himself, then he\nbegins to \"philosophise.\" What good are abstract formulae to him? Why\nshould he ask himself, before he begins to think: \"What can I think\nabout, what are the limits of thought?\" He will think, and those who\nlike can do the summing up and the building of theories of knowledge.\nWhat is the earthly use of talking about beauty? Beautiful things must\nbe created. Not one single aesthetic theory has so far been able to\nguess what direction the artists' mind will next take, or what are the\nlimits to his creative activity. The same with the theory of knowledge.\nIt may arrest the work of a man of learning, if he be himself afraid\nthat he is going too far, but it is powerless to pre-determine human\nthought. Even Kant's counterposing of things-in-themselves to the world\nof phenomena cannot finally clip the wings of human curiosity. There\nwill come a time when this unshakeable foundation of positivism will\nbe shaken. All gnosiological disputes as to what thought can or cannot\nachieve will seem to our posterity just as amusing as the disputes\nof the schoolmen seem to us. \"Why did they argue about the nature of\ntruth, when they might have gone out and looked for truth itself?\" the\nfuture historians will ask. Let us have an answer ready for them. Our\ncontemporaries do not want to go out and seek, so they make a great\ndeal of talk about a theory of knowledge.\n\n\"Trust not thyself, young dreamer.\"--However sincerely you may long\nfor truth, whatever sufferings and horrors you may have surpassed, do\nnot believe your own self, young dreamer. What you are looking for,\nyou won't find. At the utmost, if you have a gift for writing you will\nbring out a nice original book. Even--do not be offended--you may\nbe satisfied with such a result. In Nietzsche's letters relating to\nthe year 1888, the year when Brandes discovered him, you will find a\nsad confirmation of the above. Had not Nietzsche struggled, sought,\nsuffered?--and behold, towards the end of his life, when it would\nhave seemed that all mundane rewards had become trivial to him, he\nthrew himself with rapture on the tidings of first fame, and rushed\nto share his joy with all his friends, far and near. He does not tire\nof telling in dozens of letters and in varying forms the story of how\nBrandes first began his lectures on him, Nietzsche, how the audience\nconsisted of three hundred people, and he even quotes Brandes' placard\nannouncement in the original Danish. Fame just threw him a smile,\nand forgotten are all the horrible experiences of former days. The\nloneliness, the desertedness, the cave in the mountain, the man into\nwhose mouth the serpent climbed--all forgotten, every thought turned to\nthe ordinary, easily-comprehensible good. Such is man.\n\n    _Mit gier'ger Hand nach Sch\u00e4tzen gr\u00e4bt_\n    _Und froh ist wenn er Regenw\u00fcrmer findet_.\n\n\n19\n\nWhen a man is young he writes because it seems to him he has discovered\na new almighty truth which he must make haste to impart to forlorn\nmankind. Later, becoming more modest, he begins to doubt his truths:\nand then he writes to convince himself. A few more years go by, and\nhe knows he was mistaken all round, so there is no need to convince\nhimself. Nevertheless he continues to write, because he is not fit for\nany other work, and to be accounted a \"superfluous\" man is so horrible.\n\n\n20\n\nA very original man is often a banal writer, and vice versa. We tend\nso often to write not about what is going on in us, but of our _pia\ndesideria_. Thus restless, sleepless men sing the glory of sleep\nand rest, which have long been sung to death. And those who sleep\nten hours on end and are always up to the mark must perforce dream\nabout adventures and storms and dangers, and even extol everything\nproblematical.\n\n\n21\n\nWhen one reads the books of long-dead men, a strange sensation comes\nover one. These men who lived two hundred, three hundred, three\nthousand years ago are so far off now from this writing which they have\nleft on earth. Yet we look for eternal truths in their works.\n\n\n22\n\nThe truth which I have the right to announce so solemnly to-day, even\nto the first among men, will probably be a stale old lie on my lips\nto-morrow. So I will deprive myself of the right of calling such a\ntruth my own. Probably I shall deprive no one but myself: others will\ngo on loving and praising the self-same truth, living with it.\n\n\n23\n\nA writer who cannot lie with inspiration--and that is a great art,\nwhich few may accomplish--loves to make an exhibition of honesty and\nfrankness. Nothing else is left him to do.\n\n\n24\n\n_The source of originality_.--A man who has lost all hope of rooting\nout of himself a certain radical defect of character, or even of hiding\nthe flaw from others, turns round and tries to find in his defect a\npertain merit. If he succeeds in convincing his acquaintances, he\nachieves a double gain: first, he quiets his conscience, and then he\nacquires a reputation for being original.\n\n\n25\n\nMen begin to strive towards great ends when they feel they cannot cope\nwith the little tasks of life. They often have their measure of success.\n\n\n26\n\nA belch interrupts the loftiest meditation. You may draw a conclusion\nif you like: if you don't like, you needn't.\n\n\n27\n\n_A woman of conviction_.--We forgive a man his \"convictions,\" however\nunwillingly. It goes without saying that we balk at any individual who\nbelieves in his own infallibility, but one must reconcile oneself\nwith necessity. It is ugly and preposterous to have corns on one's\nhands, but still, they can't be avoided in this unparadisal earth of\nsweat and labour. But why see an ideal in callosities? In practical\nlife, particularly in the social political life to which we are\ndoomed, convictions are a necessity. Unity is strength, and unity is\npossible only among people who think alike. Again, a deep conviction\nis in itself a strong force, far more powerful than the most logical\nargumentation. Sometimes one has only to pronounce in a full, round,\nvibrating chest voice, such as is peculiar to people of conviction,\nsome trifling sentence, and an audience hitherto unconvinced is carried\naway. Truth is often dumb, particularly a new truth, which is most\nshy of people, and which has a feeble, hoarse voice. But in certain\nsituations that which will influence the crowd is more important than\nthat which is genuine truth. Convictions are necessary to a public\nman; but he who is too clever to believe in himself entirely, and is\nnot enough of an actor to look as if he believed, he had best give up\npublic work altogether. At the same time he will realise that lack\nof convictions is not profitable, and will look with more indulgence\non such as are bound to keep themselves well supplied. Yet all the\nmore will he dislike those men who without any necessity disfigure\nthemselves with the coarse tattoo marks. And particularly he will\nobject to such women. What can be more intolerable than a woman of\nconviction. She lives in a family, without having to grind for her\ndaily bread--why disfigure herself? Why wilfully rub her hands into\ncorns, when she might keep them clean and pretty! Women, moreover,\nusually pick up their convictions ready-made from the man who interests\nthem most at the moment. And never do they do this so vigorously as\nwhen the man himself seems incapable of paving the way to his ideas!\nThey are full of feeling for him; they rush to the last extremities\nof resource. Will not their feeble little fists help him? It may be\ntouching, but in the end it is intolerable. So it is much pleasanter\nto meet a woman who believes in her husband and does not consider it\nnecessary to help him. She can then dispense with convictions.\n\n\n28\n\n_Emancipation of women_.--The one and only way of mastering an enemy\nis to learn the use of his weapons. Starting from this, modern woman,\nweary of being the slave of man, tries to learn all his tricks. Hard\nis slavery, wonderful is freedom! Slavery at last is so unendurable\nthat a human being will sacrifice, everything for freedom. Of what use\nare his virtues to a prisoner languishing in prison? He has one aim,\none object--to get out of prison, and he values only such qualities\nin himself as will assist his escape. If it is necessary to break\nan iron grating by physical force, then strong muscles will seem to\nthe prisoner the most desirable of all things. If cunning will help\nhim, cunning is the finest thing on earth. Something the same happens\nwith woman. She became convinced that man owed his priority chiefly\nto education and a trained mind, so she threw herself on books and\nuniversities. Learning that promises freedom is light, everything else\ndarkness. Of course, it is a delusion, but you could never convince her\nof it, for that would mean the collapse of her best hopes of freedom.\nSo that in the end woman will be as well-informed as man, she will\nfurnish herself with broad views and unshakeable convictions, with a\nphilosophy also--and in the end she may even learn to think logically.\nThen, probably, the many misunderstandings between the sexes will\ncease. But heavens, how tedious it will be! Men will argue, women will\nargue, children will probably be born fully instructed, understanding\neverything. With what pain will the men of the future view our women,\ncapricious, frivolous, uninformed creatures, understanding nothing and\ndesiring to understand nothing. A whole half of the human race neither\nwould nor could have any understanding! But the hope lies there. Maybe\nwe can do without understanding. Perhaps a logical mind is not an\nattribute, but a curse. In the struggle for existence, however, and the\nsurvival of the fittest, not a few of the best human qualities have\nperished. Obviously woman's illogicality is also destined to disappear.\nIt is a thousand pities.\n\n\n29\n\nAll kinds of literature are good, except the tedious, said Voltaire.\nWe may enlarge the idea. All men and all activities are good, except\nthe tedious. Whatever your failings and your vices, if you are only\namusing or interesting all is forgiven you. Accordingly, frankness and\nnaturalness are quite rightly considered doubtful virtues. If people\nsay that frankness and naturalness are virtues, always take it _cum\ngrano salis_. Sometimes it is permissible and even opportune to fire\noff truth of all sorts. Sometimes one may stretch oneself like a log\nacross the road. But God forbid that such sincere practices should be\nraised into a principle. To out with the truth at all times, always to\nreveal oneself entirely, besides being impossible to accomplish, never\nhaving been accomplished even in the confessions of the greatest men,\nis moreover a far more risky business than it seems. I can confidently\nassert that if any man tried to tell the whole truth about himself, not\nmetaphorically, for every metaphor is a covering ornament, but in plain\nbare words, that man would ruin himself for ever, for he would lose\nall interest in the eyes of his neighbours, and even in his own eyes.\nEach of us bears in his soul a heavy wound, and knows it, yet carries\nhimself, _must_ carry himself as if he were aware of nothing, while all\naround keep up the pretence. Remember Lermontov:\n\n    _Look! around you, playfully_\n    _The crowd moves on the usual road_.\n    _Scarce a mark of trouble on the festive faces_,\n    _Not one indecent tear_!\n    _And yet is barely one amongst them_\n    _But is crushed by heavy torture_,\n    _Or has gathered the wrinkles of young age_\n    _Save from crime or loss_.\n\nThese words are horribly true--and the really horrible should be\nconcealed, it frightens one off. I admit, Byron and Lermontov could\nmake it alluring. But all that is alluring depends on vagueness,\nremoteness. Any monster may be beautiful in the distance. And no\nman can be interesting unless he keep a certain distance between\nhimself and people. Women do not understand this. If they like a\nman, they try to come utterly near to him, and are surprised that he\ndoes not meet their frankness with frankness, and admit them to his\nholy of holies. But in the innermost sanctuary the only beauty is\ninaccessibility. As a rule it is not a sanctuary but a lair where the\nwounded beast in man has run to lick his wounds. And shall this be\ndone in public? People generally, and women particularly, ought to be\ngiven something positive. In books one may still sing the praise of\nwounds, hopelessness, and despair--whatever you like, for books are\nstill literature, a conventionality. But to strip one's anguish in the\nopen market, to confess an incurable disease to others, this is to\nkill one's soul, not to relieve it. All, even the best men, have some\naversion for you. Perhaps in the interest of order and decorum they\nwill grant you a not-too-important place in their philosophy of life.\nFor in a philosophy of life, as in a cemetery, a place is prepared for\neach and all, and everyone is welcome. There also are enclosures where\nrubbish is dumped to rot. But for those who have as yet no desire to\nbe fitted into a world-philosophy, I would advise them to keep their\ntongue between their teeth, or like Nietzsche and Dostoevsky, take to\nliterature. To a writer, in books and only in books, all is permitted\nprovided he has talent. But in actual living even a writer must not\nlet loose too much, lest people should guess that in his books he is\ntelling the truth.\n\n\n30\n\nPoushkin asserts that the poet himself can and must be the judge of\nhis own work. \"Are you content, exacting artist? Content, then let\nthe mob revile.\" It is needless to argue against this, for how could\nyou prove that the supreme verdict belongs not to the poet himself,\nbut to public opinion? Nor, for that matter, can we prove Poushkin\nright. We must agree or disagree, as we like. But we cannot reject the\nevidence. Whether you like it or not, Poushkin was evidently satisfied\nwith his own work, and did not need his reader's sanction. Happy man!\nAnd it seems to me he owed his happiness exclusively to his inability\nto pass beyond certain limits. I doubt-if all poets would agree to\nrepeat Poushkin's verse quoted above. I decidedly refuse to believe\nthat Shakespeare, for instance, after finishing _Hamlet_ or _King\nLear_ could have said to himself: \"I, who judge my work more strictly\nthan any other can judge, am satisfied.\" I do not think he can even\nhave thought for a moment of the merits of his works, _Hamlet_ or\n_King Lear_. To Shakespeare, after Hamlet, the word \"satisfied\" must\nhave lost all its meaning, and if he used it, it was only by force of\nhabit, as we sometimes call to a dead person. His own works must have\nseemed to him imperfect, mean, pitiful, like the sob of a child or the\nmoaning of a sick man. He gave them to the theatre, and most probably\nwas surprised that they had any success. Perhaps he was glad that his\ntears were of some use, if only for amusing and instructing people. And\nprobably in this sense the verdict of the crowd was dearer to him than\nhis own verdict. He could not help accusing his own offspring--thank\nheaven, other people acquitted it. True, they acquitted it because\nthey did not understand, or understood imperfectly, but this did not\nmatter. \"Use every man after his desert, and who should 'scape a\nwhipping?\" asked Hamlet. Shakespeare knew that a strict tribunal would\nreject his works: for they contain so many terrible questions, and not\none perfect answer. Could anyone be \"satisfied\" at that rate? Perhaps\nwith _Comedy of Errors, Twelfth Night_, or even _Richard III_.--but\nafter _Hamlet_ a man may find rest only in his grave. To speak the\nwhole truth, I doubt if Poushkin himself maintained the view we have\nquoted till the end of his days, or even if he spoke all he felt when\nhe wrote the poem in 1830. Possibly he felt how little a poet can be\nsatisfied with his work, but pride prevented his admitting it, and he\ntried to console himself with his superiority over the crowd. Which\nis undeniably a right thing to do. Insults--and Poushkin had to endure\nmany--are answered with contempt; and woe to the poor wretch who feels\nimpelled to justify his contempt by his own merits, according to the\nstern voice of conscience. Such niceness is dangerous and unnecessary.\nIf a man would preserve his strength and his confidence he must give\nup magnanimity, he must learn to despise people, and even if he cannot\ndespise them he must have the air of one who would not give a pin's\nhead for anybody. He must appear always content. ... Poushkin was a\nclever man and a deep nature.\n\n\n31\n\n_Metaphysics against their will_.--It often occurs to us that evil is\nnot altogether so, unnecessary, after all. Diseases, humiliations,\nmiseries, deformity, failure, and all the rest of those plants which\nflourish with such truly tropical luxuriance on our planet, are\nprobably essential to man. Poets sing plentifully of sorrow.\n\n\"_Nous sommes les apprentis, la douleur est notre ma\u00eetre_,\" said\nde Musset. On this subject everybody can bring forth a quotation,\nnot only from the philosophers, who are a cold, heartless tribe,\nbut from tender, gentle, or sentimental poets. Doubtless one knows\nmany instances where suffering has profited a man. True also, one\nknows many cases of the direct opposite. And these are all cases of\nprofound, earnest, outrageous, incredibly outrageous suffering. Look\nat Tchekhov's men and women--plainly drawn from life, or at any rate,\nexceedingly life-' like. Uncle Vanya, an old man of fifty, cries beside\nhimself all over the stage, \"My life is done for, my life is done for,\"\nand senselessly shoots at a harmless professor. The hero in _A Tedious\nStory_ was a quiet, happy man engaged in work of real importance, when\nsuddenly a horrible disease stole upon him, not killing him, but taking\nhim between its loathsome jaws. But what for? Then Tchekhov's girls and\nwomen! They are mostly young, innocent, fascinating. And always there\nlies in wait for them round every corner a meaningless, rude, ugly\nmisery which murders even the most modest hopes. They sob bitterly, but\nfate takes no notice. How explain such horrors? Tchekhov is silent.\nHe does not weep himself--he left off long ago, and besides it is a\nhumiliating thing for a grown-up person to do. Setting one's teeth, it\nis necessary either to keep silent or--to explain. Well, metaphysics\nunder takes the explanation. Where common sense stops, metaphysics must\ntake another stride. \"We have seen,\" it says, \"many instances where\nat first glance suffering seemed absurd and needless, but where later\non a profound significance was revealed. Thus it may be that what we\ncannot explain may find its explanation in time. 'Life is lost,' cries\nUncle Vanya, 'Life is done for,' repeat the voices of girls innocently\nperishing--yet nothing is lost. The very horror which a drowning man\nexperiences goes to show that the drowning is nothing final. It is\nonly the beginning of greater events. The less a man has fulfilled in\nexperience, the more in him remains of unsatisfied passion and desire,\nthe greater are the grounds for thinking that his essence cannot be\ndestroyed, but must manifest itself somehow or other in the universe.\nVoluntary asceticism and self-denial, such common human phenomena,\nhelp to solve the riddle. Nobody compels a man, he imposes suffering\nand abstinence on himself. It is an incomprehensible instinct, but\nstill an instinct which, rooted in the depths of our nature, prompts\nus to a decision repugnant to reason: renounce life, save yourself. The\nmajority of men do not hear or do not heed the prompting. And then\nnature, which cannot rely on our sensibility, has recourse to violence.\nShe shows glimpses of Paradise to us in our youth, awakens hopes and\nimpossible desires, and at the moment of our supreme expectation she\nshows us the hollowness of our hope. Nearly every life can be summed\nup in a few words: man was shown heaven--and thrown into the mud. We\nare all ascetics--voluntary or involuntary. Here on earth dreams and\nhopes are only awakened, not fulfilled. And he who has endured most\nsuffering, most privation, will awaken in the afterwards most keenly\nalive.\" Such long speeches metaphysics whispers to us. And we repeat\nthem, often leaving out the \"it may be.\" Sometimes we believe them,\nand forge our philosophies from them. Even we go so far as to assert\nthat had we the power we would change nothing, absolutely nothing in\nthe world. And yet, if by some miracle such power came into our hands,\nhow triumphantly we would send to the devil all philosophies and lofty\nworld-conceptions, all ideals and metaphysics, and plainly and simply,\nwithout reflection, abolish sufferings, deformities, failures, all\nthose things to which we attach such a high educational value, abolish\nthem from the face of the earth. We are fed up, oh, how fed up we are\nwith carrying on our studies. But it can't be helped. _Faute de mieux,_\nlet us keep on inventing systems, thinking them out. But let us agree\nnot to be cross with those who don't want to have anything to do with\nour systems. Really, they have a perfect right.\n\n\n32\n\nOld age must be respected--so all say, even the old. And the young\nwillingly meet the demand. But in such spontaneous, even often emphatic\nrespect, is there not something insulting to old age. Every young man,\nby his voluntary deference, seems to say: \"And still the rising star\nshines brighter than the setting.\" And the old, accepting the respect,\nare well aware that they can count on nothing more. The young are\nattentive and respectful to the old only upon the express condition\nthat the latter shall behave like old people, and stand aside from\nlife. Let a real man try to follow Faust's example, and what a shindy\nthere will be! The old, being as a rule helpless, are compelled to\nbow to public opinion and behave as if their only interests were\nthe interests of righteousness, good name, and such-like Platonic\nattributes. Only a few go against the convention, and these are\nmonsters and degenerates. We do not wish old men to have desires, so\nthat life is arranged as if old men desired nothing. This, of course,\nis no great matter: even the young are compelled to be satisfied\nwith less than nothing, in our system. We are not out to meddle with\nhuman rights. Our point is that science and philosophy take enforced\nappearances for reality. Grey hair is supposed to be a sure sign of\nvictory over the passions. Hence, seeing that we must all come to\ngrey hairs, therefore the ultimate business of man is to overcome the\npassions.... On this granite foundation whole systems of philosophy are\nbuilt. It is not worth while quarrelling with a custom--let us continue\nto pay respect to old age. But let us look in other directions for\nphilosophic bases. It is time to open a free road to the passions even\nin the province of metaphysics.\n\n\n33\n\n_Dostoevsky_--_advocatus diaboli_.--Dostoevsky, like Nietzsche,\ndisliked Protestantism, and tried every means of degrading it in\nthe eyes of the world. As normally he was not over scrupulous, it is\nprobable he never took the trouble to acquaint himself with Luther's\nteaching. His flair did not deceive him: the Protestant religion and\nmorality was most unsuitable to him and his kind. But does this mean\nthat it was to be calumniated, and judged, as Dostoevsky judged it,\nmerely by the etymological meaning of a word? Protestant--a protester,\none who only protests and has no positive content. A child's text-book\nof history will show the absurdity of the definition. Protestantism\nis, on the whole, the most positive, _assertive_ creed of all the\nChristian religions. It certainly protested against Catholicism, but\nagainst the destructive tendencies in the latter, and in the name of\npositive ideals. Catholicism relied too much on its power and its\nspell, and most of all on the infallibility of its dogmas to which it\noffered millions of victims. To maim and mutilate a man _ad majorem\ngloriam Dei_ was considered a perfectly proper thing in the Middle\nAges, the period of bloom for Catholicism. At the risk of appearing\nparadoxical, I venture to assert that ideas have been invented only for\nthe purpose of giving the right to mutilate people. The Middle Ages\nnourished a mysterious, incomprehensible hatred for everything normal,\nself-satisfied, complete. A young, healthy, handsome man, at peace\nwith himself, aroused suspicion and hostility in a believing Catholic.\nHis very appearance offended religion and confuted dogma. It was not\nnecessary to examine him. Even though he went to church, and gave no\nsign of doubt, either in deed or word, yet he must be a heretic, to\nbe converted at all cost. And we know the Catholic cost: privation,\nasceticism, mortification of the flesh. The most normal person, kept\non a monastic regime, will lose his spiritual balance, and all those\nvirtues which belong to a healthy spirit and a healthy body. This was\nall Catholicism needed. It tried to obtain from people the _extreme\nendeavour_ of their whole being. Ordinary, natural love, which found\nits satisfaction--this was sinful. Monks and priests were condemned\nto celibacy--hence monstrous and abnormal passions developed. Poverty\nwas preached, and the most unheard-of greed appeared in the world,\nthe more secret the stronger it became. Humility was essential--and\nout of bare-footed monks sprang despots who had no limits to their\nambitions. Luther was the last man to understand the meaning and\nvalue of the tasks which Catholicism had set itself. What he saw in\nRome was not the accidental outcome of this or the other historical\ncircumstance, but a result of the age-long effort of generations that\nhad striven to attribute to life as alarming and dangerous a nature as\npossible. The sincere, direct, rustic German monk was too simple-minded\nto make out what was going on in Rome. He thought there existed one\ntruth, and that the essence of Catholicism lay in what seemed to him\nan exemplary, virtuous life. He went direct to his aim? What meaning\ncan monasticism have? Why deprive a priest of family happiness? How\naccept the licentiousness of the pope's capital? The common sense of\nthe normal German revolted against the absurdity of such a state of\nthings--and Luther neither could nor _would_ see any good where common\nsense was utterly forgotten. The violent oscillation of life resulting\nfrom the continuous quick passage from asceticism and blind faith to\nunbelief and freedom of the passions aroused a mystic horror in the\nhonest monk and released the enormous powers in him necessary to start\nthe great struggle. How could he help protesting? And who was the\ndenier, Luther, or the Rome which passed on from the keeping of the\nDivine Word to the arbitrary ordaining of all the mysteries of life?\nLuther might have forgiven the monks had they confined themselves\nto sophistries. But mediaeval monks had nothing in common with our\nphilosophers. They did not look for world-conceptions in books, and\nlogical tournaments amused them only moderately. They threw themselves\ninto the deeps of life, they experimented on themselves and their\nneighbours. They passed from mortification to licentious bacchanalia.\nThey feared nothing, spared nothing. In a word, the Rome against which\nLuther arose had undertaken to build Babylon again, not with stones,\nbut with human souls. Luther, horrified, withdrew, and with him half\nEurope was withdrawn. That is his positive merit. And Dostoevsky\nattacked Lutheranism, and pitied the old Catholicism and the breathless\nheights to which its \"spiritual\" children had risen. Wholesome\nmorality and its support is not enough for Dostoevsky. All this is not\n\"positive,\" it is only \"protest.\" Whether I am believed or not, I will\nrepeat that Vladimir Soloviov, who held that Dostoevsky was a prophet,\nis wrong, and that N. K. Mikhailovsky, who calls him a cruel talent\nand a grubber after buried treasure, is right. Dostoevsky grubs after\nburied treasure--no doubt about that. And, therefore, it would be more\nbecoming in the younger generation that still marches under the flag\nof pious idealism if, instead of choosing him as a spiritual leader,\nthey avoided the old sorcerer, in whom only those gifted with great\nshortsightedness or lack of experience in life could fail to see the\ndangerous man.\n\n\n34\n\nIt is boring and difficult to convince people, and after all, not\nnecessary. It would be much better if every individual kept his own\nopinions. Unfortunately, it cannot be. Whether you like it or not, you\nhave to admit the law of gravitation. Some people find it necessary\nto admit the origin of man from the monkey. In the empirical realm,\nhowever humiliating it may be, there are certain real, binding,\nuniversal truths against which no rebellion will avail. With what\npleasure would we declare to a representative of science that fire does\nnot burn, that rattlesnakes are not poisonous, that a fall from a high\ntower is perfectly agreeable, etc., etc., supposing he were obliged\nto prove to us the contrary. Unluckily the scientific person is free\nfrom the burden of proof: nature proves, and thoroughly. If nature,\nlike metaphysics, set out to compel us through syllogisms or sermons\nto believe in her, how little she would get out of us. She is much\nmore sagacious. Morality and logic she has left to Hegel and Spinoza,\nfor herself she has taken a cudgel. Now then, try to argue against\n_this_! You will give in against your will. The cleverest of all the\nmetaphysicians, Catholic inquisitors, imitated nature. They rarely\ntried the word, and trusted to the fire of faggots rather than of the\nheart. Had they only had more power, it would not be possible to find\ntwo people in the whole world disbelieving in the infallibility of the\nPope. Metaphysical ideas, dreamily expecting to conquer the world by\nreasoned exposition, will never attain dominion. If they are bent on\nsuccess, let them try more effective methods of convincing.\n\n\n35\n\n_Evolution_.--In recent years we see more and more change in the\nphilosophies of writers and even of non-literary people. The old men\nare beside themselves--such shiftiness seems indecent. After all,\nconvictions are not gloves. But the young carelessly pass on from\none idea to another. Irresolute men are somewhat timid, and although\nthey abandon their former convictions they do not declare the change\nopenly. Others, however, plainly announce, as if it were nothing, how\nfar they now are from the beliefs they held six months ago. One even\npublishes whole volumes relating how he passed on from one philosophy\nto another, and then to a third. People see nothing alarming in that\nkind of \"evolution.\" They believe it is in the ordering of things.\nBut not so at all! The readiness to leave off one set of convictions\nin order to assume another set shows complete indifference to\nconvictions altogether. Not for nothing do the old sound the alarm.\nBut to us who have fought so long against all kinds of constancy, the\nlevity of the young is a pleasant sight. They will don materialism,\npositivism, Kantianism, spiritualism, and so on, one after the other,\ntill they realise that all theories, ideas and ideals are as of little\nconsequence as the hoop-skirts and crinolines of our grandmothers. Then\nthey will begin to live without ideals and pre-arranged purposes,\nwithout foresight, relying on chance and their own ready wit. This way,\ntoo, must be tried. Perhaps we shall do better by it.... Anyhow, it\nwill be more fun.\n\n\n36\n\n_Strength of will_.--Weakness and paralysis of the will, a very\ndangerous disease in our times, and in most other times, consists\nnot in the absolute loss of desire, such as takes place in the very\nold, but in the loss of the capacity to translate desire into deed. A\ndiseased will is often met in violently passionate men, so that the\nproverb--\"Say I will not, not I cannot\"--does not always hold good. Man\noften would, but cannot. And then the force of desire instead of moving\nto outward creation, works inwardly. This is justly considered the\nmost dangerous effect of the weakening of the will. For inward working\nis destructive working. Man does not only, to put it scientifically,\nfail to adapt nature to his needs, but he loses his own power of\nadaptability to outward circumstances. The most ordinary doctor, or\neven anybody, decides that he has before him a pathological case which\nmust be treated with care. The patient is of the same opinion, whilst\nhe still hopes. But when the treatment has had no results, the doctor\ndraws back and speaks of the inadequacy of his science. Then what is\nthe patient to retire upon? It is disgusting to speak of an incurable\ndisease. So he begins to think, think, think--all the time about things\nof which nobody thinks. He is gradually forgotten, and gradually he\nforgets everything--but first of all, that widespread truth which\nasserts that no judgments are valid save those that are accepted\nand universal. Not that he disputes the truth: he _forgets it_, and\nthere is none to remind him. To him all his judgments seem valid and\nimportant. Of course he cannot advance the principle: let all men turn\nfrom the external world into themselves. But why advance a principle\nat all? One can simply say: I am indifferent to the destinies of the\nexternal world. I do not want to move mountains or turn rivers aside or\nrearrange the map of Europe. I don't even want to go to the tobacconist\nto buy cigarettes. I don't want _to do_ anything. I want to think that\nmy inaction is the most important thing on earth, that any \"disease\" is\nbetter than health, and so on and so on without end. To what thought's\nwill not a man abandoned by medicine and doctors sink down! His\njudgments are not binding on us, that is as clear as day. But are they\nuninteresting? And is that paralysis, that weakness of will, a disease\nonly?\n\n\n37\n\n_Death and metaphysics_.--A superficial observer knows that the best\nthings in life are hard to attain. Some psychologists even consider\nthat the chief beauty of the highest things consists in their\nunattainability. This is surely not true--yet there is a grain in it.\nThe roads to good things are dangerous to travel. Is it because nature\nis so much poorer than we imagine, so she must lock up her blessings,\nor is there some greater meaning in it, that we have not guessed? For\nthe fact is, the more alluring an end we have in view, the more risks\nand horrors we must undertake to get there. May we not also make a\ncontrary suggestion: that behind every danger something good is hidden,\nand that therefore danger serves as an indication, a mark to guide us\nonwards, not as a warning, as we are taught to believe. To decide this\nwould be to decide that behind death, the greatest of dangers, must\nlie the most promising things. It is as well not to speculate further.\nWe had best stop lest we quarrel even with metaphysics. Traditional\nmetaphysics has always been able to illumine our temporal existence\nwith the reflected beams of eternity. Let us follow the example. Let\nus make no attempt to know the absolute. If you have discovered a\ncomforting hypothesis, even in the upper transcendental air, drag it\nquickly to earth where labouring men forever await even an imaginary\nrelief from their lot. We must make use of everything, even of death,\nto serve the ends of this life of ours.\n\n\n38\n\n_The future_.--A clever, reasonable boy, accustomed to trust his\ncommon sense, read in a book for children a description of a shipwreck\nwhich occurred just as the passengers were eating their sweets at\ndessert. He was astonished to learn that everyone, women and children\nas well, who could give no assistance-whatever in saving the ship,\nleft their dessert and rushed on deck with wailing and tears. Why\nwail, why rush about, why be stupidly agitated? The crew knew their\nbusiness and would do all that could be done. If you are going to\nperish, perish you will, no matter how you scream. It seemed to\nthe boy that if he had been on the ship he would just have gone on\neating his sweets to the last moment. Justice should be done to this\njudicious and irreproachable opinion. There remained only a few minutes\nto live--would it not have been better to enjoy them? The logic is\nperfect, worthy of Aristotle. And it was found impossible to prove to\nthe boy that he would have left his sweets, even his favourite sweets,\nunder the same circumstances, and rushed, and screamed with the rest.\nHence a moral--do not decide about the future. To-day common sense is\nuppermost, and sweets are your highest law. But to-morrow you will\nget rid of normality and sense, you will link on with nonsense and\nabsurdity, and probably you will even get a taste for bitters. What do\nyou think?\n\n\n39\n\nA priori _synthetic judgments_.--Kant, as we know, found in mathematics\nand the natural sciences _a priori_ synthetic judgments. Was he right\nor wrong? Are the judgments he indicated _a priori_ or _a posteriori_?\nAnyhow, one thing is certain: they are not accepted as absolutely,\nbut only as relatively indisputable. In metaphysics, where the only\ncurious and important truths are hidden, the case is different. Kant\nwas compelled to admit that just where metaphysics begin the capacity\nof our human reason to judge _a priori_ ends. But since we cannot\ndispense with metaphysical judgments, he proposed to substitute\nfor them postulates. At the same time he admitted the optimistic\npresupposition that in the domain of the transcendental we shall find\nall that we miss in the world of phenomena. So that, because he could\nnot invent a truly scientific metaphysics, he contrived to present us\nwith a non-scientific sort. Which is to say, after many round-about\njourneys he brings his readers along the opposite way right back to the\nvery spot from which he led them off. Surely non-scientific metaphysics\nexisted before Kant: the mediaeval philosophers had plenty of\nphantasies and speculations, all supported by \"moral\" proofs. If Kant\nwanted to reform metaphysics, he should have got rid of its favourite\nmethod of obtaining truths through inferential \"conclusions.\" Men are\ngreedy, they want to learn much, and get their knowledge cheap. So\nthey think that every truth they have paid for with experience and loss\nof energy entitles them to a few more truths gratis: or, in philosophic\nlanguage, _a priori_, by deduction. They are not ashamed to speculate\nwith a gift that has been given them. Instead of looking, listening,\ntouching, _seeking_, they want to infer and conclude. Certainly if they\ncould wring any secret out of nature, no matter by what means, cunning,\nimpudence, fraud, we would forgive them--conquerors are not judged.\nBut nothing comes of their \"conclusions\" save metaphysical systems and\nempty prattle. It is surely time to give up conclusions, and get truth\n_a posteriori_, as did Shakspeare, Goethe, Dostoevsky; that is, every\ntime you want to know anything, go and look and find out. And if one is\nlazy, or horrified at a new experiment, let him train himself to look\non ultimate questions with indifference, as the positivists do. But\nmoral, ontological and such like arguments!--really, it is disgusting\nto talk about them. Every new experiment is interesting; but our\nconclusions, _i.e._, synthetic judgments _a priori,_ are mostly pompous\nlies, not worth the scrap of paper on which they are recorded.\n\n\n40\n\n_General rules_.--People go to philosophers for general principles.\nAnd since philosophers are human, they are kept busy supplying the\nmarket with general principles. But what sense is there in them? None\nat all. Nature demands individual creative activity from us. Men won't\nunderstand this, so they wait forever for the ultimate truths from\nphilosophy, which they will never get. Why should not every grown-up\nperson be a creator, live in his own way at his own risk and have his\nown experience? Children and raw youths must go in leading strings. But\nadult people who want to feel the reins should be despised. They are\ncowards, and slothful: afraid to try, they eternally go to the wise for\nadvice. And the wise do not hesitate to take the responsibility for the\nlives of others. They invent general rules, as if they had access to\nthe sources of knowledge. What foolery! The wise are no wiser than the\nstupid--they have only more conceit and effrontery. Every intelligent\nman laughs in his soul at \"bookish\" views. And are not books the work\nof the wise? They are often extremely interesting--but only in so far\nas they do not contain general rules. Woe to him, who would build\nup his life according to Hegel, Schopenhauer, Tolstoy, Schiller, or\nDostoevsky. He must read them, but he must have sense, a mind of his\nown to live with. Those who have tried to live according to theories\nfrom books have found this out. At the best, their efforts produced\nbanality. There is no alternative. Whether man likes or not he will\nat last have to realise that cliches are worthless, and that he must\nlive from himself. There are no all-binding, universal judgments--let\nus manage with non-binding, non-universal ones. Only professors will\nsuffer for it....\n\n\n41\n\n_Metaphysical consolations_.--Metaphysics mercilessly persecutes all\neudaemonistic doctrines, seeing in them a sort of _laesio majestatis_\nof human dignity. Our dignity forbids us to place human happiness in\nthe highest goal. Suppose it is so? But why then invent consolations,\neven metaphysical ones? Why give to such a \"pure\" ideal concept as\nmetaphysics such a coarse \"sensual\" partner as consolation?--sensual\nin the Kantian meaning of the word. Metaphysics had much better\nassociate herself with proud disconsolation. Consolation brings\ncalm and ease, even quiet gratification to the soul. But surely, if\nmetaphysics condescend to accept any assistance whatever, she must\nscorn all earthly gratifications, leave them to wingless positivism\nand materialism. What are joys and pains to metaphysics?--she is one\nthing, they another. Yet all of a sudden metaphysicians begin to shout\nabout consolations. Evidently there is a misunderstanding here, and a\nbig one. The more you pierce to the ultimate ends of the \"infinite\"\nmetaphysical problems, the more finite they reveal themselves.\nMetaphysicians only look out for some new boon--I nearly said pleasure.\nVoltaire said that if there was no God, then He should be invented. We\nexplain these words by the great Frenchman's extreme positivism. But\nthe form only is positive, the content is purely metaphysical. All that\na metaphysician wants to do is to convince himself that God exists. No\nmatter whether he is mistaken or not, he has found a consolation. It\nis impossible for him to see that his belief in a certain fact does\nnot make that fact veritable. The whole question is whether there\ndoes exist a supreme, conscious First Cause, or whether we are slaves\nto the laws of dead necessity. But what does the metaphysician care\nabout this real question! Having declared himself the avowed enemy\nof eudaemonism, he next seeks consolation, nothing but consolation.\nTo doubt his right to be consoled drives him to fury and madness. He\nis prepared to support his convictions by every means--ranging from\nrighteous indignation to fists. It is obviously futile to try to\nenlighten such a creature. Once a man cares nothing for God, and seeks\nonly to make the best of his life, you will not tear away his attention\nfrom the immediate moment. But perhaps there is a God, and neither\nVoltaire nor the metaphysicians have any need to invent Him. The\nmetaphysicians never saw that an avowed disbelief in God does not prove\nthe non-existence of God, but just the opposite; it is a surer sign of\nfaith than ever belief is. Unfortunate metaphysicians! They might have\nfound their greatest consolation here, and fists and moral indignation\nand other forms of chastisement to which they have been driven might\nhave been spared us.\n\n\n42\n\n_Practical advice_.--People who read much must always keep it in mind\nthat life is one thing, literature another. Not that authors invariably\nlie. I declare that there are writers who rarely and most reluctantly\nlie. But one must know how to read, and that isn't easy. Out of a\nhundred book-readers ninety-nine have no idea what they are reading\nabout. It is a common belief, for example, that any writer who sings of\nsuffering must be ready at all times to open his arms to the weary and\nheavy-laden. This is what his readers feel when they read his books.\nThen when they approach him with their woes, and find that he runs away\nwithout looking back at them, they are filled with indignation and talk\nof the discrepancy between word and deed. Whereas the fact is, the\nsinger has more than enough woes of his own, and he sings them because\nhe can't get rid of them. _L'uccello canto, nella gabbia, non di gioia\nma di rabbia_, says the Italian proverb: \"The bird sings in the cage,\nnot from joy but from rage.\" It is impossible to love sufferers,\nparticularly hopeless sufferers, and whoever says otherwise is a\ndeliberate liar. \"Come unto Me all ye that labour and are heavy laden,\nand I will give you rest.\" But you remember what the Jews said about\nHim: \"He speaks as one having authority!\" And if Jesus had been unable,\nor _had not possessed the right_, to answer this sceptical taunt, He\nwould have had to renounce His words. We common mortals have neither\ndivine powers nor divine rights, we can only love our neighbours whilst\nthey still have hope, and any pretence of going beyond this is empty\nswagger. Ask him who sings of suffering for nothing but his songs.\nRather think of alleviating his burden than of requiring alleviation\nfrom him. Surely not for ever should we ask any poet to sob and look\nupon tears. I will end with another Italian saying: _Non e un si triste\ncane che non meni la coda_. ... \"No dog so wretched but he wags his\ntail sometimes.\"\n\n\n43\n\nIf a patient fulfils all the orders of a sensible doctor, we say\nhe behaves wisely. If he wantonly neglects his treatment, we say\nhe acts stupidly. If a healthy person wished to inoculate himself\nwith some dangerous disease--say phthisis--we should say he was mad,\nand forcibly restrain him. To such an extent are we convinced that\ndisease is evil, health good. Well--on what is our conviction based?\nAt a glance the question seems absurd. But then at a glance people\nwould absolutely refuse to doubt the fixity of the earth, at a glance\nan ordinary person would giggle if he was shown the problem of the\nrelation between the real world and the ideal. Who knows what would\nseem amenable to discussion to the ordinary person? The philosopher\nhas no right to appeal to the ordinary person. The philosopher must\ndoubt and doubt and doubt, and question when nobody questions, and\nrisk making a laughing-stock of himself. If common sense were enough\nto settle all problems, we should have known everything long age. So\nthat--why do we value health more than sickness? Or even further--which\nis better, health or sickness. If we will drop the utilitarian point\nof view--and all are agreed that this has no place in philosophy--then\nwe shall see at once that we have no grounds whatever for preferring\nhealth and sickness. We have invented neither the one nor the other.\nWe found them both in the world along with us. Why then do we, who\nknow so little about it, take upon ourselves to judge which are\nnature's successes, which her failures? Health is agreeable--sickness\ndisagreeable. But this consideration is unworthy of a philosopher:\notherwise why be a philosopher, why distinguish oneself from the herd?\nThe philosopher invented morality, which has at its disposal various\npure ideas that have no relation to empirical life. Then let us go\nfurther. Reason should have a supply of pure ideas also. Let Reason\njudge in her own independent way, without conforming to conventional\nideas. When she has no other resort, let her proceed by the method of\nnegation: everything that common sense asserts, I, Reason, declare\nto be false. So--common sense Says sickness is bad, reason therefore\nasserts that sickness is the highest boon. Such Reason we should call\nautonomous, law-unto-itself. Like a real monarch, it is guided only by\nits own will. Let all considerations point in favour of health, Reason\nmust remain inexorable and keep her stand till we are all brought to\nobedience. She must praise suffering, deformity, failure, hopelessness.\nAt every step she must fight common-sense and utilitarianism, until\nmankind is brought under. Is she afraid of rebellion? Must she in the\nlast issue, like morality, adapt herself to the inclinations of the\nmob?\n\n\n44\n\n_Experience and Science_.--As we are well aware, science does not,\nnay cannot, admit experience in all its extent. She throws overboard\nan enormous quantity of individual facts, regarding them as the\nballast of our human vessel. She takes note only of such phenomena as\nalternate constantly and with a certain regularity. Best of all she\nlikes those phenomena which can be artificially provoked, when, so\nto speak, experiment is possible. She explains the rotation of the\nearth and succession of the seasons since a regular recurrence is\nobservable, and she demonstrates thunder and lightning with a spark\nfrom an electric machine. In a word, in so far as a regular alternation\nof phenomena is observable, so far extends the realm of science. But\nwhat about those individual phenomena which do not recur, and which\ncannot be artificially provoked? If all men were blind, and one for a\nmoment recovered his sight and opened his eyes on God's world, science\nwould reject his evidence. Yet the evidence of one seeing man is worth\nthat of a million blind. Sudden enlightenments are possible in our\nlife--even if they endure only for a few seconds. Must they be passed\nover in silence because they are not normal and cannot be provoked?--or\ntreated poetically, as beautiful fictions? Science insists on it. She\ndeclares that no judgments are true except such as can be verified by\nall and everyone. She exceeds her bounds. Experience is wider than\nscientific experiment, and individual phenomena mean much more to us\nthan the constantly recurrent.\n\nScience is useful--but she need not pretend to truth. She cannot know\nwhat truth is, she can only accumulate universal laws. Whereas there\nare, and always have been, non-scientific ways of searching for truth,\nways which lead, if not to the innermost secrets, yet to the threshold.\nThese roads, however, we have let fall into ruin whilst we followed\nour modern methodologies, so now we dare not even think of them. What\ngives us the right to assert that astrologers, alchemists, diviners,\nand sorcerers who passed the long nights alone with their thoughts,\nwasted their time in vain? As for the philosopher's stone, that was\nmerely a plausible excuse invented to satisfy the uninitiated. Could\nan alchemist dare to confess openly that all his efforts were towards\nno useful or utilitarian end? He had to guard against importunate\ncuriosity and impertinent authority in outsiders. So he lied, now\nfrightening, now alluring the mob through its cupidity. But certainly\nhe had his own important work to do: and it had only one fault, that\nit was purely personal to him. And about personal matters it is\nconsidered correct to keep silent.... Astonishing fact! As a rule a\nman hesitates over trifles. But it does sometimes occur that a moment\narrives when he is filled with unheard-of courage and resolution in his\njudgments. He is ready to stand up for his opinions against all the\nworld, dead or living. Whence such sudden surety, what does it mean?\nRationally we can discover no foundation for it. If a lover has got\ninto his head that his beloved is the fairest woman on earth, worth\nthe whole of life to him; if one who has been insulted feels that\nhis offender is the basest wretch, deserving torture and death; if a\nwould-be Columbus persuades himself that America is the only goal for\nhis ambition--who will convince such men that their opinions, shared\nby none but themselves, are false or unjustifiable? And for whose\nsake will they renounce their tenets? For the sake of objective truth?\nthat is, for the pleasure of the assurance that all men after them\nwill repeat their judgment for truth? They don't care. Let Don Quixote\nrun broadcast with drawn sword, proving the beauty of Dulcinea or the\nimpending horror of windmills. As a matter of fact, he and the German\nphilosophers with him have a vague idea, a kind of presentiment, that\ntheir giants are but mill-sails, and that their ideal on the whole is\nbut a common girl driving swine to pasture. To defy such deadly doubt\nthey take to the sword or to argument, and do not rest until they have\nsucceeded in stopping the mouth of everybody. When from all lips they\nhear the praise of Dulcinea they say: yes, she is beautiful, and she\nnever drove pigs. When the world beholds their windmilling exploits\nwith amazement they are filled with triumph; sheep are not sheep, mills\nare not mills, as you might imagine; they are knights and cyclops. This\nis called a proven, all-binding, universal truth. The support of the\nmob is a necessary condition of the existence of modern philosophy and\nits knights of the woful countenance. Scientific philosophy wearies\nfor a new Cervantes who will put a stop to its paving the way to truth\nby dint of argument. All opinions have a right to exist, and if we\nspeak of privilege, then preference should be given to such as are most\nrun down to-day; namely, to such opinions as cannot be verified and\nwhich are, for that self-same reason, universal. Once, long ago \"man\ninvented speech in order to express his real relation to the universe.\"\nSo he may be heard, even though the relation he wishes to express be\nunique, not to verified by any other individual. To attempt to verify\nit by observations and experiments is strictly forbidden. If the habit\nof \"objective verification\" has destroyed your native receptivity to\nsuch an extent that your eyes and ears are gone, and you must rely only\non the evidence of instruments or objects not subject to your will,\nthen, of course, nothing is left you but to stick to the belief that\nscience is perfect knowledge. But if your eyes live and your ear is\nsensitive--throw away instruments and apparatuses, forget methodology\nand scientific Don-Quixotism, and try to trust yourself. What harm is\nthere in not having universal judgments or truths? How will it hurt\nyou to see sheep as sheep? It is a step forward. You will learn not\nto see with everybody's eyes, but to see as none other sees. You will\nlearn not to meditate, but to conjure up and call forth with words\nalien to all but yourself an unknown beauty and an unheard-of power.\nNot for nothing, I repeat, did astrologers and alchemists scorn the\nexperimental method--which, by the way, far from being anything new or\nparticularly modern, is as old as the hills. Animals experiment, though\nthey do not compose treatises on inductive logic or pride themselves\non their reasoning powers. A cow who has burnt her mouth in her\ntrough will come up cautiously next time to feed. Every experimenter\nis the same--only he systematises. But animals can often trust to\ninstinct when experience is lacking. And have we humans got sufficient\nexperience? Can experience give us what we want most? If so, let\nscience and craftsmanship serve our everyday need, let even philosophy,\nalso eager to serve, go on finding universal truths. But beyond craft,\nscience, and philosophy there is another region of knowledge. Through\nall the ages men, each one at his own risk, have sought to penetrate\ninto this region. Shall we, men of the twentieth century, voluntarily\nrenounce our supreme powers and rights, and because public opinion\ndemands it, occupy ourselves exclusively with discovering useful\ninformation? Or, in order not to appear mean or poverty-stricken in\nour own eyes, shall we accept in place of the philosopher's stone our\nmodern metaphysics, which muffles her dread of actuality in postulates,\nabsolutes, and such-like apparently transcendental paraphernalia?\n\n\n45\n\n_The Russian Spirit_.--It will easily be admitted that the\ndistinguishing qualities of Russian literature, and of Russian art in\ngeneral, are simplicity, truthfulness, and complete lack of rhetorical\nornament. Whether it be to our credit or to our discredit is not for\nme to judge, but one thing seems certain: that our simplicity and\ntruthfulness are due to our relatively scanty culture. Whilst European\nthinkers have for centuries been beating their brains over insoluble\nproblems, we have only just begun to try our powers. We have no\nfailures behind us. The fathers of the profoundest Russian writers were\neither landowners, dividing their time between extravagant amusement\nand State service, or peasants whose drudgery left them no time for\nidle curiosity. Such being the case, how can we know whether human\nknowledge has any limits? And if we don't know, it seems to us it is\nonly because we haven't tried to find out. Other people's experience\nis not ours. We are not bound by their conclusions. Indeed, what do we\nknow of the experience of others, save what we gather, very vaguely\nand fragmentarily and unreliably, from books? It is natural for us to\nbelieve the best, till the contrary is proved to us. Any attempt to\ndeprive us of our belief meets with the most energetic resistance.\n\nThe most sceptical Russian hides a hope at the bottom of his soul.\nHence our fearlessness of the truth, realistic truth which so stunned\nEuropean critics. Realism was invented in the West, established\nthere as a theory. But in the West, to counteract it, were invented\nnumberless other palliating theories whose business it was to soften\ndown the disconsolate conclusions of Realism. There in Europe they\nhave the _l'\u00eatre supr\u00eame_, the _deus sive natura_, Hegel's absolute,\nKant's postulates, English utilitarianism, progress, humanitarianism,\nhundreds of philosophic and sociological theories in which even extreme\nrealists can so cleverly dish up what they call life, that life, or\nrealism, ceases to be life or reality altogether.\n\nThe Westerner is self-reliant. He knows that if he doesn't help himself\nnobody will help him. So he directs all his thoughts to making the\nbest of his opportunities. A limited time is granted him. If he can't\nget to the end of his song within the time-limit, the song must remain\nunsung. Fate will not give him one minute's grace for the unbeaten\nbars. Therefore as an experienced musician he adapts himself superbly.\nNot a second is wasted. The _tempo_ must not drag for an instant,\nor he is lost. The _tempo_ is everything, and it exacts facility\nand quickness of movement. During a few short beats the artist must\nproduce many notes, and produce them so as to leave the impression\nthat he was not hurried, that he had all the time in the world at his\ndisposal. Moreover, each note must be complete, accomplished, have its\nfulness and its value. Native talent alone will not suffice for this.\nExperience is necessary, tradition, training, and inherited instinct.\n_Carpe diem_--the European has been living up to the motto for two\nthousand years. But if we Russians are convinced of anything, it is\nthat we have time enough and to spare. To count days, much less hours\nand minutes--find me the Russian who could demean himself to such a\nbourgeois occupation. We look round, we stretch ourselves, we rub our\neyes, we want first of all to decide what we shall do, and how we\nshall do it, before we can begin to live in earnest. We don't choose\nto decide anyhow, nor at second-hand, from fragments of other people's\ninformation. It must be from our own experience, with our own brains,\nthat we judge. We admit no traditions. In no literature has there been\nsuch a-determined struggle with tradition as in ours. We have wanted\nto re-examine everything, re-state everything. I won't deny that our\ncourage is drawn from our quite uncultured confidence in our own\npowers. Byelinsky, a half-baked undergraduate, deriving his knowledge\nof European philosophy at third hand, began a quarrel with the universe\nover the long-forgotten victims of Philip II. and the Inquisition.\nIn that quarrel is the sense and essence of all creative Russian\nliterature. Dostoevsky, towards his end, raised the same storm and the\nsame question over the little tear of an unfortunate child.\n\nA Russian believes he can do anything, hence he is afraid of nothing.\nHe paints life in the gloomiest colours--and were you to ask him: How\ncan you accept such a life? how can you reconcile yourself with such\nhorrors of reality as have been described by all your writers, from\nPoushkin to Tchekhov? he would answer in the words of Dmitri Karamazov:\n_I do not accept life._ This answer seems at first sight absurd. Since\nlife is here, impossible not to accept it. But there is a sub-meaning\nin the reply, a lingering belief in the possibility of a final triumph\nover \"evil.\" In the strength of this belief the Russian goes forth to\nmeet his enemy--he does not hide from him. Our sectarians immolate\nthemselves. Tolstoyans and votaries of the various sects that crop up\nso plentifully in Russia go in among the people, they go, God knows\nto what lengths, destroying their own lives and the lives of others.\nWriters do not lag behind sectarians. They, too, refuse to be prudent,\nto count the cost or the hours. Minutes, seconds, time-beats, all this\nis so insignificant as to be invisible to the naked eye. We wish to\ndraw with a generous hand from fathomless eternity, and all that is\nlimited we leave to European bourgeoisie. With few exceptions Russian\nwriters really despise the pettiness of the West. Even those who have\nadmired Europe most have done so because they failed most completely\nto understand her. They did not want to understand her. That is why we\nhave always taken over European ideas in such fantastic forms. Take\nthe sixties for example. With its loud ideas of sobriety and modest\noutlook, it was a most drunken period. Those who awaited the New\nMessiah and the Second Advent read Darwin and dissected frogs. It is\nthe same to-day. We allow ourselves the greatest luxury that man can\ndream of--sincerity, truthfulness--as if we were spiritual Croesuses,\nas if we had plenty of everything, could afford to let everything be\nseen, ashamed of nothing. But even Croesuses, the greatest sovereigns\nof the world, did not consider they had the right to tell the truth at\nall times. Even kings have to pretend--think of diplomacy. Whereas,\nwe think we may speak the truth, and the truth only, that any lie\nwhich obscures our true substance is a crime; since our true substance\nis the world's finest treasure, its finest reality.... Tell this\nto a European, and it will seem a joke to him, even if he can grasp\nit at all. A European uses all his powers of intellect and talent,\nall his knowledge and his art for the purpose of concealing his\nreal self and all that really affects him:--for that the natural is\nugly and repulsive, no one in Europe will dispute for a moment. Not\nonly the fine arts, but science and philosophy in Europe tell lies\ninstinctively, by lying they justify their existence. First and last,\na European student presents you with a finished theory. Well, and what\ndoes all the \"finish\" and the completeness signify? It merely means\nthat none of our western neighbours will end his speech before the\nlast reassuring word is said; he will never let nature have the last\nword; so he rounds off his synthesis. With him, ornament and rhetoric\nis a _sine qua non_ of creative utterance, the only remedy against all\nills. In philosophy reigns theodicy, in science, the law of sequence.\nEven Kant could not avoid declamation, even with him the last word is\n\"moral necessity.\" Thus there lies before us the choice between the\nartistic and accomplished lie of old, cultured Europe, a lie which is\nthe outcome of a thousand years of hard and bitter effort, and the\nartless, sincere simplicity of young, uncultured Russia.\n\nThey are nearer the end, we are nearer the beginning. And which is\nnearer the truth? And can there be a question of voluntary, free\nchoice? Probably neither the old age of Europe nor the youth of Russia\ncan give us the truth we seek. But does such a thing as ultimate truth\nexist? Is not the very conception of truth, the very assumption of the\npossibility of truth, merely an outcome of our limited experience,\na fruit of limitation? We decide _a priori_ that one thing must be\npossible, another impossible, and from our arbitrary assumptions we\nproceed to deduce the body of truth. Each one judges in his own way,\naccording to his powers and the conditions of his existence. The timid,\nscared man worries after _order,_ that will give him a day of peace\nand quiet, youth dreams of beauty and brilliance, old age doesn't want\nto think of anything, having lost the faculty for hope. And so it goes\non, _ad infinitum_. And this is called truth, truths! Every man thinks\nthat his own experience covers the whole range of life. And, therefore,\nthe only men who turn out to be at all in the right are empiricists and\npositivists. There can be no question of truth once we tear ourselves\naway from the actual conditions of life.\n\nOur confident truthfulness, like European rhetoric, turns out to be\n\"beyond truth and falsehood.\" The young East and the old West alike\nsuffer from the restrictions imposed by truth--but the former ignores\nthe restrictions, whilst the latter adapts itself to them. After all,\nit comes to pretty much the same in the end. Is not clever rhetoric\nas delightful as truthfulness? Each is equally _life_. Only we find\nunendurable a rhetoric which poses as truth, and a truthfulness\nwhich would appear cultured. Such a masquerade would try to make us\nbelieve that truth, which is only _limitedness_, has a real objective\nexistence. Which is offensive. Until the contrary is proved, we need to\nthink that only one assertion has or can have any objective reality:\n_that nothing on earth is impossible_. Every time somebody wants to\nforce us to admit that there are other, more limited and limiting\ntruths, we must resist with every means we can lay hands on. We do not\nhesitate even to make use of morality and logic, both of which we have\nabused so often. But why not use them!\n\nWhen a man is at his last resources, he does not care what weapons he\npicks up.\n\n\n46\n\n_Nur f\u00fcr Schwindelfreie_.--To be proper, I ought to finish with a\nmoral. I ought to say to the reader that in spite of all I have said,\nor perhaps _because of_ all I have said--for in conclusions, as you\nare aware, \"in spite of\" is always interchangeable with \"because of,\"\nparticularly if the conclusion be drawn from many scattered data--well\nthen, because of all I have said, hope is not lost. Every destruction\nleads to construction, sweet rest follows labour, dawn follows the\ndarkest hour, and so on and so on and so on--all the banalities with\nwhich a writer reconciles his reader. But it is never too late for\nreconciliation, and it is often too early. So why not postpone the\nmoral for a few years--even a few dozen years, God granting us the\nlength of life? Why make the inevitable \"conclusion\" at the end of\nevery book? I am almost certain that sooner or later I can promise the\nreader all his heart desires. But not yet. He may, of course, dispense\nwith my consolations. What do promises matter, anyhow? especially when\nneither reader nor writer can fulfil them. But if there is no escape,\nif a writer is finally obliged to admit in everybody's hearing that the\nsecret desires of poor mankind may yet be realised, let \"us at least\ngive the wretched writer a respite, let him postpone his confession\ntill old age_--usque ad infinitum_,... Meanwhile our motto \"_Nur f\u00fcr\nSchwindelfreie._\" There are in the Alps narrow, precipitous paths where\nonly mountaineers may go, who feel no giddiness. Giddy-free! \"Only\nfor the giddy-free,\" it says on the notice-board. He who is subject\nto giddiness takes a broad, safe road, or sits away below and admires\nthe snowy summits. Is it inevitably necessary to mount up? Beyond the\nsnow-line are no fat pastures nor goldfields. They say that up there\nis to be found the clue to the eternal mystery--but they say so many\nthings. We can't believe everything. He who is tired of the valleys,\nloves climbing, and is not afraid to look down a precipice, and, most\nof all, has nothing left in life but the \"metaphysical craving,\" he\nwill certainly climb to the summits without asking what awaits him\nthere. He does not fear, he longs for giddiness. But he will hardly\ncall people after him: he doesn't want just anybody for a companion.\nIn such a case companions are not wanted at all, much less those\ntender-footed ones who are used to every convenience, roads, street\nlamps, guide-posts, careful maps which mark every change in the road\nahead. They will not help, only hinder. They will prove superfluous,\nheavy ballast, which may not be thrown overboard. Fuss over them,\nconsole them, promise them! Who would be bothered? Is it not better to\ngo one's way alone, and not only to refrain from enticing others to\nfollow, but frighten them off as much as possible, exaggerate every\ndanger and difficulty? In order that conscience may not prick too\nhard--we who love high altitudes love a quiet conscience--let us find\na justification for their inactivity. Let us tell them they are the\nbest, the worthiest of people, really the salt of the earth. Let us\npay them every possible mark of respect. But since they are subject to\ngiddiness, they had better stay down. The upper Alpine ways, as any\nguide will tell you, are _nur f\u00fcr Schwindelfreie_.","title":"All Things are Possible","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":45252}