THE ESSAYS OF ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER: STUDIES IN PESSIMISM



TRANSLATED BY



T. BAILEY SAUNDERS, M.A.















CONTENTS.





  ON THE SUFFERINGS OF THE WORLD

  ON THE VANITY OF EXISTENCE

  ON SUICIDE

  IMMORTALITY: A DIALOGUE

  PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS

  ON EDUCATION

  OF WOMEN

  ON NOISE

  A FEW PARABLES









NOTE.



The Essays here presented form a further selection from Schopenhauer's

_Parerga_, brought together under a title which is not to be found

in the original, and does not claim to apply to every chapter in

the volume. The first essay is, in the main, a rendering of the

philosopher's remarks under the heading of _Nachträge zur Lehre vom

Leiden der Welt_, together with certain parts of another section

entitled _Nachträge zur Lehre von der Bejahung und Verneinung des

Willens zum Leben_. Such omissions as I have made are directed chiefly

by the desire to avoid repeating arguments already familiar to readers

of the other volumes in this series. The _Dialogue on Immortality_

sums up views expressed at length in the philosopher's chief work, and

treated again in the _Parerga_. The _Psychological Observations_ in

this and the previous volume practically exhaust the chapter of the

original which bears this title.



The essay on _Women_ must not be taken in jest. It expresses

Schopenhauer's serious convictions; and, as a penetrating observer

of the faults of humanity, he may be allowed a hearing on a question

which is just now receiving a good deal of attention among us.



T.B.S.









ON THE SUFFERINGS OF THE WORLD.





Unless _suffering_ is the direct and immediate object of life, our

existence must entirely fail of its aim. It is absurd to look upon

the enormous amount of pain that abounds everywhere in the world, and

originates in needs and necessities inseparable from life itself, as

serving no purpose at all and the result of mere chance. Each separate

misfortune, as it comes, seems, no doubt, to be something exceptional;

but misfortune in general is the rule.



I know of no greater absurdity than that propounded by most systems of

philosophy in declaring evil to be negative in its character. Evil is

just what is positive; it makes its own existence felt. Leibnitz is

particularly concerned to defend this absurdity; and he seeks to

strengthen his position by using a palpable and paltry sophism.[1]

It is the good which is negative; in other words, happiness and

satisfaction always imply some desire fulfilled, some state of pain

brought to an end.



[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_, cf. _Thèod_, §153.--Leibnitz argued

that evil is a negative quality--_i.e_., the absence of good; and that

its active and seemingly positive character is an incidental and not

an essential part of its nature. Cold, he said, is only the absence of

the power of heat, and the active power of expansion in freezing water

is an incidental and not an essential part of the nature of cold. The

fact is, that the power of expansion in freezing water is really an

increase of repulsion amongst its molecules; and Schopenhauer is quite

right in calling the whole argument a sophism.]



This explains the fact that we generally find pleasure to be not

nearly so pleasant as we expected, and pain very much more painful.



The pleasure in this world, it has been said, outweighs the pain; or,

at any rate, there is an even balance between the two. If the reader

wishes to see shortly whether this statement is true, let him compare

the respective feelings of two animals, one of which is engaged in

eating the other.



The best consolation in misfortune or affliction of any kind will

be the thought of other people who are in a still worse plight than

yourself; and this is a form of consolation open to every one. But

what an awful fate this means for mankind as a whole!



We are like lambs in a field, disporting themselves under the eye of

the butcher, who chooses out first one and then another for his prey.

So it is that in our good days we are all unconscious of the evil Fate

may have presently in store for us--sickness, poverty, mutilation,

loss of sight or reason.



No little part of the torment of existence lies in this, that Time is

continually pressing upon us, never letting us take breath, but always

coming after us, like a taskmaster with a whip. If at any moment Time

stays his hand, it is only when we are delivered over to the misery of

boredom.



But misfortune has its uses; for, as our bodily frame would burst

asunder if the pressure of the atmosphere was removed, so, if the

lives of men were relieved of all need, hardship and adversity; if

everything they took in hand were successful, they would be so swollen

with arrogance that, though they might not burst, they would present

the spectacle of unbridled folly--nay, they would go mad. And I may

say, further, that a certain amount of care or pain or trouble is

necessary for every man at all times. A ship without ballast is

unstable and will not go straight.



Certain it is that _work, worry, labor_ and _trouble_, form the lot of

almost all men their whole life long. But if all wishes were fulfilled

as soon as they arose, how would men occupy their lives? what would

they do with their time? If the world were a paradise of luxury and

ease, a land flowing with milk and honey, where every Jack obtained

his Jill at once and without any difficulty, men would either die of

boredom or hang themselves; or there would be wars, massacres, and

murders; so that in the end mankind would inflict more suffering on

itself than it has now to accept at the hands of Nature.



In early youth, as we contemplate our coming life, we are like

children in a theatre before the curtain is raised, sitting there

in high spirits and eagerly waiting for the play to begin. It is a

blessing that we do not know what is really going to happen. Could we

foresee it, there are times when children might seem like innocent

prisoners, condemned, not to death, but to life, and as yet all

unconscious of what their sentence means. Nevertheless, every man

desires to reach old age; in other words, a state of life of which it

may be said: "It is bad to-day, and it will be worse to-morrow; and so

on till the worst of all."



If you try to imagine, as nearly as you can, what an amount of misery,

pain and suffering of every kind the sun shines upon in its course,

you will admit that it would be much better if, on the earth as little

as on the moon, the sun were able to call forth the phenomena of life;

and if, here as there, the surface were still in a crystalline state.



Again, you may look upon life as an unprofitable episode, disturbing

the blessed calm of non-existence. And, in any case, even though

things have gone with you tolerably well, the longer you live the more

clearly you will feel that, on the whole, life is _a disappointment,

nay, a cheat_.



If two men who were friends in their youth meet again when they are

old, after being separated for a life-time, the chief feeling

they will have at the sight of each other will be one of complete

disappointment at life as a whole; because their thoughts will be

carried back to that earlier time when life seemed so fair as it

lay spread out before them in the rosy light of dawn, promised so

much--and then performed so little. This feeling will so completely

predominate over every other that they will not even consider it

necessary to give it words; but on either side it will be silently

assumed, and form the ground-work of all they have to talk about.



He who lives to see two or three generations is like a man who sits

some time in the conjurer's booth at a fair, and witnesses the

performance twice or thrice in succession. The tricks were meant to

be seen only once; and when they are no longer a novelty and cease to

deceive, their effect is gone.



While no man is much to be envied for his lot, there are countless

numbers whose fate is to be deplored.



Life is a task to be done. It is a fine thing to say _defunctus est_;

it means that the man has done his task.



If children were brought into the world by an act of pure reason

alone, would the human race continue to exist? Would not a man rather

have so much sympathy with the coming generation as to spare it the

burden of existence? or at any rate not take it upon himself to impose

that burden upon it in cold blood.



I shall be told, I suppose, that my philosophy is comfortless--because

I speak the truth; and people prefer to be assured that everything the

Lord has made is good. Go to the priests, then, and leave philosophers

in peace! At any rate, do not ask us to accommodate our doctrines to

the lessons you have been taught. That is what those rascals of sham

philosophers will do for you. Ask them for any doctrine you please,

and you will get it. Your University professors are bound to preach

optimism; and it is an easy and agreeable task to upset their

theories.



I have reminded the reader that every state of welfare, every feeling

of satisfaction, is negative in its character; that is to say, it

consists in freedom from pain, which is the positive element of

existence. It follows, therefore, that the happiness of any given life

is to be measured, not by its joys and pleasures, but by the extent to

which it has been free from suffering--from positive evil. If this

is the true standpoint, the lower animals appear to enjoy a happier

destiny than man. Let us examine the matter a little more closely.



However varied the forms that human happiness and misery may take,

leading a man to seek the one and shun the other, the material basis

of it all is bodily pleasure or bodily pain. This basis is very

restricted: it is simply health, food, protection from wet and cold,

the satisfaction of the sexual instinct; or else the absence of these

things. Consequently, as far as real physical pleasure is concerned,

the man is not better off than the brute, except in so far as the

higher possibilities of his nervous system make him more sensitive to

every kind of pleasure, but also, it must be remembered, to every kind

of pain. But then compared with the brute, how much stronger are the

passions aroused in him! what an immeasurable difference there is in

the depth and vehemence of his emotions!--and yet, in the one case,

as in the other, all to produce the same result in the end: namely,

health, food, clothing, and so on.



The chief source of all this passion is that thought for what is

absent and future, which, with man, exercises such a powerful

influence upon all he does. It is this that is the real origin of

his cares, his hopes, his fears--emotions which affect him much

more deeply than could ever be the case with those present joys

and sufferings to which the brute is confined. In his powers of

reflection, memory and foresight, man possesses, as it were, a machine

for condensing and storing up his pleasures and his sorrows. But the

brute has nothing of the kind; whenever it is in pain, it is as though

it were suffering for the first time, even though the same thing

should have previously happened to it times out of number. It has

no power of summing up its feelings. Hence its careless and placid

temper: how much it is to be envied! But in man reflection comes in,

with all the emotions to which it gives rise; and taking up the same

elements of pleasure and pain which are common to him and the brute,

it develops his susceptibility to happiness and misery to such a

degree that, at one moment the man is brought in an instant to a state

of delight that may even prove fatal, at another to the depths of

despair and suicide.



If we carry our analysis a step farther, we shall find that, in order

to increase his pleasures, man has intentionally added to the number

and pressure of his needs, which in their original state were not much

more difficult to satisfy than those of the brute. Hence luxury in all

its forms; delicate food, the use of tobacco and opium, spirituous

liquors, fine clothes, and the thousand and one things than he

considers necessary to his existence.



And above and beyond all this, there is a separate and peculiar source

of pleasure, and consequently of pain, which man has established for

himself, also as the result of using his powers of reflection; and

this occupies him out of all proportion to its value, nay, almost more

than all his other interests put together--I mean ambition and the

feeling of honor and shame; in plain words, what he thinks about the

opinion other people have of him. Taking a thousand forms, often very

strange ones, this becomes the goal of almost all the efforts he makes

that are not rooted in physical pleasure or pain. It is true that

besides the sources of pleasure which he has in common with the

brute, man has the pleasures of the mind as well. These admit of many

gradations, from the most innocent trifling or the merest talk up to

the highest intellectual achievements; but there is the accompanying

boredom to be set against them on the side of suffering. Boredom is

a form of suffering unknown to brutes, at any rate in their natural

state; it is only the very cleverest of them who show faint traces

of it when they are domesticated; whereas in the case of man it has

become a downright scourge. The crowd of miserable wretches whose one

aim in life is to fill their purses but never to put anything into

their heads, offers a singular instance of this torment of boredom.

Their wealth becomes a punishment by delivering them up to misery of

having nothing to do; for, to escape it, they will rush about in all

directions, traveling here, there and everywhere. No sooner do they

arrive in a place than they are anxious to know what amusements it

affords; just as though they were beggars asking where they could

receive a dole! Of a truth, need and boredom are the two poles

of human life. Finally, I may mention that as regards the sexual

relation, a man is committed to a peculiar arrangement which drives

him obstinately to choose one person. This feeling grows, now and

then, into a more or less passionate love,[1] which is the source of

little pleasure and much suffering.



[Footnote 1: I have treated this subject at length in a special

chapter of the second volume of my chief work.]



It is, however, a wonderful thing that the mere addition of thought

should serve to raise such a vast and lofty structure of human

happiness and misery; resting, too, on the same narrow basis of joy

and sorrow as man holds in common with the brute, and exposing him

to such violent emotions, to so many storms of passion, so much

convulsion of feeling, that what he has suffered stands written and

may be read in the lines on his face. And yet, when all is told, he

has been struggling ultimately for the very same things as the brute

has attained, and with an incomparably smaller expenditure of passion

and pain.



But all this contributes to increase the measures of suffering in

human life out of all proportion to its pleasures; and the pains of

life are made much worse for man by the fact that death is something

very real to him. The brute flies from death instinctively without

really knowing what it is, and therefore without ever contemplating it

in the way natural to a man, who has this prospect always before his

eyes. So that even if only a few brutes die a natural death, and most

of them live only just long enough to transmit their species, and

then, if not earlier, become the prey of some other animal,--whilst

man, on the other hand, manages to make so-called natural death the

rule, to which, however, there are a good many exceptions,--the

advantage is on the side of the brute, for the reason stated above.

But the fact is that man attains the natural term of years just as

seldom as the brute; because the unnatural way in which he lives, and

the strain of work and emotion, lead to a degeneration of the race;

and so his goal is not often reached.



The brute is much more content with mere existence than man; the plant

is wholly so; and man finds satisfaction in it just in proportion as

he is dull and obtuse. Accordingly, the life of the brute carries less

of sorrow with it, but also less of joy, when compared with the life

of man; and while this may be traced, on the one side, to freedom from

the torment of _care_ and _anxiety_, it is also due to the fact

that _hope_, in any real sense, is unknown to the brute. It is thus

deprived of any share in that which gives us the most and best of our

joys and pleasures, the mental anticipation of a happy future, and the

inspiriting play of phantasy, both of which we owe to our power of

imagination. If the brute is free from care, it is also, in this

sense, without hope; in either case, because its consciousness is

limited to the present moment, to what it can actually see before

it. The brute is an embodiment of present impulses, and hence what

elements of fear and hope exist in its nature--and they do not go very

far--arise only in relation to objects that lie before it and within

reach of those impulses: whereas a man's range of vision embraces the

whole of his life, and extends far into the past and future.



Following upon this, there is one respect in which brutes show real

wisdom when compared with us--I mean, their quiet, placid enjoyment of

the present moment. The tranquillity of mind which this seems to give

them often puts us to shame for the many times we allow our thoughts

and our cares to make us restless and discontented. And, in fact,

those pleasures of hope and anticipation which I have been mentioning

are not to be had for nothing. The delight which a man has in hoping

for and looking forward to some special satisfaction is a part of the

real pleasure attaching to it enjoyed in advance. This is afterwards

deducted; for the more we look forward to anything, the less

satisfaction we find in it when it comes. But the brute's enjoyment

is not anticipated, and therefore, suffers no deduction; so that the

actual pleasure of the moment comes to it whole and unimpaired. In the

same way, too, evil presses upon the brute only with its own intrinsic

weight; whereas with us the fear of its coming often makes its burden

ten times more grievous.



It is just this characteristic way in which the brute gives itself up

entirely to the present moment that contributes so much to the delight

we take in our domestic pets. They are the present moment personified,

and in some respects they make us feel the value of every hour that

is free from trouble and annoyance, which we, with our thoughts and

preoccupations, mostly disregard. But man, that selfish and heartless

creature, misuses this quality of the brute to be more content than we

are with mere existence, and often works it to such an extent that he

allows the brute absolutely nothing more than mere, bare life. The

bird which was made so that it might rove over half of the world, he

shuts up into the space of a cubic foot, there to die a slow death in

longing and crying for freedom; for in a cage it does not sing for

the pleasure of it. And when I see how man misuses the dog, his best

friend; how he ties up this intelligent animal with a chain, I feel

the deepest sympathy with the brute and burning indignation against

its master.



We shall see later that by taking a very high standpoint it is

possible to justify the sufferings of mankind. But this justification

cannot apply to animals, whose sufferings, while in a great measure

brought about by men, are often considerable even apart from their

agency.[1] And so we are forced to ask, Why and for what purpose does

all this torment and agony exist? There is nothing here to give the

will pause; it is not free to deny itself and so obtain redemption.

There is only one consideration that may serve to explain the

sufferings of animals. It is this: that the will to live, which

underlies the whole world of phenomena, must, in their case satisfy

its cravings by feeding upon itself. This it does by forming a

gradation of phenomena, every one of which exists at the expense of

another. I have shown, however, that the capacity for suffering is

less in animals than in man. Any further explanation that may be given

of their fate will be in the nature of hypothesis, if not actually

mythical in its character; and I may leave the reader to speculate

upon the matter for himself.



[Footnote 1: Cf. _Welt als Wille und Vorstellung_, vol. ii. p. 404.]



_Brahma_ is said to have produced the world by a kind of fall or

mistake; and in order to atone for his folly, he is bound to remain

in it himself until he works out his redemption. As an account of the

origin of things, that is admirable! According to the doctrines

of _Buddhism_, the world came into being as the result of some

inexplicable disturbance in the heavenly calm of Nirvana, that blessed

state obtained by expiation, which had endured so long a time--the

change taking place by a kind of fatality. This explanation must be

understood as having at bottom some moral bearing; although it is

illustrated by an exactly parallel theory in the domain of physical

science, which places the origin of the sun in a primitive streak of

mist, formed one knows not how. Subsequently, by a series of moral

errors, the world became gradually worse and worse--true of the

physical orders as well--until it assumed the dismal aspect it wears

to-day. Excellent! The _Greeks_ looked upon the world and the gods as

the work of an inscrutable necessity. A passable explanation: we may

be content with it until we can get a better. Again, _Ormuzd_ and

_Ahriman_ are rival powers, continually at war. That is not bad. But

that a God like Jehovah should have created this world of misery and

woe, out of pure caprice, and because he enjoyed doing it, and should

then have clapped his hands in praise of his own work, and declared

everything to be very good--that will not do at all! In its

explanation of the origin of the world, Judaism is inferior to any

other form of religious doctrine professed by a civilized nation;

and it is quite in keeping with this that it is the only one which

presents no trace whatever of any belief in the immortality of the

soul.[1]



[Footnote 1: See _Parerga_, vol. i. pp. 139 _et seq_.]



Even though Leibnitz' contention, that this is the best of all

possible worlds, were correct, that would not justify God in having

created it. For he is the Creator not of the world only, but of

possibility itself; and, therefore, he ought to have so ordered

possibility as that it would admit of something better.



There are two things which make it impossible to believe that this

world is the successful work of an all-wise, all-good, and, at the

same time, all-powerful Being; firstly, the misery which abounds in

it everywhere; and secondly, the obvious imperfection of its highest

product, man, who is a burlesque of what he should be. These things

cannot be reconciled with any such belief. On the contrary, they are

just the facts which support what I have been saying; they are our

authority for viewing the world as the outcome of our own misdeeds,

and therefore, as something that had better not have been. Whilst,

under the former hypothesis, they amount to a bitter accusation

against the Creator, and supply material for sarcasm; under the latter

they form an indictment against our own nature, our own will, and

teach us a lesson of humility. They lead us to see that, like the

children of a libertine, we come into the world with the burden of sin

upon us; and that it is only through having continually to atone for

this sin that our existence is so miserable, and that its end is

death.



There is nothing more certain than the general truth that it is the

grievous _sin of the world_ which has produced the grievous _suffering

of the world_. I am not referring here to the physical connection

between these two things lying in the realm of experience; my meaning

is metaphysical. Accordingly, the sole thing that reconciles me to the

Old Testament is the story of the Fall. In my eyes, it is the only

metaphysical truth in that book, even though it appears in the form of

an allegory. There seems to me no better explanation of our existence

than that it is the result of some false step, some sin of which

we are paying the penalty. I cannot refrain from recommending the

thoughtful reader a popular, but at the same time, profound treatise

on this subject by Claudius[1] which exhibits the essentially

pessimistic spirit of Christianity. It is entitled: _Cursed is the

ground for thy sake_.



[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Matthias Claudius (1740-1815), a

popular poet, and friend of Klopstock, Herder and Leasing. He edited

the _Wandsbecker Bote_, in the fourth part of which appeared the

treatise mentioned above. He generally wrote under the pseudonym of

_Asmus_, and Schopenhauer often refers to him by this name.]



Between the ethics of the Greeks and the ethics of the Hindoos, there

is a glaring contrast. In the one case (with the exception, it must be

confessed, of Plato), the object of ethics is to enable a man to lead

a happy life; in the other, it is to free and redeem him from life

altogether--as is directly stated in the very first words of the

_Sankhya Karika_.



Allied with this is the contrast between the Greek and the Christian

idea of death. It is strikingly presented in a visible form on a fine

antique sarcophagus in the gallery of Florence, which exhibits, in

relief, the whole series of ceremonies attending a wedding in ancient

times, from the formal offer to the evening when Hymen's torch lights

the happy couple home. Compare with that the Christian coffin,

draped in mournful black and surmounted with a crucifix! How much

significance there is in these two ways of finding comfort in death.

They are opposed to each other, but each is right. The one points to

the _affirmation_ of the will to live, which remains sure of life for

all time, however rapidly its forms may change. The other, in the

symbol of suffering and death, points to the _denial_ of the will to

live, to redemption from this world, the domain of death and devil.

And in the question between the affirmation and the denial of the will

to live, Christianity is in the last resort right.



The contrast which the New Testament presents when compared with the

Old, according to the ecclesiastical view of the matter, is just that

existing between my ethical system and the moral philosophy of Europe.

The Old Testament represents man as under the dominion of Law, in

which, however, there is no redemption. The New Testament declares

Law to have failed, frees man from its dominion,[1] and in its stead

preaches the kingdom of grace, to be won by faith, love of neighbor

and entire sacrifice of self. This is the path of redemption from the

evil of the world. The spirit of the New Testament is undoubtedly

asceticism, however your protestants and rationalists may twist it to

suit their purpose. Asceticism is the denial of the will to live; and

the transition from the Old Testament to the New, from the dominion

of Law to that of Faith, from justification by works to redemption

through the Mediator, from the domain of sin and death to eternal life

in Christ, means, when taken in its real sense, the transition from

the merely moral virtues to the denial of the will to live. My

philosophy shows the metaphysical foundation of justice and the love

of mankind, and points to the goal to which these virtues necessarily

lead, if they are practised in perfection. At the same time it is

candid in confessing that a man must turn his back upon the world, and

that the denial of the will to live is the way of redemption. It is

therefore really at one with the spirit of the New Testament, whilst

all other systems are couched in the spirit of the Old; that is

to say, theoretically as well as practically, their result is

Judaism--mere despotic theism. In this sense, then, my doctrine might

be called the only true Christian philosophy--however paradoxical a

statement this may seem to people who take superficial views instead

of penetrating to the heart of the matter.



[Footnote 1: Cf. Romans vii; Galatians ii, iii.]



If you want a safe compass to guide you through life, and to banish

all doubt as to the right way of looking at it, you cannot do better

than accustom yourself to regard this world as a penitentiary, a

sort of a penal colony, or [Greek: ergastaerion] as the earliest

philosopher called it.[1] Amongst the Christian Fathers, Origen, with

praiseworthy courage, took this view,[2] which is further justified by

certain objective theories of life. I refer, not to my own philosophy

alone, but to the wisdom of all ages, as expressed in Brahmanism and

Buddhism, and in the sayings of Greek philosophers like Empedocles and

Pythagoras; as also by Cicero, in his remark that the wise men of old

used to teach that we come into this world to pay the penalty of crime

committed in another state of existence--a doctrine which formed

part of the initiation into the mysteries.[3] And Vanini--whom his

contemporaries burned, finding that an easier task than to confute

him--puts the same thing in a very forcible way. _Man_, he says, _is

so full of every kind of misery that, were it not repugnant to the

Christian religion, I should venture to affirm that if evil spirits

exist at all, they have posed into human form and are now atoning for

their crimes_.[4] And true Christianity--using the word in its right

sense--also regards our existence as the consequence of sin and error.



[Footnote 1: Cf. Clem. Alex. Strom. L. iii, c, 3, p. 399.]



[Footnote 2: Augustine _de cìvitate Dei_., L. xi. c. 23.]



[Footnote 3: Cf. _Fragmenta de philosophia_.]



[Footnote: 4: _De admirandis naturae arcanis_; dial L. p. 35.]



If you accustom yourself to this view of life you will regulate your

expectations accordingly, and cease to look upon all its disagreeable

incidents, great and small, its sufferings, its worries, its misery,

as anything unusual or irregular; nay, you will find that everything

is as it should be, in a world where each of us pays the penalty of

existence in his own peculiar way. Amongst the evils of a penal colony

is the society of those who form it; and if the reader is worthy of

better company, he will need no words from me to remind him of what he

has to put up with at present. If he has a soul above the common, or

if he is a man of genius, he will occasionally feel like some noble

prisoner of state, condemned to work in the galleys with common

criminals; and he will follow his example and try to isolate himself.



In general, however, it should be said that this view of life will

enable us to contemplate the so-called imperfections of the great

majority of men, their moral and intellectual deficiencies and the

resulting base type of countenance, without any surprise, to say

nothing of indignation; for we shall never cease to reflect where we

are, and that the men about us are beings conceived and born in

sin, and living to atone for it. That is what Christianity means in

speaking of the sinful nature of man.



_Pardon's the word to all_! [1] Whatever folly men commit, be

their shortcomings or their vices what they may, let us exercise

forbearance; remembering that when these faults appear in others, it

is our follies and vices that we behold. They are the shortcomings of

humanity, to which we belong; whose faults, one and all, we share;

yes, even those very faults at which we now wax so indignant, merely

because they have not yet appeared in ourselves. They are faults that

do not lie on the surface. But they exist down there in the depths of

our nature; and should anything call them forth, they will come and

show themselves, just as we now see them in others. One man, it

is true, may have faults that are absent in his fellow; and it is

undeniable that the sum total of bad qualities is in some cases very

large; for the difference of individuality between man and man passes

all measure.



[Footnote 1: "Cymbeline," Act v. Sc. 5.]



In fact, the conviction that the world and man is something that had

better not have been, is of a kind to fill us with indulgence towards

one another. Nay, from this point of view, we might well consider the

proper form of address to be, not _Monsieur, Sir, mein Herr_, but _my

fellow-sufferer, Socî malorum, compagnon de miseres_! This may perhaps

sound strange, but it is in keeping with the facts; it puts others in

a right light; and it reminds us of that which is after all the most

necessary thing in life--the tolerance, patience, regard, and love

of neighbor, of which everyone stands in need, and which, therefore,

every man owes to his fellow.









THE VANITY OF EXISTENCE.





This vanity finds expression in the whole way in which things exist;

in the infinite nature of Time and Space, as opposed to the finite

nature of the individual in both; in the ever-passing present moment

as the only mode of actual existence; in the interdependence and

relativity of all things; in continual Becoming without ever Being; in

constant wishing and never being satisfied; in the long battle

which forms the history of life, where every effort is checked by

difficulties, and stopped until they are overcome. Time is that in

which all things pass away; it is merely the form under which the will

to live--the thing-in-itself and therefore imperishable--has revealed

to it that its efforts are in vain; it is that agent by which at every

moment all things in our hands become as nothing, and lose any real

value they possess.



That which _has been_ exists no more; it exists as little as that

which has _never_ been. But of everything that exists you must say, in

the next moment, that it has been. Hence something of great importance

now past is inferior to something of little importance now present, in

that the latter is a _reality_, and related to the former as something

to nothing.



A man finds himself, to his great astonishment, suddenly existing,

after thousands and thousands of years of non-existence: he lives for

a little while; and then, again, comes an equally long period when he

must exist no more. The heart rebels against this, and feels that

it cannot be true. The crudest intellect cannot speculate on such a

subject without having a presentiment that Time is something ideal in

its nature. This ideality of Time and Space is the key to every true

system of metaphysics; because it provides for quite another order of

things than is to be met with in the domain of nature. This is why

Kant is so great.



Of every event in our life we can say only for one moment that it

_is_; for ever after, that it _was_. Every evening we are poorer by a

day. It might, perhaps, make us mad to see how rapidly our short span

of time ebbs away; if it were not that in the furthest depths of our

being we are secretly conscious of our share in the exhaustible spring

of eternity, so that we can always hope to find life in it again.



Consideration of the kind, touched on above, might, indeed, lead us to

embrace the belief that the greatest _wisdom_ is to make the enjoyment

of the present the supreme object of life; because that is the only

reality, all else being merely the play of thought. On the other hand,

such a course might just as well be called the greatest _folly_: for

that which in the next moment exists no more, and vanishes utterly,

like a dream, can never be worth a serious effort.



The whole foundation on which our existence rests is the present--the

ever-fleeting present. It lies, then, in the very nature of our

existence to take the form of constant motion, and to offer no

possibility of our ever attaining the rest for which we are always

striving. We are like a man running downhill, who cannot keep on his

legs unless he runs on, and will inevitably fall if he stops; or,

again, like a pole balanced on the tip of one's finger; or like a

planet, which would fall into its sun the moment it ceased to hurry

forward on its way. Unrest is the mark of existence.



In a world where all is unstable, and nought can endure, but is swept

onwards at once in the hurrying whirlpool of change; where a man, if

he is to keep erect at all, must always be advancing and moving, like

an acrobat on a rope--in such a world, happiness in inconceivable.

How can it dwell where, as Plato says, _continual Becoming and never

Being_ is the sole form of existence? In the first place, a man never

is happy, but spends his whole life in striving after something which

he thinks will make him so; he seldom attains his goal, and when he

does, it is only to be disappointed; he is mostly shipwrecked in the

end, and comes into harbor with masts and rigging gone. And then, it

is all one whether he has been happy or miserable; for his life was

never anything more than a present moment always vanishing; and now it

is over.



At the same time it is a wonderful thing that, in the world of human

beings as in that of animals in general, this manifold restless motion

is produced and kept up by the agency of two simple impulses--hunger

and the sexual instinct; aided a little, perhaps, by the influence of

boredom, but by nothing else; and that, in the theatre of life, these

suffice to form the _primum mobile_ of how complicated a machinery,

setting in motion how strange and varied a scene!



On looking a little closer, we find that inorganic matter presents

a constant conflict between chemical forces, which eventually works

dissolution; and on the other hand, that organic life is impossible

without continual change of matter, and cannot exist if it does not

receive perpetual help from without. This is the realm of _finality_;

and its opposite would be _an infinite existence_, exposed to no

attack from without, and needing nothing to support it; [Greek: haei

hosautos dn], the realm of eternal peace; [Greek: oute giguomenon oute

apollumenon], some timeless, changeless state, one and undiversified;

the negative knowledge of which forms the dominant note of the

Platonic philosophy. It is to some such state as this that the denial

of the will to live opens up the way.



The scenes of our life are like pictures done in rough mosaic. Looked

at close, they produce no effect. There is nothing beautiful to

be found in them, unless you stand some distance off. So, to gain

anything we have longed for is only to discover how vain and empty

it is; and even though we are always living in expectation of better

things, at the same time we often repent and long to have the past

back again. We look upon the present as something to be put up with

while it lasts, and serving only as the way towards our goal. Hence

most people, if they glance back when they come to the end of life,

will find that all along they have been living _ad interim_: they will

be surprised to find that the very thing they disregarded and let

slip by unenjoyed, was just the life in the expectation of which they

passed all their time. Of how many a man may it not be said that hope

made a fool of him until he danced into the arms of death!



Then again, how insatiable a creature is man! Every satisfaction he

attains lays the seeds of some new desire, so that there is no end to

the wishes of each individual will. And why is this? The real reason

is simply that, taken in itself, Will is the lord of all worlds:

everything belongs to it, and therefore no one single thing can ever

give it satisfaction, but only the whole, which is endless. For all

that, it must rouse our sympathy to think how very little the Will,

this lord of the world, really gets when it takes the form of an

individual; usually only just enough to keep the body together. This

is why man is so very miserable.



Life presents itself chiefly as a task--the task, I mean, of

subsisting at all, _gagner sa vie_. If this is accomplished, life is a

burden, and then there comes the second task of doing something with

that which has been won--of warding off boredom, which, like a bird

of prey, hovers over us, ready to fall wherever it sees a life secure

from need. The first task is to win something; the second, to banish

the feeling that it has been won; otherwise it is a burden.



Human life must be some kind of mistake. The truth of this will be

sufficiently obvious if we only remember that man is a compound of

needs and necessities hard to satisfy; and that even when they are

satisfied, all he obtains is a state of painlessness, where nothing

remains to him but abandonment to boredom. This is direct proof that

existence has no real value in itself; for what is boredom but the

feeling of the emptiness of life? If life--the craving for which

is the very essence of our being--were possessed of any positive

intrinsic value, there would be no such thing as boredom at all: mere

existence would satisfy us in itself, and we should want for nothing.

But as it is, we take no delight in existence except when we are

struggling for something; and then distance and difficulties to be

overcome make our goal look as though it would satisfy us--an illusion

which vanishes when we reach it; or else when we are occupied with

some purely intellectual interest--when in reality we have stepped

forth from life to look upon it from the outside, much after the

manner of spectators at a play. And even sensual pleasure itself means

nothing but a struggle and aspiration, ceasing the moment its aim is

attained. Whenever we are not occupied in one of these ways, but cast

upon existence itself, its vain and worthless nature is brought home

to us; and this is what we mean by boredom. The hankering after what

is strange and uncommon--an innate and ineradicable tendency of human

nature--shows how glad we are at any interruption of that natural

course of affairs which is so very tedious.



That this most perfect manifestation of the will to live, the human

organism, with the cunning and complex working of its machinery,

must fall to dust and yield up itself and all its strivings to

extinction--this is the naïve way in which Nature, who is always so

true and sincere in what she says, proclaims the whole struggle of

this will as in its very essence barren and unprofitable. Were it of

any value in itself, anything unconditioned and absolute, it could not

thus end in mere nothing.



If we turn from contemplating the world as a whole, and, in

particular, the generations of men as they live their little hour of

mock-existence and then are swept away in rapid succession; if we turn

from this, and look at life in its small details, as presented, say,

in a comedy, how ridiculous it all seems! It is like a drop of water

seen through a microscope, a single drop teeming with _infusoria_; or

a speck of cheese full of mites invisible to the naked eye. How we

laugh as they bustle about so eagerly, and struggle with one another

in so tiny a space! And whether here, or in the little span of human

life, this terrible activity produces a comic effect.



It is only in the microscope that our life looks so big. It is an

indivisible point, drawn out and magnified by the powerful lenses of

Time and Space.









ON SUICIDE.





As far as I know, none but the votaries of monotheistic, that is to

say, Jewish religions, look upon suicide as a crime. This is all the

more striking, inasmuch as neither in the Old nor in the New Testament

is there to be found any prohibition or positive disapproval of it;

so that religious teachers are forced to base their condemnation of

suicide on philosophical grounds of their own invention. These are

so very bad that writers of this kind endeavor to make up for the

weakness of their arguments by the strong terms in which they express

their abhorrence of the practice; in other words, they declaim against

it. They tell us that suicide is the greatest piece of cowardice; that

only a madman could be guilty of it; and other insipidities of the

same kind; or else they make the nonsensical remark that suicide is

_wrong_; when it is quite obvious that there is nothing in the world

to which every man has a more unassailable title than to his own life

and person.



Suicide, as I have said, is actually accounted a crime; and a crime

which, especially under the vulgar bigotry that prevails in England,

is followed by an ignominious burial and the seizure of the man's

property; and for that reason, in a case of suicide, the jury almost

always brings in a verdict of insanity. Now let the reader's own moral

feelings decide as to whether or not suicide is a criminal act. Think

of the impression that would be made upon you by the news that some

one you know had committed the crime, say, of murder or theft, or been

guilty of some act of cruelty or deception; and compare it with your

feelings when you hear that he has met a voluntary death. While in the

one case a lively sense of indignation and extreme resentment will be

aroused, and you will call loudly for punishment or revenge, in the

other you will be moved to grief and sympathy; and mingled with your

thoughts will be admiration for his courage, rather than the moral

disapproval which follows upon a wicked action. Who has not had

acquaintances, friends, relations, who of their own free will have

left this world; and are these to be thought of with horror as

criminals? Most emphatically, No! I am rather of opinion that the

clergy should be challenged to explain what right they have to go into

the pulpit, or take up their pens, and stamp as a crime an action

which many men whom we hold in affection and honor have committed;

and to refuse an honorable burial to those who relinquish this

world voluntarily. They have no Biblical authority to boast of,

as justifying their condemnation of suicide; nay, not even any

philosophical arguments that will hold water; and it must be

understood that it is arguments we want, and that we will not be put

off with mere phrases or words of abuse. If the criminal law forbids

suicide, that is not an argument valid in the Church; and besides, the

prohibition is ridiculous; for what penalty can frighten a man who is

not afraid of death itself? If the law punishes people for trying

to commit suicide, it is punishing the want of skill that makes the

attempt a failure.



The ancients, moreover, were very far from regarding the matter in

that light. Pliny says: _Life is not so desirable a thing as to be

protracted at any cost. Whoever you are, you are sure to die, even

though your life has been full of abomination and crime. The chief

of all remedies for a troubled mind is the feeling that among the

blessings which Nature gives to man, there is none greater than an

opportune death; and the best of it is that every one can avail

himself of it.[1]_ And elsewhere the same writer declares: _Not even

to God are all things possible; for he could not compass his own

death, if he willed to die, and yet in all the miseries of our earthly

life, this is the best of his gifts to man.[2]_ Nay, in Massilia

and on the isle of Ceos, the man who could give valid reasons

for relinquishing his life, was handed the cup of hemlock by the

magistrate; and that, too, in public.[3] And in ancient times, how

many heroes and wise men died a voluntary death. Aristotle,[4] it is

true, declared suicide to be an offence against the State, although

not against the person; but in Stobaeus' exposition of the Peripatetic

philosophy there is the following remark: _The good man should flee

life when his misfortunes become too great; the bad man, also, when

he is too prosperous_. And similarly: _So he will marry and beget

children and take part in the affairs of the State, and, generally,

practice virtue and continue to live; and then, again, if need be,

and at any time necessity compels him, he will depart to his place of

refuge in the tomb.[5]_ And we find that the Stoics actually praised

suicide as a noble and heroic action, as hundreds of passages show;

above all in the works of Seneca, who expresses the strongest approval

of it. As is well known, the Hindoos look upon suicide as a religious

act, especially when it takes the form of self-immolation by widows;

but also when it consists in casting oneself under the wheels of the

chariot of the god at Juggernaut, or being eaten by crocodiles in the

Ganges, or being drowned in the holy tanks in the temples, and so on.

The same thing occurs on the stage--that mirror of life. For example,

in _L'Orphelin de la Chine_[6] a celebrated Chinese play, almost

all the noble characters end by suicide; without the slightest hint

anywhere, or any impression being produced on the spectator, that

they are committing a crime. And in our own theatre it is much the

same--Palmira, for instance, in _Mahomet_, or Mortimer in _Maria

Stuart_, Othello, Countess Terzky.[7] Is Hamlet's monologue the

meditation of a criminal? He merely declares that if we had any

certainty of being annihilated by it, death would be infinitely

preferable to the world as it is. But _there lies the rub_!



[Footnote 1: Hist. Nat. Lib. xxviii., 1.]



[Footnote 2: Loc. cit. Lib. ii. c. 7.]



[Footnote 3: 3 Valerius Maximus; hist. Lib. ii., c. 6, § 7 et 8.

Heraclides Ponticus; fragmenta de rebus publicis, ix. Aeliani variae

historiae, iii., 37. Strabo; Lib. x., c. 5, 6.]



[Footnote 4: _Eth. Nichom_., v. 15.]



[Footnote 5: Stobaeus. _Ecl. Eth_.. ii., c. 7, pp. 286, 312]



[Footnote 6: Traduit par St. Julien, 1834.]



[Footnote 7: _Translator's Note_.--Palmira: a female slave in Goethe's

play of _Mahomet_. Mortimer: a would-be lover and rescuer of Mary in

Schiller's _Maria Stuart_. Countess Terzky: a leading character in

Schiller's _Wallenstein's Tod_.]



The reasons advanced against suicide by the clergy of monotheistic,

that is to say, Jewish religions, and by those philosophers who adapt

themselves thereto, are weak sophisms which can easily be refuted.[1]

The most thorough-going refutation of them is given by Hume in his

_Essay on Suicide_. This did not appear until after his death, when

it was immediately suppressed, owing to the scandalous bigotry and

outrageous ecclesiastical tyranny that prevailed in England; and hence

only a very few copies of it were sold under cover of secrecy and at a

high price. This and another treatise by that great man have come to

us from Basle, and we may be thankful for the reprint.[2] It is a

great disgrace to the English nation that a purely philosophical

treatise, which, proceeding from one of the first thinkers and writers

in England, aimed at refuting the current arguments against suicide

by the light of cold reason, should be forced to sneak about in that

country, as though it were some rascally production, until at last it

found refuge on the Continent. At the same time it shows what a good

conscience the Church has in such matters.



[Footnote 1: See my treatise on the _Foundation of Morals_, § 5.]



[Footnote 2: _Essays on Suicide_ and the _Immortality of the Soul_, by

the late David Hume, Basle, 1799, sold by James Decker.]



In my chief work I have explained the only valid reason existing

against suicide on the score of mortality. It is this: that suicide

thwarts the attainment of the highest moral aim by the fact that, for

a real release from this world of misery, it substitutes one that is

merely apparent. But from a _mistake_ to a _crime_ is a far cry; and

it is as a crime that the clergy of Christendom wish us to regard

suicide.



The inmost kernel of Christianity is the truth that suffering--_the

Cross_--is the real end and object of life. Hence Christianity

condemns suicide as thwarting this end; whilst the ancient world,

taking a lower point of view, held it in approval, nay, in honor.[1]

But if that is to be accounted a valid reason against suicide, it

involves the recognition of asceticism; that is to say, it is valid

only from a much higher ethical standpoint than has ever been adopted

by moral philosophers in Europe. If we abandon that high standpoint,

there is no tenable reason left, on the score of morality, for

condemning suicide. The extraordinary energy and zeal with which the

clergy of monotheistic religions attack suicide is not supported

either by any passages in the Bible or by any considerations of

weight; so that it looks as though they must have some secret reason

for their contention. May it not be this--that the voluntary surrender

of life is a bad compliment for him who said that _all things were

very good_? If this is so, it offers another instance of the crass

optimism of these religions,--denouncing suicide to escape being

denounced by it.



[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Schopenhauer refers to _Die Welt

als Wille und Vorstellung_, vol. i., § 69, where the reader may find

the same argument stated at somewhat greater length. According to

Schopenhauer, moral freedom--the highest ethical aim--is to be

obtained only by a denial of the will to live. Far from being a

denial, suicide is an emphatic assertion of this will. For it is in

fleeing from the pleasures, not from the sufferings of life, that this

denial consists. When a man destroys his existence as an individual,

he is not by any means destroying his will to live. On the contrary,

he would like to live if he could do so with satisfaction to himself;

if he could assert his will against the power of circumstance; but

circumstance is too strong for him.]



It will generally be found that, as soon as the terrors of life reach

the point at which they outweigh the terrors of death, a man will

put an end to his life. But the terrors of death offer considerable

resistance; they stand like a sentinel at the gate leading out of this

world. Perhaps there is no man alive who would not have already put an

end to his life, if this end had been of a purely negative character,

a sudden stoppage of existence. There is something positive about

it; it is the destruction of the body; and a man shrinks from that,

because his body is the manifestation of the will to live.



However, the struggle with that sentinel is, as a rule, not so hard

as it may seem from a long way off, mainly in consequence of the

antagonism between the ills of the body and the ills of the mind. If

we are in great bodily pain, or the pain lasts a long time, we become

indifferent to other troubles; all we think about is to get well. In

the same way great mental suffering makes us insensible to bodily

pain; we despise it; nay, if it should outweigh the other, it

distracts our thoughts, and we welcome it as a pause in mental

suffering. It is this feeling that makes suicide easy; for the bodily

pain that accompanies it loses all significance in the eyes of one

who is tortured by an excess of mental suffering. This is especially

evident in the case of those who are driven to suicide by some purely

morbid and exaggerated ill-humor. No special effort to overcome their

feelings is necessary, nor do such people require to be worked up in

order to take the step; but as soon as the keeper into whose charge

they are given leaves them for a couple of minutes, they quickly bring

their life to an end.



When, in some dreadful and ghastly dream, we reach the moment of

greatest horror, it awakes us; thereby banishing all the hideous

shapes that were born of the night. And life is a dream: when the

moment of greatest horror compels us to break it off, the same thing

happens.



Suicide may also be regarded as an experiment--a question which man

puts to Nature, trying to force her to an answer. The question is

this: What change will death produce in a man's existence and in his

insight into the nature of things? It is a clumsy experiment to make;

for it involves the destruction of the very consciousness which puts

the question and awaits the answer.









IMMORTALITY:[1] A DIALOGUE.



[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--The word

immortality--_Unsterblichkeit_--does not occur in the original; nor

would it, in its usual application, find a place in Schopenhauer's

vocabulary. The word he uses is _Unzerstörbarkeit--indestructibility_.

But I have preferred _immortality_, because that word is commonly

associated with the subject touched upon in this little debate. If any

critic doubts the wisdom of this preference, let me ask him to try

his hand at a short, concise, and, at the same time, popularly

intelligible rendering of the German original, which runs thus: _Zur

Lehre von der Unzerstörbarkeit unseres wahren Wesens durch den Tod:

Meine dialogische Schlussbelustigung_.]





THRASYMACHOS--PHILALETHES.



_Thrasymachos_. Tell me now, in one word, what shall I be after my

death? And mind you be clear and precise.



_Philalethes_. All and nothing!



_Thrasymachos_. I thought so! I gave you a problem, and you solve it

by a contradiction. That's a very stale trick.



_Philalethes_. Yes, but you raise transcendental questions, and you

expect me to answer them in language that is only made for immanent

knowledge. It's no wonder that a contradiction ensues.



_Thrasymachos_. What do you mean by transcendental questions and

immanent knowledge? I've heard these expressions before, of course;

they are not new to me. The Professor was fond of using them, but only

as predicates of the Deity, and he never talked of anything else;

which was all quite right and proper. He argued thus: if the Deity was

in the world itself, he was immanent; if he was somewhere outside it,

he was transcendent. Nothing could be clearer and more obvious! You

knew where you were. But this Kantian rigmarole won't do any more:

it's antiquated and no longer applicable to modern ideas. Why, we've

had a whole row of eminent men in the metropolis of German learning--



_Philalethes_. (Aside.) German humbug, he means.



_Thrasymachos_. The mighty Schleiermacher, for instance, and that

gigantic intellect, Hegel; and at this time of day we've abandoned

that nonsense. I should rather say we're so far beyond it that we

can't put up with it any more. What's the use of it then? What does it

all mean?



_Philalethes_. Transcendental knowledge is knowledge which passes

beyond the bounds of possible experience, and strives to determine the

nature of things as they are in themselves. Immanent knowledge, on the

other hand, is knowledge which confines itself entirely with those

bounds; so that it cannot apply to anything but actual phenomena. As

far as you are an individual, death will be the end of you. But your

individuality is not your true and inmost being: it is only the

outward manifestation of it. It is not the _thing-in-itself_, but only

the phenomenon presented in the form of time; and therefore with a

beginning and an end. But your real being knows neither time, nor

beginning, nor end, nor yet the limits of any given individual. It is

everywhere present in every individual; and no individual can

exist apart from it. So when death comes, on the one hand you are

annihilated as an individual; on the other, you are and remain

everything. That is what I meant when I said that after your death

you would be all and nothing. It is difficult to find a more precise

answer to your question and at the same time be brief. The answer is

contradictory, I admit; but it is so simply because your life is in

time, and the immortal part of you in eternity. You may put the matter

thus: Your immortal part is something that does not last in time and

yet is indestructible; but there you have another contradiction! You

see what happens by trying to bring the transcendental within the

limits of immanent knowledge. It is in some sort doing violence to the

latter by misusing it for ends it was never meant to serve.



_Thrasymachos_. Look here, I shan't give twopence for your immortality

unless I'm to remain an individual.



_Philalethes_. Well, perhaps I may be able to satisfy you on this

point. Suppose I guarantee that after death you shall remain an

individual, but only on condition that you first spend three months of

complete unconsciousness.



_Thrasymachos_. I shall have no objection to that.



_Philalethes_. But remember, if people are completely unconscious,

they take no account of time. So, when you are dead, it's all the same

to you whether three months pass in the world of consciousness, or ten

thousand years. In the one case as in the other, it is simply a matter

of believing what is told you when you awake. So far, then, you can

afford to be indifferent whether it is three months or ten thousand

years that pass before you recover your individuality.



_Thrasymachos_. Yes, if it comes to that, I suppose you're right.



_Philalethes_. And if by chance, after those ten thousand years have

gone by, no one ever thinks of awakening you, I fancy it would be

no great misfortune. You would have become quite accustomed to

non-existence after so long a spell of it--following upon such a very

few years of life. At any rate you may be sure you would be perfectly

ignorant of the whole thing. Further, if you knew that the mysterious

power which keeps you in your present state of life had never once

ceased in those ten thousand years to bring forth other phenomena like

yourself, and to endow them with life, it would fully console you.



_Thrasymachos_. Indeed! So you think you're quietly going to do me

out of my individuality with all this fine talk. But I'm up to your

tricks. I tell you I won't exist unless I can have my individuality.

I'm not going to be put off with 'mysterious powers,' and what you

call 'phenomena.' I can't do without my individuality, and I won't

give it up.



_Philalethes_. You mean, I suppose, that your individuality is such a

delightful thing, so splendid, so perfect, and beyond compare--that

you can't imagine anything better. Aren't you ready to exchange your

present state for one which, if we can judge by what is told us, may

possibly be superior and more endurable?



_Thrasymachos_. Don't you see that my individuality, be it what it

may, is my very self? To me it is the most important thing in the

world.



  _For God is God and I am I_.



_I_ want to exist, _I, I_. That's the main thing. I don't care about

an existence which has to be proved to be mine, before I can believe

it.



_Philalethes_. Think what you're doing! When you say _I, I, I_ want

to exist, it is not you alone that says this. Everything says it,

absolutely everything that has the faintest trace of consciousness. It

follows, then, that this desire of yours is just the part of you that

is _not individual_--the part that is common to all things without

distinction. It is the cry, not of the individual, but of existence

itself; it is the intrinsic element in everything that exists, nay, it

is the cause of anything existing at all. This desire craves for, and

so is satisfied with, nothing less than existence in general--not any

definite individual existence. No! that is not its aim. It seems to be

so only because this desire--this _Will_--attains consciousness only

in the individual, and therefore looks as though it were concerned

with nothing but the individual. There lies the illusion--an illusion,

it is true, in which the individual is held fast: but, if he reflects,

he can break the fetters and set himself free. It is only indirectly,

I say, that the individual has this violent craving for existence. It

is _the Will to Live_ which is the real and direct aspirant--alike and

identical in all things. Since, then, existence is the free work, nay,

the mere reflection of the will, where existence is, there, too,

must be will; and for the moment the will finds its satisfaction in

existence itself; so far, I mean, as that which never rests, but

presses forward eternally, can ever find any satisfaction at all.

The will is careless of the individual: the individual is not its

business; although, as I have said, this seems to be the case, because

the individual has no direct consciousness of will except in himself.

The effect of this is to make the individual careful to maintain his

own existence; and if this were not so, there would be no surety

for the preservation of the species. From all this it is clear that

individuality is not a form of perfection, but rather of limitation;

and so to be freed from it is not loss but gain. Trouble yourself no

more about the matter. Once thoroughly recognize what you are, what

your existence really is, namely, the universal will to live, and the

whole question will seem to you childish, and most ridiculous!



_Thrasymachos_. You're childish yourself and most ridiculous, like

all philosophers! and if a man of my age lets himself in for a

quarter-of-an-hour's talk with such fools, it is only because it

amuses me and passes the time. I've more important business to attend

to, so Good-bye.









FURTHER PSYCHOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.





There is an unconscious propriety in the way in which, in all European

languages, the word _person_ is commonly used to denote a human

being. The real meaning of _persona_ is _a mask_, such as actors were

accustomed to wear on the ancient stage; and it is quite true that no

one shows himself as he is, but wears his mask and plays his part.

Indeed, the whole of our social arrangements may be likened to a

perpetual comedy; and this is why a man who is worth anything finds

society so insipid, while a blockhead is quite at home in it.



       *       *       *       *       *



Reason deserves to be called a prophet; for in showing us the

consequence and effect of our actions in the present, does it not tell

us what the future will be? This is precisely why reason is such an

excellent power of restraint in moments when we are possessed by some

base passion, some fit of anger, some covetous desire, that will lead

us to do things whereof we must presently repent.



       *       *       *       *       *



_Hatred_ comes from the heart; _contempt_ from the head; and neither

feeling is quite within our control. For we cannot alter our heart;

its basis is determined by motives; and our head deals with objective

facts, and applies to them rules which are immutable. Any given

individual is the union of a particular heart with a particular head.



Hatred and contempt are diametrically opposed and mutually exclusive.

There are even not a few cases where hatred of a person is rooted in

nothing but forced esteem for his qualities. And besides, if a man

sets out to hate all the miserable creatures he meets, he will not

have much energy left for anything else; whereas he can despise them,

one and all, with the greatest ease. True, genuine contempt is just

the reverse of true, genuine pride; it keeps quite quiet and gives no

sign of its existence. For if a man shows that he despises you, he

signifies at least this much regard for you, that he wants to let

you know how little he appreciates you; and his wish is dictated by

hatred, which cannot exist with real contempt. On the contrary, if it

is genuine, it is simply the conviction that the object of it is a man

of no value at all. Contempt is not incompatible with indulgent and

kindly treatment, and for the sake of one's own peace and safety, this

should not be omitted; it will prevent irritation; and there is no

one who cannot do harm if he is roused to it. But if this pure, cold,

sincere contempt ever shows itself, it will be met with the most

truculent hatred; for the despised person is not in a position to

fight contempt with its own weapons.



       *       *       *       *       *



Melancholy is a very different thing from bad humor, and of the two,

it is not nearly so far removed from a gay and happy temperament.

Melancholy attracts, while bad humor repels.



Hypochondria is a species of torment which not only makes us

unreasonably cross with the things of the present; not only fills us

with groundless anxiety on the score of future misfortunes entirely

of our own manufacture; but also leads to unmerited self-reproach for

what we have done in the past.



Hypochondria shows itself in a perpetual hunting after things that vex

and annoy, and then brooding over them. The cause of it is an inward

morbid discontent, often co-existing with a naturally restless

temperament. In their extreme form, this discontent and this unrest

lead to suicide.



       *       *       *       *       *



Any incident, however trivial, that rouses disagreeable emotion,

leaves an after-effect in our mind, which for the time it lasts,

prevents our taking a clear objective view of the things about us, and

tinges all our thoughts: just as a small object held close to the eye

limits and distorts our field of vision.



       *       *       *       *       *



What makes people _hard-hearted_ is this, that each man has, or

fancies he has, as much as he can bear in his own troubles. Hence, if

a man suddenly finds himself in an unusually happy position, it will

in most cases result in his being sympathetic and kind. But if he has

never been in any other than a happy position, or this becomes his

permanent state, the effect of it is often just the contrary: it so

far removes him from suffering that he is incapable of feeling any

more sympathy with it. So it is that the poor often show themselves

more ready to help than the rich.



       *       *       *       *       *



At times it seems as though we both wanted and did not want the same

thing, and felt at once glad and sorry about it. For instance, if

on some fixed date we are going to be put to a decisive test about

anything in which it would be a great advantage to us to come off

victorious, we shall be anxious for it to take place at once, and at

the same time we shall tremble at the thought of its approach. And if,

in the meantime, we hear that, for once in a way, the date has been

postponed, we shall experience a feeling both of pleasure and of

annoyance; for the news is disappointing, but nevertheless it affords

us momentary relief. It is just the same thing if we are expecting

some important letter carrying a definite decision, and it fails to

arrive.



In such cases there are really two different motives at work in us;

the stronger but more distant of the two being the desire to stand

the test and to have the decision given in our favor; and the weaker,

which touches us more nearly, the wish to be left for the present in

peace and quiet, and accordingly in further enjoyment of the advantage

which at any rate attaches to a state of hopeful uncertainty, compared

with the possibility that the issue may be unfavorable.



       *       *       *       *       *



In my head there is a permanent opposition-party; and whenever I take

any step or come to any decision--though I may have given the matter

mature consideration--it afterwards attacks what I have done, without,

however, being each time necessarily in the right. This is, I suppose,

only a form of rectification on the part of the spirit of scrutiny;

but it often reproaches me when I do not deserve it. The same thing,

no doubt, happens to many others as well; for where is the man who

can help thinking that, after all, it were better not to have done

something that he did with great deliberation:



  _Quid tam dextro pede concipis ut te

  Conatus non poeniteat votique peracti_?



       *       *       *       *       *



Why is it that _common_ is an expression of contempt? and that

_uncommon, extraordinary, distinguished_, denote approbation? Why is

everything that is common contemptible?



_Common_ in its original meaning denotes that which is peculiar to all

men, _i.e_., shared equally by the whole species, and therefore an

inherent part of its nature. Accordingly, if an individual possesses

no qualities beyond those which attach to mankind in general, he is

a _common man. Ordinary_ is a much milder word, and refers rather

to intellectual character; whereas _common_ has more of a moral

application.



What value can a creature have that is not a whit different from

millions of its kind? Millions, do I say? nay, an infiniture of

creatures which, century after century, in never-ending flow, Nature

sends bubbling up from her inexhaustible springs; as generous with

them as the smith with the useless sparks that fly around his anvil.



It is obviously quite right that a creature which has no qualities

except those of the species, should have to confine its claim to an

existence entirely within the limits of the species, and live a life

conditioned by those limits.



In various passages of my works,[1] I have argued that whilst a lower

animal possesses nothing more than the generic character of its

species, man is the only being which can lay claim to possess an

individual character. But in most men this individual character comes

to very little in reality; and they may be almost all ranged under

certain classes: _ce sont des espèces_. Their thoughts and desires,

like their faces, are those of the species, or, at any rate, those

of the class to which they belong; and accordingly, they are of a

trivial, every-day, common character, and exist by the thousand. You

can usually tell beforehand what they are likely to do and say. They

have no special stamp or mark to distinguish them; they are like

manufactured goods, all of a piece.



[Footnote 1: _Grundprobleme der Ethik_, p. 48; _Welt als Wille und

Vorstellung_, vol. i. p. 338.]



If, then, their nature is merged in that of the species, how shall

their existence go beyond it? The curse of vulgarity puts men on a par

with the lower animals, by allowing them none but a generic nature, a

generic form of existence. Anything that is high or great or noble,

must then, as a mater of course, and by its very nature, stand alone

in a world where no better expression can be found to denote what is

base and contemptible than that which I have mentioned as in general

use, namely, _common_.



       *       *       *       *       *



Will, as the _thing-in-itself_, is the foundation of all being; it

is part and parcel of every creature, and the permanent element in

everything. Will, then, is that which we possess in common with all

men, nay, with all animals, and even with lower forms of existence;

and in so far we are akin to everything--so far, that is, as

everything is filled to overflowing with will. On the other hand, that

which places one being over another, and sets differences between man

and man, is intellect and knowledge; therefore in every manifestation

of self we should, as far as possible, give play to the intellect

alone; for, as we have seen, the will is the _common_ part of us.

Every violent exhibition of will is common and vulgar; in other words,

it reduces us to the level of the species, and makes us a mere type

and example of it; in that it is just the character of the

species that we are showing. So every fit of anger is something

_common_--every unrestrained display of joy, or of hate, or fear--in

short, every form of emotion; in other words, every movement of the

will, if it's so strong as decidedly to outweigh the intellectual

element in consciousness, and to make the man appear as a being that

_wills_ rather than _knows_.



In giving way to emotion of this violent kind, the greatest genius

puts himself on a level with the commonest son of earth. Contrarily,

if a man desires to be absolutely uncommon, in other words, great, he

should never allow his consciousness to be taken possession of

and dominated by the movement of his will, however much he may be

solicited thereto. For example, he must be able to observe that other

people are badly disposed towards him, without feeling any hatred

towards them himself; nay, there is no surer sign of a great mind than

that it refuses to notice annoying and insulting expressions, but

straightway ascribes them, as it ascribes countless other mistakes, to

the defective knowledge of the speaker, and so merely observes without

feeling them. This is the meaning of that remark of Gracian, that

nothing is more unworthy of a man than to let it be seen that he is

one--_el mayor desdoro de un hombre es dar muestras de que es hombre_.



And even in the drama, which is the peculiar province of the passions

and emotions, it is easy for them to appear common and vulgar. And

this is specially observable in the works of the French tragic

writers, who set no other aim before themselves but the delineation

of the passions; and by indulging at one moment in a vaporous kind

of pathos which makes them ridiculous, at another in epigrammatic

witticisms, endeavor to conceal the vulgarity of their subject. I

remember seeing the celebrated Mademoiselle Rachel as Maria Stuart:

and when she burst out in fury against Elizabeth--though she did it

very well--I could not help thinking of a washerwoman. She played

the final parting in such a way as to deprive it of all true tragic

feeling, of which, indeed, the French have no notion at all. The same

part was incomparably better played by the Italian Ristori; and, in

fact, the Italian nature, though in many respects very different from

the German, shares its appreciation for what is deep, serious, and

true in Art; herein opposed to the French, which everywhere betrays

that it possesses none of this feeling whatever.



The noble, in other words, the uncommon, element in the drama--nay,

what is sublime in it--is not reached until the intellect is set to

work, as opposed to the will; until it takes a free flight over all

those passionate movements of the will, and makes them subject of its

contemplation. Shakespeare, in particular, shows that this is his

general method, more especially in Hamlet. And only when intellect

rises to the point where the vanity of all effort is manifest, and the

will proceeds to an act of self-annulment, is the drama tragic in the

true sense of the word; it is then that it reaches its highest aim in

becoming really sublime.



       *       *       *       *       *



Every man takes the limits of his own field of vision for the limits

of the world. This is an error of the intellect as inevitable as that

error of the eye which lets us fancy that on the horizon heaven and

earth meet. This explains many things, and among them the fact that

everyone measures us with his own standard--generally about as long as

a tailor's tape, and we have to put up with it: as also that no one

will allow us to be taller than himself--a supposition which is once

for all taken for granted.



       *       *       *       *       *



There is no doubt that many a man owes his good fortune in life solely

to the circumstance that he has a pleasant way of smiling, and so wins

the heart in his favor.



However, the heart would do better to be careful, and to remember what

Hamlet put down in his tablets--_that one may smile, and smile, and be

a villain_.



       *       *       *       *       *



Everything that is really fundamental in a man, and therefore genuine

works, as such, unconsciously; in this respect like the power of

nature. That which has passed through the domain of consciousness is

thereby transformed into an idea or picture; and so if it comes to be

uttered, it is only an idea or picture which passes from one person to

another.



Accordingly, any quality of mind or character that is genuine and

lasting, is originally unconscious; and it is only when unconsciously

brought into play that it makes a profound impression. If any like

quality is consciously exercised, it means that it has been worked up;

it becomes intentional, and therefore matter of affectation, in other

words, of deception.



If a man does a thing unconsciously, it costs him no trouble; but if

he tries to do it by taking trouble, he fails. This applies to the

origin of those fundamental ideas which form the pith and marrow of

all genuine work. Only that which is innate is genuine and will hold

water; and every man who wants to achieve something, whether in

practical life, in literature, or in art, must _follow the rules

without knowing them_.



       *       *       *       *       *



Men of very great capacity, will as a rule, find the company of very

stupid people preferable to that of the common run; for the same

reason that the tyrant and the mob, the grandfather and the

grandchildren, are natural allies.



       *       *       *       *       *



That line of Ovid's,



  _Pronaque cum spectent animalia cetera terram_,



can be applied in its true physical sense to the lower animals alone;

but in a metaphorical and spiritual sense it is, alas! true of nearly

all men as well. All their plans and projects are merged in the desire

of physical enjoyment, physical well-being. They may, indeed, have

personal interests, often embracing a very varied sphere; but still

these latter receive their importance entirely from the relation in

which they stand to the former. This is not only proved by their

manner of life and the things they say, but it even shows itself in

the way they look, the expression of their physiognomy, their gait and

gesticulations. Everything about them cries out; _in terram prona_!



It is not to them, it is only to the nobler and more highly endowed

natures--men who really think and look about them in the world, and

form exceptional specimens of humanity--that the next lines are

applicable;



  _Os homini sublime dedit coelumque tueri

  Jussit et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus_.



       *       *       *       *       *



No one knows what capacities for doing and suffering he has in

himself, until something comes to rouse them to activity: just as in

a pond of still water, lying there like a mirror, there is no sign of

the roar and thunder with which it can leap from the precipice, and

yet remain what it is; or again, rise high in the air as a fountain.

When water is as cold as ice, you can have no idea of the latent

warmth contained in it.



       *       *       *       *       *



Why is it that, in spite of all the mirrors in the world, no one

really knows what he looks like?



A man may call to mind the face of his friend, but not his own. Here,

then, is an initial difficulty in the way of applying the maxim, _Know

thyself_.



This is partly, no doubt, to be explained by the fact that it is

physically impossible for a man to see himself in the glass except

with face turned straight towards it and perfectly motionless; where

the expression of the eye, which counts for so much, and really gives

its whole character to the face, is to a great extent lost. But

co-existing with this physical impossibility, there seems to me to be

an ethical impossibility of an analogous nature, and producing the

same effect. A man cannot look upon his own reflection as though the

person presented there were _a stranger_ to him; and yet this is

necessary if he is to take _an objective view_. In the last resort,

an objective view means a deep-rooted feeling on the part of the

individual, as a moral being, that that which he is contemplating is

_not himself_[1]; and unless he can take this point of view, he will

not see things in a really true light, which is possible only if he is

alive to their actual defects, exactly as they are. Instead of that,

when a man sees himself in the glass, something out of his own

egotistic nature whispers to him to take care to remember that _it is

no stranger, but himself, that he is looking at_; and this operates as

a _noli me tang ere_, and prevents him taking an objective view. It

seems, indeed, as if, without the leaven of a grain of malice, such a

view were impossible.



[Footnote 1: Cf. _Grundprobleme der Ethik_, p. 275.]



       *       *       *       *       *



According as a man's mental energy is exerted or relaxed, will life

appear to him either so short, and petty, and fleeting, that nothing

can possibly happen over which it is worth his while to spend emotion;

that nothing really matters, whether it is pleasure or riches, or even

fame, and that in whatever way a man may have failed, he cannot

have lost much--or, on the other hand, life will seem so long, so

important, so all in all, so momentous and so full of difficulty that

we have to plunge into it with our whole soul if we are to obtain a

share of its goods, make sure of its prizes, and carry out our plans.

This latter is the immanent and common view of life; it is what

Gracian means when he speaks of the serious way of looking

at things--_tomar muy de veras el vivir_. The former is the

transcendental view, which is well expressed in Ovid's _non est

tanti_--it is not worth so much trouble; still better, however, by

Plato's remark that nothing in human affairs is worth any great

anxiety--[Greek: oute ti ton anthropinon axion esti megalaes

spoudaes.] This condition of mind is due to the intellect having got

the upper hand in the domain of consciousness, where, freed from

the mere service of the will, it looks upon the phenomena of life

objectively, and so cannot fail to gain a clear insight into its

vain and futile character. But in the other condition of mind, will

predominates; and the intellect exists only to light it on its way to

the attainment of its desires.



A man is great or small according as he leans to the one or the other

of these views of life.



       *       *       *       *       *



People of very brilliant ability think little of admitting their

errors and weaknesses, or of letting others see them. They look upon

them as something for which they have duly paid; and instead of

fancying that these weaknesses are a disgrace to them, they consider

they are doing them an honor. This is especially the case when

the errors are of the kind that hang together with their

qualities--_conditiones sine quibus non_--or, as George Sand said,

_les défauts de ses vertus_.



Contrarily, there are people of good character and irreproachable

intellectual capacity, who, far from admitting the few little

weaknesses they have, conceal them with care, and show themselves very

sensitive to any suggestion of their existence; and this, just because

their whole merit consists in being free from error and infirmity. If

these people are found to have done anything wrong, their reputation

immediately suffers.



       *       *       *       *       *



With people of only moderate ability, modesty is mere honesty; but

with those who possess great talent, it is hypocrisy. Hence, it is

just as becoming in the latter to make no secret of the respect they

bear themselves and no disguise of the fact that they are conscious of

unusual power, as it is in the former to be modest. Valerius

Maximus gives some very neat examples of this in his chapter on

self-confidence, _de fiducia sui_.



       *       *       *       *       *



Not to go to the theatre is like making one's toilet without a mirror.

But it is still worse to take a decision without consulting a friend.

For a man may have the most excellent judgment in all other matters,

and yet go wrong in those which concern himself; because here the will

comes in and deranges the intellect at once. Therefore let a man take

counsel of a friend. A doctor can cure everyone but himself; if he

falls ill, he sends for a colleague.



       *       *       *       *       *



In all that we do, we wish, more or less, to come to the end; we are

impatient to finish and glad to be done. But the last scene of all,

the general end, is something that, as a rule, we wish as far off as

may be.



       *       *       *       *       *



Every parting gives a foretaste of death; every coming together again

a foretaste of the resurrection. This is why even people who were

indifferent to each other, rejoice so much if they come together again

after twenty or thirty years' separation.



       *       *       *       *       *



Intellects differ from one another in a very real and fundamental way:

but no comparison can well be made by merely general observations. It

is necessary to come close, and to go into details; for the difference

that exists cannot be seen from afar; and it is not easy to judge by

outward appearances, as in the several cases of education, leisure and

occupation. But even judging by these alone, it must be admitted that

many a man has _a degree of existence_ at least ten times as high as

another--in other words, exists ten times as much.



I am not speaking here of savages whose life is often only one degree

above that of the apes in their woods. Consider, for instance, a

porter in Naples or Venice (in the north of Europe solicitude for the

winter months makes people more thoughtful and therefore reflective);

look at the life he leads, from its beginning to its end:--driven by

poverty; living on his physical strength; meeting the needs of every

day, nay, of every hour, by hard work, great effort, constant tumult,

want in all its forms, no care for the morrow; his only comfort

rest after exhaustion; continuous quarreling; not a moment free for

reflection; such sensual delights as a mild climate and only just

sufficient food will permit of; and then, finally, as the metaphysical

element, the crass superstition of his church; the whole forming a

manner of life with only a low degree of consciousness, where a man

hustles, or rather is hustled, through his existence. This restless

and confused dream forms the life of how many millions!



Such men _think_ only just so much as is necessary to carry out their

will for the moment. They never reflect upon their life as a connected

whole, let alone, then, upon existence in general; to a certain extent

they may be said to exist without really knowing it. The existence of

the mobsman or the slave who lives on in this unthinking way, stands

very much nearer than ours to that of the brute, which is confined

entirely to the present moment; but, for that very reason, it has also

less of pain in it than ours. Nay, since all pleasure is in its nature

negative, that is to say, consists in freedom from some form of misery

or need, the constant and rapid interchange between setting about

something and getting it done, which is the permanent accompaniment of

the work they do, and then again the augmented form which this

takes when they go from work to rest and the satisfaction of their

needs--all this gives them a constant source of enjoyment; and the

fact that it is much commoner to see happy faces amongst the poor than

amongst the rich, is a sure proof that it is used to good advantage.



Passing from this kind of man, consider, next, the sober, sensible

merchant, who leads a life of speculation, thinks long over his plans

and carries them out with great care, founds a house, and provides for

his wife, his children and descendants; takes his share, too, in the

life of a community. It is obvious that a man like this has a much

higher degree of consciousness than the former, and so his existence

has a higher degree of reality.



Then look at the man of learning, who investigates, it may be, the

history of the past. He will have reached the point at which a man

becomes conscious of existence as a whole, sees beyond the period of

his own life, beyond his own personal interests, thinking over the

whole course of the world's history.



Then, finally, look at the poet or the philosopher, in whom reflection

has reached such a height, that, instead of being drawn on to

investigate any one particular phenomenon of existence, he stands in

amazement _before existence itself_, this great sphinx, and makes it

his problem. In him consciousness has reached the degree of clearness

at which it embraces the world itself: his intellect has completely

abandoned its function as the servant of his will, and now holds the

world before him; and the world calls upon him much more to examine

and consider it, than to play a part in it himself. If, then, the

degree of consciousness is the degree of reality, such a man will be

said to exist most of all, and there will be sense and significance in

so describing him.



Between the two extremes here sketched, and the intervening stages,

everyone will be able to find the place at which he himself stands.



       *       *       *       *       *



We know that man is in general superior to all other animals, and this

is also the case in his capacity for being trained. Mohammedans are

trained to pray with their faces turned towards Mecca, five times a

day; and they never fail to do it. Christians are trained to cross

themselves on certain occasions, to bow, and so on. Indeed, it may

be said that religion is the _chef d'oeuvre_ of the art of training,

because it trains people in the way they shall think: and, as is well

known, you cannot begin the process too early. There is no absurdity

so palpable but that it may be firmly planted in the human head if

you only begin to inculcate it before the age of five, by constantly

repeating it with an air of great solemnity. For as in the case of

animals, so in that of men, training is successful only when you begin

in early youth.



Noblemen and gentlemen are trained to hold nothing sacred but their

word of honor--to maintain a zealous, rigid, and unshaken belief in

the ridiculous code of chivalry; and if they are called upon to do so,

to seal their belief by dying for it, and seriously to regard a king

as a being of a higher order.



Again, our expressions of politeness, the compliments we make, in

particular, the respectful attentions we pay to ladies, are a matter

of training; as also our esteem for good birth, rank, titles, and so

on. Of the same character is the resentment we feel at any insult

directed against us; and the measure of this resentment may be exactly

determined by the nature of the insult. An Englishman, for instance,

thinks it a deadly insult to be told that he is no gentleman, or,

still worse, that he is a liar; a Frenchman has the same feeling if

you call him a coward, and a German if you say he is stupid.



There are many persons who are trained to be strictly honorable in

regard to one particular matter, while they have little honor to boast

of in anything else. Many a man, for instance, will not steal your

money; but he will lay hands on everything of yours that he can enjoy

without having to pay for it. A man of business will often deceive you

without the slightest scruple, but he will absolutely refuse to commit

a theft.



Imagination is strong in a man when that particular function of the

brain which enables him to observe is roused to activity without

any necessary excitement of the senses. Accordingly, we find that

imagination is active just in proportion as our senses are not excited

by external objects. A long period of solitude, whether in prison or

in a sick room; quiet, twilight, darkness--these are the things that

promote its activity; and under their influence it comes into play of

itself. On the other hand, when a great deal of material is presented

to our faculties of observation, as happens on a journey, or in

the hurly-burly of the world, or, again, in broad daylight, the

imagination is idle, and, even though call may be made upon it,

refuses to become active, as though it understood that that was not

its proper time.



However, if the imagination is to yield any real product, it must have

received a great deal of material from the external world. This is

the only way in which its storehouse can be filled. The phantasy is

nourished much in the same way as the body, which is least capable

of any work and enjoys doing nothing just in the very moment when it

receives its food which it has to digest. And yet it is to this very

food that it owes the power which it afterwards puts forth at the

right time.



       *       *       *       *       *



Opinion is like a pendulum and obeys the same law. If it goes past

the centre of gravity on one side, it must go a like distance on the

other; and it is only after a certain time that it finds the true

point at which it can remain at rest.



       *       *       *       *       *



By a process of contradiction, distance in space makes things look

small, and therefore free from defect. This is why a landscape looks

so much better in a contracting mirror or in a _camera obscura_, than

it is in reality. The same effect is produced by distance in time. The

scenes and events of long ago, and the persons who took part in them,

wear a charming aspect to the eye of memory, which sees only the

outlines and takes no note of disagreeable details. The present enjoys

no such advantage, and so it always seems defective.



And again, as regards space, small objects close to us look big, and

if they are very close, we may be able to see nothing else, but when

we go a little way off, they become minute and invisible. It is the

same again as regards time. The little incidents and accidents of

every day fill us with emotion, anxiety, annoyance, passion, as long

as they are close to us, when they appear so big, so important, so

serious; but as soon as they are borne down the restless stream of

time, they lose what significance they had; we think no more of them

and soon forget them altogether. They were big only because they were

near.



       *       *       *       *       *



_Joy_ and _sorrow_ are not ideas of the mind, but affections of the

will, and so they do not lie in the domain of memory. We cannot recall

our joys and sorrows; by which I mean that we cannot renew them. We

can recall only the _ideas_ that accompanied them; and, in particular,

the things we were led to say; and these form a gauge of our feelings

at the time. Hence our memory of joys and sorrows is always imperfect,

and they become a matter of indifference to us as soon as they are

over. This explains the vanity of the attempt, which we sometimes

make, to revive the pleasures and the pains of the past. Pleasure and

pain are essentially an affair of the will; and the will, as such, is

not possessed of memory, which is a function of the intellect; and

this in its turn gives out and takes in nothing but thoughts and

ideas, which are not here in question.



It is a curious fact that in bad days we can very vividly recall the

good time that is now no more; but that in good days, we have only a

very cold and imperfect memory of the bad.



       *       *       *       *       *



We have a much better memory of actual objects or pictures than

for mere ideas. Hence a good imagination makes it easier to learn

languages; for by its aid, the new word is at once united with the

actual object to which it refers; whereas, if there is no imagination,

it is simply put on a parallel with the equivalent word in the mother

tongue.



Mnemonics should not only mean the art of keeping something indirectly

in the memory by the use of some direct pun or witticism; it should,

rather, be applied to a systematic theory of memory, and explain its

several attributes by reference both to its real nature, and to the

relation in which these attributes stand to one another.



       *       *       *       *       *



There are moments in life when our senses obtain a higher and rarer

degree of clearness, apart from any particular occasion for it in the

nature of our surroundings; and explicable, rather, on physiological

grounds alone, as the result of some enhanced state of susceptibility,

working from within outwards. Such moments remain indelibly impressed

upon the memory, and preserve themselves in their individuality

entire. We can assign no reason for it, nor explain why this among so

many thousand moments like it should be specially remembered. It seems

as much a matter of chance as when single specimens of a whole race of

animals now extinct are discovered in the layers of a rock; or when,

on opening a book, we light upon an insect accidentally crushed within

the leaves. Memories of this kind are always sweet and pleasant.



       *       *       *       *       *



It occasionally happens that, for no particular reason, long-forgotten

scenes suddenly start up in the memory. This may in many cases be due

to the action of some hardly perceptible odor, which accompanied those

scenes and now recurs exactly same as before. For it is well known

that the sense of smell is specially effective in awakening memories,

and that in general it does not require much to rouse a train of

ideas. And I may say, in passing, that the sense of sight is connected

with the understanding,[1] the sense of hearing with the reason,[2]

and, as we see in the present case, the sense of smell with the

memory. Touch and Taste are more material and dependent upon contact.

They have no ideal side.



[Footnote 1:_Wierfache Wurzel_ § 21.]



[Footnote 2: _Parerga_ vol. ii, § 311.]



       *       *       *       *       *



It must also be reckoned among the peculiar attributes of memory

that a slight state of intoxication often so greatly enhances the

recollection of past times and scenes, that all the circumstances

connected with them come back much more clearly than would be possible

in a state of sobriety; but that, on the other hand, the recollection

of what one said or did while the intoxication lasted, is more than

usually imperfect; nay, that if one has been absolutely tipsy, it is

gone altogether. We may say, then, that whilst intoxication enhances

the memory for what is past, it allows it to remember little of the

present.



       *       *       *       *       *



Men need some kind of external activity, because they are inactive

within. Contrarily, if they are active within, they do not care to be

dragged out of themselves; it disturbs and impedes their thoughts in a

way that is often most ruinous to them.



       *       *       *       *       *



I am not surprised that some people are bored when they find

themselves alone; for they cannot laugh if they are quite by

themselves. The very idea of it seems folly to them.



Are we, then, to look upon laughter as merely O signal for others--a

mere sign, like a word? What makes it impossible for people to laugh

when they are alone is nothing but want of imagination, dullness of

mind generally--[Greek: anaisthaesia kai bradutaes psuchaes], as

Theophrastus has it.[1] The lower animals never laugh, either alone

or in company. Myson, the misanthropist, was once surprised by one of

these people as he was laughing to himself. _Why do you laugh_? he

asked; _there is no one with you. That is just why I am laughing_,

said Myson.



[Footnote 1: _Characters_, c. 27.]



       *       *       *       *       *



Natural _gesticulation_, such as commonly accompanies any lively talk,

is a language of its own, more widespread, even, than the language of

words--so far, I mean, as it is independent of words and alike in all

nations. It is true that nations make use of it in proportion as they

are vivacious, and that in particular cases, amongst the Italians, for

instance, it is supplemented by certain peculiar gestures which are

merely conventional, and therefore possessed of nothing more than a

local value.



In the universal use made of it, gesticulation has some analogy with

logic and grammar, in that it has to do with the form, rather

than with the matter of conversation; but on the other hand it is

distinguishable from them by the fact that it has more of a moral than

of an intellectual bearing; in other words, it reflects the movements

of the will. As an accompaniment of conversation it is like the bass

of a melody; and if, as in music, it keeps true to the progress of the

treble, it serves to heighten the effect.



In a conversation, the gesture depends upon the form in which the

subject-matter is conveyed; and it is interesting to observe that,

whatever that subject-matter may be, with a recurrence of the form,

the very same gesture is repeated. So if I happen to see--from my

window, say--two persons carrying on a lively conversation, without

my being able to catch a word, I can, nevertheless, understand the

general nature of it perfectly well; I mean, the kind of thing that is

being said and the form it takes. There is no mistake about it. The

speaker is arguing about something, advancing his reasons, then

limiting their application, then driving them home and drawing the

conclusion in triumph; or he is recounting his experiences, proving,

perhaps, beyond the shadow of a doubt, how much he has been injured,

but bringing the clearest and most damning evidence to show that

his opponents were foolish and obstinate people who would not be

convinced; or else he is telling of the splendid plan he laid, and how

he carried it to a successful issue, or perhaps failed because

the luck was against him; or, it may be, he is saying that he was

completely at a loss to know what to do, or that he was quick in

seeing some traps set for him, and that by insisting on his rights or

by applying a little force, he succeeded in frustrating and punishing

his enemies; and so on in hundreds of cases of a similar kind.



Strictly speaking, however, what I get from gesticulation alone is

an abstract notion of the essential drift of what is being said, and

that, too, whether I judge from a moral or an intellectual point of

view. It is the quintessence, the true substance of the conversation,

and this remains identical, no matter what may have given rise to the

conversation, or what it may be about; the relation between the two

being that of a general idea or class-name to the individuals which it

covers.



As I have said, the most interesting and amusing part of the matter is

the complete identity and solidarity of the gestures used to denote

the same set of circumstances, even though by people of very different

temperament; so that the gestures become exactly like words of

a language, alike for every one, and subject only to such small

modifications as depend upon variety of accent and education. And yet

there can be no doubt but that these standing gestures, which every

one uses, are the result of no convention or collusion. They are

original and innate--a true language of nature; consolidated, it may

be, by imitation and the influence of custom.



It is well known that it is part of an actor's duty to make a careful

study of gesture; and the same thing is true, to a somewhat smaller

degree, of a public speaker. This study must consist chiefly in

watching others and imitating their movements, for there are no

abstract rules fairly applicable to the matter, with the exception

of some very general leading principles, such as--to take an

example--that the gesture must not follow the word, but rather

come immediately before it, by way of announcing its approach and

attracting the hearer's attention.



Englishmen entertain a peculiar contempt for gesticulation, and look

upon it as something vulgar and undignified. This seems to me a silly

prejudice on their part, and the outcome of their general prudery. For

here we have a language which nature has given to every one, and which

every one understands; and to do away with and forbid it for no better

reason than that it is opposed to that much-lauded thing, gentlemanly

feeling, is a very questionable proceeding.









ON EDUCATION.





The human intellect is said to be so constituted that _general ideas_

arise by abstraction from _particular observations_, and therefore

come after them in point of time. If this is what actually occurs, as

happens in the case of a man who has to depend solely upon his own

experience for what he learns--who has no teacher and no book,--such

a man knows quite well which of his particular observations belong to

and are represented by each of his general ideas. He has a perfect

acquaintance with both sides of his experience, and accordingly, he

treats everything that comes in his way from a right standpoint. This

might be called the _natural_ method of education.



Contrarily, the _artificial_ method is to hear what other people say,

to learn and to read, and so to get your head crammed full of general

ideas before you have any sort of extended acquaintance with the world

as it is, and as you may see it for yourself. You will be told that

the particular observations which go to make these general ideas will

come to you later on in the course of experience; but until that time

arrives, you apply your general ideas wrongly, you judge men and

things from a wrong standpoint, you see them in a wrong light, and

treat them in a wrong way. So it is that education perverts the mind.



This explains why it so frequently happens that, after a long course

of learning and reading, we enter upon the world in our youth, partly

with an artless ignorance of things, partly with wrong notions about

them; so that our demeanor savors at one moment of a nervous anxiety,

at another of a mistaken confidence. The reason of this is simply that

our head is full of general ideas which we are now trying to turn to

some use, but which we hardly ever apply rightly. This is the result

of acting in direct opposition to the natural development of the mind

by obtaining general ideas first, and particular observations last:

it is putting the cart before the horse. Instead of developing the

child's own faculties of discernment, and teaching it to judge and

think for itself, the teacher uses all his energies to stuff its head

full of the ready-made thoughts of other people. The mistaken views

of life, which spring from a false application of general ideas, have

afterwards to be corrected by long years of experience; and it is

seldom that they are wholly corrected. This is why so few men of

learning are possessed of common-sense, such as is often to be met

with in people who have had no instruction at all.



_To acquire a knowledge of the world_ might be defined as the aim

of all education; and it follows from what I have said that special

stress should be laid upon beginning to acquire this knowledge _at

the right end_. As I have shown, this means, in the main, that the

particular observation of a thing shall precede the general idea of

it; further, that narrow and circumscribed ideas shall come before

ideas of a wide range. It means, therefore, that the whole system of

education shall follow in the steps that must have been taken by the

ideas themselves in the course of their formation. But whenever any of

these steps are skipped or left out, the instruction is defective, and

the ideas obtained are false; and finally, a distorted view of the

world arises, peculiar to the individual himself--a view such as

almost everyone entertains for some time, and most men for as long as

they live. No one can look into his own mind without seeing that it

was only after reaching a very mature age, and in some cases when he

least expected it, that he came to a right understanding or a clear

view of many matters in his life, that, after all, were not very

difficult or complicated. Up till then, they were points in his

knowledge of the world which were still obscure, due to his having

skipped some particular lesson in those early days of his education,

whatever it may have been like--whether artificial and conventional,

or of that natural kind which is based upon individual experience.



It follows that an attempt should be made to find out the strictly

natural course of knowledge, so that education may proceed

methodically by keeping to it; and that children may become acquainted

with the ways of the world, without getting wrong ideas into their

heads, which very often cannot be got out again. If this plan were

adopted, special care would have to be taken to prevent children

from using words without clearly understanding their meaning and

application. The fatal tendency to be satisfied with words instead of

trying to understand things--to learn phrases by heart, so that

they may prove a refuge in time of need, exists, as a rule, even in

children; and the tendency lasts on into manhood, making the knowledge

of many learned persons to consist in mere verbiage.



However, the main endeavor must always be to let particular

observations precede general ideas, and not _vice versa_, as is

usually and unfortunately the case; as though a child should come

feet foremost into the world, or a verse be begun by writing down the

rhyme! The ordinary method is to imprint ideas and opinions, in the

strict sense of the word, _prejudices_, on the mind of the child,

before it has had any but a very few particular observations. It is

thus that he afterwards comes to view the world and gather experience

through the medium of those ready-made ideas, rather than to let his

ideas be formed for him out of his own experience of life, as they

ought to be.



A man sees a great many things when he looks at the world for himself,

and he sees them from many sides; but this method of learning is not

nearly so short or so quick as the method which employs abstract

ideas and makes hasty generalizations about everything. Experience,

therefore, will be a long time in correcting preconceived ideas, or

perhaps never bring its task to an end; for wherever a man finds that

the aspect of things seems to contradict the general ideas he has

formed, he will begin by rejecting the evidence it offers as partial

and one-sided; nay, he will shut his eyes to it altogether and deny

that it stands in any contradiction at all with his preconceived

notions, in order that he may thus preserve them uninjured. So it is

that many a man carries about a burden of wrong notions all his life

long--crotchets, whims, fancies, prejudices, which at last become

fixed ideas. The fact is that he has never tried to form his

fundamental ideas for himself out of his own experience of life, his

own way of looking at the world, because he has taken over his ideas

ready-made from other people; and this it is that makes him--as it

makes how many others!--so shallow and superficial.



Instead of that method of instruction, care should be taken to educate

children on the natural lines. No idea should ever be established in a

child's mind otherwise than by what the child can see for itself, or

at any rate it should be verified by the same means; and the result of

this would be that the child's ideas, if few, would be well-grounded

and accurate. It would learn how to measure things by its own standard

rather than by another's; and so it would escape a thousand strange

fancies and prejudices, and not need to have them eradicated by the

lessons it will subsequently be taught in the school of life. The

child would, in this way, have its mind once for all habituated

to clear views and thorough-going knowledge; it would use its own

judgment and take an unbiased estimate of things.



And, in general, children should not form their notions of what life

is like from the copy before they have learned it from the original,

to whatever aspect of it their attention may be directed. Instead,

therefore, of hastening to place _books_, and books alone, in their

hands, let them be made acquainted, step by step, with _things_--with

the actual circumstances of human life. And above all let care be

taken to bring them to a clear and objective view of the world as it

is, to educate them always to derive their ideas directly from real

life, and to shape them in conformity with it--not to fetch them from

other sources, such as books, fairy tales, or what people say--then

to apply them ready-made to real life. For this will mean that their

heads are full of wrong notions, and that they will either see things

in a false light or try in vain to _remodel the world_ to suit their

views, and so enter upon false paths; and that, too, whether they are

only constructing theories of life or engaged in the actual business

of it. It is incredible how much harm is done when the seeds of wrong

notions are laid in the mind in those early years, later on to bear a

crop of prejudice; for the subsequent lessons, which are learned from

real life in the world have to be devoted mainly to their extirpation.

_To unlearn the evil_ was the answer, according to Diogenes

Laertius,[1] Antisthenes gave, when he was asked what branch of

knowledge was most necessary; and we can see what he meant.



[Footnote 1: vi. 7.]



No child under the age of fifteen should receive instruction in

subjects which may possibly be the vehicle of serious error, such as

philosophy, religion, or any other branch of knowledge where it is

necessary to take large views; because wrong notions imbibed early can

seldom be rooted out, and of all the intellectual faculties, judgment

is the last to arrive at maturity. The child should give its attention

either to subjects where no error is possible at all, such as

mathematics, or to those in which there is no particular danger in

making a mistake, such as languages, natural science, history and so

on. And in general, the branches of knowledge which are to be studied

at any period of life should be such as the mind is equal to at that

period and can perfectly understand. Childhood and youth form the time

for collecting materials, for getting a special and thorough knowledge

of the individual and particular things. In those years it is too

early to form views on a large scale; and ultimate explanations must

be put off to a later date. The faculty of judgment, which cannot come

into play without mature experience, should be left to itself; and

care should be taken not to anticipate its action by inculcating

prejudice, which will paralyze it for ever.



On the other hand, the memory should be specially taxed in youth,

since it is then that it is strongest and most tenacious. But in

choosing the things that should be committed to memory the utmost care

and forethought must be exercised; as lessons well learnt in youth are

never forgotten. This precious soil must therefore be cultivated so as

to bear as much fruit as possible. If you think how deeply rooted in

your memory are those persons whom you knew in the first twelve years

of your life, how indelible the impression made upon you by the events

of those years, how clear your recollection of most of the things that

happened to you then, most of what was told or taught you, it will

seem a natural thing to take the susceptibility and tenacity of the

mind at that period as the ground-work of education. This may be done

by a strict observance of method, and a systematic regulation of the

impressions which the mind is to receive.



But the years of youth allotted to a man are short, and memory is, in

general, bound within narrow limits; still more so, the memory of any

one individual. Since this is the case, it is all-important to fill

the memory with what is essential and material in any branch of

knowledge, to the exclusion of everything else. The decision as to

what is essential and material should rest with the masterminds in

every department of thought; their choice should be made after the

most mature deliberation, and the outcome of it fixed and determined.

Such a choice would have to proceed by sifting the things which it

is necessary and important for a man to know in general, and then,

necessary and important for him to know in any particular business

or calling. Knowledge of the first kind would have to be classified,

after an encyclopaedic fashion, in graduated courses, adapted to the

degree of general culture which a man may be expected to have in the

circumstances in which he is placed; beginning with a course limited

to the necessary requirements of primary education, and extending

upwards to the subjects treated of in all the branches of

philosophical thought. The regulation of the second kind of knowledge

would be left to those who had shown genuine mastery in the several

departments into which it is divided; and the whole system would

provide an elaborate rule or canon for intellectual education, which

would, of course, have to be revised every ten years. Some such

arrangement as this would employ the youthful power of the memory to

best advantage, and supply excellent working material to the faculty

of judgment, when it made its appearance later on.



A man's knowledge may be said to be mature, in other words, it has

reached the most complete state of perfection to which he, as an

individual, is capable of bringing it, when an exact correspondence is

established between the whole of his abstract ideas and the things he

has actually perceived for himself. This will mean that each of

his abstract ideas rests, directly or indirectly, upon a basis of

observation, which alone endows it with any real value; and also

that he is able to place every observation he makes under the right

abstract idea which belongs to it. Maturity is the work of experience

alone; and therefore it requires time. The knowledge we derive from

our own observation is usually distinct from that which we acquire

through the medium of abstract ideas; the one coming to us in the

natural way, the other by what people tell us, and the course of

instruction we receive, whether it is good or bad. The result is, that

in youth there is generally very little agreement or correspondence

between our abstract ideas, which are merely phrases in the mind, and

that real knowledge which we have obtained by our own observation. It

is only later on that a gradual approach takes place between these two

kinds of knowledge, accompanied by a mutual correction of error; and

knowledge is not mature until this coalition is accomplished. This

maturity or perfection of knowledge is something quite independent of

another kind of perfection, which may be of a high or a low order--the

perfection, I mean, to which a man may bring his own individual

faculties; which is measured, not by any correspondence between the

two kinds of knowledge, but by the degree of intensity which each kind

attains.



For the practical man the most needful thing is to acquire an accurate

and profound knowledge of _the ways of the world_. But this, though

the most needful, is also the most wearisome of all studies, as a man

may reach a great age without coming to the end of his task; whereas,

in the domain of the sciences, he masters the more important facts

when he is still young. In acquiring that knowledge of the world, it

is while he is a novice, namely, in boyhood and in youth, that the

first and hardest lessons are put before him; but it often happens

that even in later years there is still a great deal to be learned.



The study is difficult enough in itself; but the difficulty is doubled

by _novels_, which represent a state of things in life and the world,

such as, in fact, does not exist. Youth is credulous, and accepts

these views of life, which then become part and parcel of the mind; so

that, instead of a merely negative condition of ignorance, you have

positive error--a whole tissue of false notions to start with; and at

a later date these actually spoil the schooling of experience, and put

a wrong construction on the lessons it teaches. If, before this,

the youth had no light at all to guide him, he is now misled by a

will-o'-the-wisp; still more often is this the case with a girl.

They have both had a false view of things foisted on them by reading

novels; and expectations have been aroused which can never be

fulfilled. This generally exercises a baneful influence on their whole

life. In this respect those whose youth has allowed them no time or

opportunity for reading novels--those who work with their hands and

the like--are in a position of decided advantage. There are a few

novels to which this reproach cannot be addressed--nay, which have an

effect the contrary of bad. First and foremost, to give an example,

_Gil Blas_, and the other works of Le Sage (or rather their Spanish

originals); further, _The Vicar of Wakefield_, and, to some extent Sir

Walter Scott's novels. _Don Quixote_ may be regarded as a satirical

exhibition of the error to which I am referring.









OF WOMEN.





Schiller's poem in honor of women, _Würde der Frauen_, is the

result of much careful thought, and it appeals to the reader by its

antithetic style and its use of contrast; but as an expression of the

true praise which should be accorded to them, it is, I think, inferior

to these few words of Jouy's: _Without women, the beginning of our

life would be helpless; the middle, devoid of pleasure; and the end,

of consolation_. The same thing is more feelingly expressed by Byron

in _Sardanapalus_:



                                                 _The very first

  Of human life must spring from woman's breast,

  Your first small words are taught you from her lips,

  Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs

  Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing,

  When men have shrunk from the ignoble care

  Of watching the last hour of him who led them_.



  (Act I Scene 2.)



These two passages indicate the right standpoint for the appreciation

of women.



You need only look at the way in which she is formed, to see that

woman is not meant to undergo great labor, whether of the mind or of

the body. She pays the debt of life not by what she does, but by what

she suffers; by the pains of child-bearing and care for the child,

and by submission to her husband, to whom she should be a patient and

cheering companion. The keenest sorrows and joys are not for her, nor

is she called upon to display a great deal of strength. The current

of her life should be more gentle, peaceful and trivial than man's,

without being essentially happier or unhappier.



Women are directly fitted for acting as the nurses and teachers of

our early childhood by the fact that they are themselves childish,

frivolous and short-sighted; in a word, they are big children all

their life long--a kind of intermediate stage between the child and

the full-grown man, who is man in the strict sense of the word. See

how a girl will fondle a child for days together, dance with it and

sing to it; and then think what a man, with the best will in the

world, could do if he were put in her place.



With young girls Nature seems to have had in view what, in the

language of the drama, is called _a striking effect_; as for a few

years she dowers them with a wealth of beauty and is lavish in her

gift of charm, at the expense of all the rest of their life; so that

during those years they may capture the fantasy of some man to such a

degree that he is hurried away into undertaking the honorable care of

them, in some form or other, as long as they live--a step for which

there would not appear to be any sufficient warranty if reason only

directed his thoughts. Accordingly, Nature has equipped woman, as she

does all her creatures, with the weapons and implements requisite

for the safeguarding of her existence, and for just as long as it is

necessary for her to have them. Here, as elsewhere, Nature proceeds

with her usual economy; for just as the female ant, after fecundation,

loses her wings, which are then superfluous, nay, actually a danger

to the business of breeding; so, after giving birth to one or two

children, a woman generally loses her beauty; probably, indeed, for

similar reasons.



And so we find that young girls, in their hearts, look upon domestic

affairs or work of any kind as of secondary importance, if not

actually as a mere jest. The only business that really claims their

earnest attention is love, making conquests, and everything connected

with this--dress, dancing, and so on.



The nobler and more perfect a thing is, the later and slower it is

in arriving at maturity. A man reaches the maturity of his reasoning

powers and mental faculties hardly before the age of twenty-eight; a

woman at eighteen. And then, too, in the case of woman, it is only

reason of a sort--very niggard in its dimensions. That is why women

remain children their whole life long; never seeing anything but

what is quite close to them, cleaving to the present moment, taking

appearance for reality, and preferring trifles to matters of the first

importance. For it is by virtue of his reasoning faculty that man does

not live in the present only, like the brute, but looks about him and

considers the past and the future; and this is the origin of prudence,

as well as of that care and anxiety which so many people exhibit. Both

the advantages and the disadvantages which this involves, are shared

in by the woman to a smaller extent because of her weaker power

of reasoning. She may, in fact, be described as intellectually

short-sighted, because, while she has an intuitive understanding of

what lies quite close to her, her field of vision is narrow and does

not reach to what is remote; so that things which are absent, or past,

or to come, have much less effect upon women than upon men. This is

the reason why women are more often inclined to be extravagant, and

sometimes carry their inclination to a length that borders upon

madness. In their hearts, women think that it is men's business

to earn money and theirs to spend it--- if possible during their

husband's life, but, at any rate, after his death. The very fact

that their husband hands them over his earnings for purposes of

housekeeping, strengthens them in this belief.



However many disadvantages all this may involve, there is at least

this to be said in its favor; that the woman lives more in the present

than the man, and that, if the present is at all tolerable, she enjoys

it more eagerly. This is the source of that cheerfulness which

is peculiar to women, fitting her to amuse man in his hours of

recreation, and, in case of need, to console him when he is borne down

by the weight of his cares.



It is by no means a bad plan to consult women in matters of

difficulty, as the Germans used to do in ancient times; for their way

of looking at things is quite different from ours, chiefly in the

fact that they like to take the shortest way to their goal, and, in

general, manage to fix their eyes upon what lies before them; while

we, as a rule, see far beyond it, just because it is in front of our

noses. In cases like this, we need to be brought back to the right

standpoint, so as to recover the near and simple view.



Then, again, women are decidedly more sober in their judgment than

we are, so that they do not see more in things than is really there;

whilst, if our passions are aroused, we are apt to see things in an

exaggerated way, or imagine what does not exist.



The weakness of their reasoning faculty also explains why it is that

women show more sympathy for the unfortunate than men do, and so treat

them with more kindness and interest; and why it is that, on the

contrary, they are inferior to men in point of justice, and less

honorable and conscientious. For it is just because their reasoning

power is weak that present circumstances have such a hold over them,

and those concrete things, which lie directly before their eyes,

exercise a power which is seldom counteracted to any extent by

abstract principles of thought, by fixed rules of conduct, firm

resolutions, or, in general, by consideration for the past and the

future, or regard for what is absent and remote. Accordingly, they

possess the first and main elements that go to make a virtuous

character, but they are deficient in those secondary qualities which

are often a necessary instrument in the formation of it.[1]



[Footnote 1: In this respect they may be compared to an animal

organism which contains a liver but no gall-bladder. Here let me refer

to what I have said in my treatise on _The Foundation of Morals_, §

17.]



Hence, it will be found that the fundamental fault of the female

character is that it has _no sense of justice_. This is mainly due to

the fact, already mentioned, that women are defective in the powers of

reasoning and deliberation; but it is also traceable to the position

which Nature has assigned to them as the weaker sex. They are

dependent, not upon strength, but upon craft; and hence their

instinctive capacity for cunning, and their ineradicable tendency to

say what is not true. For as lions are provided with claws and teeth,

and elephants and boars with tusks, bulls with horns, and cuttle fish

with its clouds of inky fluid, so Nature has equipped woman, for her

defence and protection, with the arts of dissimulation; and all the

power which Nature has conferred upon man in the shape of physical

strength and reason, has been bestowed upon women in this form. Hence,

dissimulation is innate in woman, and almost as much a quality of the

stupid as of the clever. It is as natural for them to make use of it

on every occasion as it is for those animals to employ their means of

defence when they are attacked; they have a feeling that in doing so

they are only within their rights. Therefore a woman who is perfectly

truthful and not given to dissimulation is perhaps an impossibility,

and for this very reason they are so quick at seeing through

dissimulation in others that it is not a wise thing to attempt it with

them. But this fundamental defect which I have stated, with all

that it entails, gives rise to falsity, faithlessness, treachery,

ingratitude, and so on. Perjury in a court of justice is more

often committed by women than by men. It may, indeed, be generally

questioned whether women ought to be sworn in at all. From time to

time one finds repeated cases everywhere of ladies, who want for

nothing, taking things from shop-counters when no one is looking, and

making off with them.



Nature has appointed that the propagation of the species shall be the

business of men who are young, strong and handsome; so that the race

may not degenerate. This is the firm will and purpose of Nature in

regard to the species, and it finds its expression in the passions of

women. There is no law that is older or more powerful than this. Woe,

then, to the man who sets up claims and interests that will conflict

with it; whatever he may say and do, they will be unmercifully crushed

at the first serious encounter. For the innate rule that governs

women's conduct, though it is secret and unformulated, nay,

unconscious in its working, is this: _We are justified in deceiving

those who think they have acquired rights over the species by paying

little attention to the individual, that is, to us. The constitution

and, therefore, the welfare of the species have been placed in our

hands and committed to our care, through the control we obtain over

the next generation, which proceeds from us; let us discharge our

duties conscientiously_. But women have no abstract knowledge of this

leading principle; they are conscious of it only as a concrete fact;

and they have no other method of giving expression to it than the

way in which they act when the opportunity arrives. And then their

conscience does not trouble them so much as we fancy; for in the

darkest recesses of their heart, they are aware that in committing a

breach of their duty towards the individual, they have all the

better fulfilled their duty towards the species, which is infinitely

greater.[1]



[Footnote 1: A more detailed discussion of the matter in question may

be found in my chief work, _Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung_, vol.

ii, ch. 44.]



And since women exist in the main solely for the propagation of the

species, and are not destined for anything else, they live, as a rule,

more for the species than for the individual, and in their hearts

take the affairs of the species more seriously than those of the

individual. This gives their whole life and being a certain levity;

the general bent of their character is in a direction fundamentally

different from that of man; and it is this to which produces that

discord in married life which is so frequent, and almost the normal

state.



The natural feeling between men is mere indifference, but

between women it is actual enmity. The reason of this is that

trade-jealousy--_odium figulinum_--which, in the case of men does not

go beyond the confines of their own particular pursuit; but, with

women, embraces the whole sex; since they have only one kind of

business. Even when they meet in the street, women look at one another

like Guelphs and Ghibellines. And it is a patent fact that when two

women make first acquaintance with each other, they behave with more

constraint and dissimulation than two men would show in a like case;

and hence it is that an exchange of compliments between two women is a

much more ridiculous proceeding than between two men. Further, whilst

a man will, as a general rule, always preserve a certain amount of

consideration and humanity in speaking to others, even to those who

are in a very inferior position, it is intolerable to see how proudly

and disdainfully a fine lady will generally behave towards one who is

in a lower social rank (I do not mean a woman who is in her service),

whenever she speaks to her. The reason of this may be that, with

women, differences of rank are much more precarious than with us;

because, while a hundred considerations carry weight in our case,

in theirs there is only one, namely, with which man they have found

favor; as also that they stand in much nearer relations with one

another than men do, in consequence of the one-sided nature of their

calling. This makes them endeavor to lay stress upon differences of

rank.



It is only the man whose intellect is clouded by his sexual impulses

that could give the name of _the fair sex_ to that under-sized,

narrow-shouldered, broad-hipped, and short-legged race; for the whole

beauty of the sex is bound up with this impulse. Instead of calling

them beautiful, there would be more warrant for describing women as

the un-aesthetic sex. Neither for music, nor for poetry, nor for fine

art, have they really and truly any sense or susceptibility; it is a

mere mockery if they make a pretence of it in order to assist their

endeavor to please. Hence, as a result of this, they are incapable of

taking a _purely objective interest_ in anything; and the reason of it

seems to me to be as follows. A man tries to acquire _direct_ mastery

over things, either by understanding them, or by forcing them to do

his will. But a woman is always and everywhere reduced to obtaining

this mastery _indirectly_, namely, through a man; and whatever direct

mastery she may have is entirely confined to him. And so it lies in

woman's nature to look upon everything only as a means for conquering

man; and if she takes an interest in anything else, it is simulated--a

mere roundabout way of gaining her ends by coquetry, and feigning what

she does not feel. Hence, even Rousseau declared: _Women have, in

general, no love for any art; they have no proper knowledge of any;

and they have no genius_.[1]



[Footnote 1: Lettre à d'Alembert, Note xx.]



No one who sees at all below the surface can have failed to remark the

same thing. You need only observe the kind of attention women bestow

upon a concert, an opera, or a play--the childish simplicity, for

example, with which they keep on chattering during the finest passages

in the greatest masterpieces. If it is true that the Greeks excluded

women from their theatres they were quite right in what they did;

at any rate you would have been able to hear what was said upon the

stage. In our day, besides, or in lieu of saying, _Let a woman keep

silence in the church_, it would be much to the point to say _Let a

woman keep silence in the theatre_. This might, perhaps, be put up in

big letters on the curtain.



And you cannot expect anything else of women if you consider that the

most distinguished intellects among the whole sex have never managed

to produce a single achievement in the fine arts that is really great,

genuine, and original; or given to the world any work of permanent

value in any sphere. This is most strikingly shown in regard to

painting, where mastery of technique is at least as much within their

power as within ours--and hence they are diligent in cultivating it;

but still, they have not a single great painting to boast of, just

because they are deficient in that objectivity of mind which is so

directly indispensable in painting. They never get beyond a subjective

point of view. It is quite in keeping with this that ordinary women

have no real susceptibility for art at all; for Nature proceeds in

strict sequence--_non facit saltum_. And Huarte[1] in his _Examen de

ingenios para las scienzias_--a book which has been famous for

three hundred years--denies women the possession of all the higher

faculties. The case is not altered by particular and partial

exceptions; taken as a whole, women are, and remain, thorough-going

Philistines, and quite incurable. Hence, with that absurd arrangement

which allows them to share the rank and title of their husbands they

are a constant stimulus to his ignoble ambitions. And, further, it is

just because they are Philistines that modern society, where they

take the lead and set the tone, is in such a bad way. Napoleon's

saying--that _women have no rank_--should be adopted as the right

standpoint in determining their position in society; and as regards

their other qualities Chamfort[2] makes the very true remark: _They

are made to trade with our own weaknesses and our follies, but not

with our reason. The sympathies that exist between them and men are

skin-deep only, and do not touch the mind or the feelings or the

character_. They form the _sexus sequior_--the second sex, inferior in

every respect to the first; their infirmities should be treated

with consideration; but to show them great reverence is extremely

ridiculous, and lowers us in their eyes. When Nature made two

divisions of the human race, she did not draw the line exactly through

the middle. These divisions are polar and opposed to each other, it is

true; but the difference between them is not qualitative merely, it is

also quantitative.



[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--- Juan Huarte (1520?-1590)

practised as a physician at Madrid. The work cited by Schopenhauer is

known, and has been translated into many languages.]



[Footnote 2: _Translator's Note_.--See _Counsels and Maxims_, p. 12,

Note.]



This is just the view which the ancients took of woman, and the view

which people in the East take now; and their judgment as to her proper

position is much more correct than ours, with our old French notions

of gallantry and our preposterous system of reverence--that highest

product of Teutonico-Christian stupidity. These notions have served

only to make women more arrogant and overbearing; so that one is

occasionally reminded of the holy apes in Benares, who in the

consciousness of their sanctity and inviolable position, think they

can do exactly as they please.



But in the West, the woman, and especially the _lady_, finds herself

in a false position; for woman, rightly called by the ancients,

_sexus sequior_, is by no means fit to be the object of our honor and

veneration, or to hold her head higher than man and be on equal terms

with him. The consequences of this false position are sufficiently

obvious. Accordingly, it would be a very desirable thing if this

Number-Two of the human race were in Europe also relegated to her

natural place, and an end put to that lady nuisance, which not only

moves all Asia to laughter, but would have been ridiculed by Greece

and Rome as well. It is impossible to calculate the good effects which

such a change would bring about in our social, civil and political

arrangements. There would be no necessity for the Salic law: it would

be a superfluous truism. In Europe the _lady_, strictly so-called, is

a being who should not exist at all; she should be either a housewife

or a girl who hopes to become one; and she should be brought up, not

to be arrogant, but to be thrifty and submissive. It is just because

there are such people as _ladies_ in Europe that the women of the

lower classes, that is to say, the great majority of the sex, are much

more unhappy than they are in the East. And even Lord Byron says:

_Thought of the state of women under the ancient Greeks--convenient

enough. Present state, a remnant of the barbarism of the chivalric

and the feudal ages--artificial and unnatural. They ought to mind

home--and be well fed and clothed--but not mixed in society. Well

educated, too, in religion--but to read neither poetry nor politics--

nothing but books of piety and cookery. Music--drawing--dancing--also

a little gardening and ploughing now and then. I have seen them

mending the roads in Epirus with good success. Why not, as well as

hay-making and milking_?



The laws of marriage prevailing in Europe consider the woman as the

equivalent of the man--start, that is to say, from a wrong position.

In our part of the world where monogamy is the rule, to marry means to

halve one's rights and double one's duties. Now, when the laws gave

women equal rights with man, they ought to have also endowed her with

a masculine intellect. But the fact is, that just in proportion as

the honors and privileges which the laws accord to women, exceed the

amount which nature gives, is there a diminution in the number

of women who really participate in these privileges; and all the

remainder are deprived of their natural rights by just so much as is

given to the others over and above their share. For the institution of

monogamy, and the laws of marriage which it entails, bestow upon

the woman an unnatural position of privilege, by considering her

throughout as the full equivalent of the man, which is by no means

the case; and seeing this, men who are shrewd and prudent very often

scruple to make so great a sacrifice and to acquiesce in so unfair an

arrangement.



Consequently, whilst among polygamous nations every woman is provided

for, where monogamy prevails the number of married women is limited;

and there remains over a large number of women without stay or

support, who, in the upper classes, vegetate as useless old maids, and

in the lower succumb to hard work for which they are not suited; or

else become _filles de joie_, whose life is as destitute of joy as it

is of honor. But under the circumstances they become a necessity; and

their position is openly recognized as serving the special end of

warding off temptation from those women favored by fate, who have

found, or may hope to find, husbands. In London alone there are 80,000

prostitutes. What are they but the women, who, under the institution

of monogamy have come off worse? Theirs is a dreadful fate: they are

human sacrifices offered up on the altar of monogamy. The women whose

wretched position is here described are the inevitable set-off to the

European lady with her arrogance and pretension. Polygamy is therefore

a real benefit to the female sex if it is taken as a whole. And, from

another point of view, there is no true reason why a man whose wife

suffers from chronic illness, or remains barren, or has gradually

become too old for him, should not take a second. The motives which

induce so many people to become converts to Mormonism[1] appear to

be just those which militate against the unnatural institution of

monogamy.



[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--The Mormons have recently given up

polygamy, and received the American franchise in its stead.]



Moreover, the bestowal of unnatural rights upon women has imposed upon

them unnatural duties, and, nevertheless, a breach of these duties

makes them unhappy. Let me explain. A man may often think that his

social or financial position will suffer if he marries, unless he

makes some brilliant alliance. His desire will then be to win a woman

of his own choice under conditions other than those of marriage, such

as will secure her position and that of the children. However fair,

reasonable, fit and proper these conditions may be, and the woman

consents by foregoing that undue amount of privilege which marriage

alone can bestow, she to some extent loses her honor, because marriage

is the basis of civic society; and she will lead an unhappy life,

since human nature is so constituted that we pay an attention to the

opinion of other people which is out of all proportion to its value.

On the other hand, if she does not consent, she runs the risk either

of having to be given in marriage to a man whom she does not like, or

of being landed high and dry as an old maid; for the period during

which she has a chance of being settled for life is very short. And

in view of this aspect of the institution of monogamy, Thomasius'

profoundly learned treatise, _de Concubinatu_, is well worth reading;

for it shows that, amongst all nations and in all ages, down to the

Lutheran Reformation, concubinage was permitted; nay, that it was an

institution which was to a certain extent actually recognized by law,

and attended with no dishonor. It was only the Lutheran Reformation

that degraded it from this position. It was seen to be a further

justification for the marriage of the clergy; and then, after that,

the Catholic Church did not dare to remain behind-hand in the matter.



There is no use arguing about polygamy; it must be taken as _de facto_

existing everywhere, and the only question is as to how it shall be

regulated. Where are there, then, any real monogamists? We all live,

at any rate, for a time, and most of us, always, in polygamy. And so,

since every man needs many women, there is nothing fairer than to

allow him, nay, to make it incumbent upon him, to provide for many

women. This will reduce woman to her true and natural position as

a subordinate being; and the _lady_--that monster of European

civilization and Teutonico-Christian stupidity--will disappear from

the world, leaving only _women_, but no more _unhappy women_, of whom

Europe is now full.



In India, no woman is ever independent, but in accordance with the law

of Mamu,[1] she stands under the control of her father, her husband,

her brother or her son. It is, to be sure, a revolting thing that a

widow should immolate herself upon her husband's funeral pyre; but it

is also revolting that she should spend her husband's money with her

paramours--the money for which he toiled his whole life long, in the

consoling belief that he was providing for his children. Happy are

those who have kept the middle course--_medium tenuere beati_.



[Footnote 1: Ch. V., v. 148.]



The first love of a mother for her child is, with the lower animals as

with men, of a purely _instinctive_ character, and so it ceases when

the child is no longer in a physically helpless condition. After that,

the first love should give way to one that is based on habit and

reason; but this often fails to make its appearance, especially where

the mother did not love the father. The love of a father for his child

is of a different order, and more likely to last; because it has its

foundation in the fact that in the child he recognizes his own inner

self; that is to say, his love for it is metaphysical in its origin.



In almost all nations, whether of the ancient or the modern world,

even amongst the Hottentots,[1] property is inherited by the male

descendants alone; it is only in Europe that a departure has taken

place; but not amongst the nobility, however. That the property which

has cost men long years of toil and effort, and been won with so much

difficulty, should afterwards come into the hands of women, who then,

in their lack of reason, squander it in a short time, or otherwise

fool it away, is a grievance and a wrong as serious as it is common,

which should be prevented by limiting the right of women to inherit.

In my opinion, the best arrangement would be that by which women,

whether widows or daughters, should never receive anything beyond the

interest for life on property secured by mortgage, and in no case the

property itself, or the capital, except where all male descendants

fail. The people who make money are men, not women; and it follows

from this that women are neither justified in having unconditional

possession of it, nor fit persons to be entrusted with its

administration. When wealth, in any true sense of the word, that is to

say, funds, houses or land, is to go to them as an inheritance they

should never be allowed the free disposition of it. In their case a

guardian should always be appointed; and hence they should never be

given the free control of their own children, wherever it can be

avoided. The vanity of women, even though it should not prove to be

greater than that of men, has this much danger in it, that it takes an

entirely material direction. They are vain, I mean, of their personal

beauty, and then of finery, show and magnificence. That is just why

they are so much in their element in society. It is this, too, which

makes them so inclined to be extravagant, all the more as their

reasoning power is low. Accordingly we find an ancient writer

describing woman as in general of an extravagant nature--[Greek: Gynae

to synolon esti dapanaeron Physei][2] But with men vanity often takes

the direction of non-material advantages, such as intellect, learning,

courage.



[Footnote 1: Leroy, _Lettres philosophiques sur l'intelligence et la

perfectibilité des animaux, avec quelques lettres sur l'homme_, p.

298, Paris, 1802.]



[Footnote 2: Brunck's _Gnomici poetae graeci_, v. 115.]



In the _Politics_[1] Aristotle explains the great disadvantage which

accrued to the Spartans from the fact that they conceded too much to

their women, by giving them the right of inheritance and dower, and a

great amount of independence; and he shows how much this contributed

to Sparta's fall. May it not be the case in France that the influence

of women, which went on increasing steadily from the time of Louis

XIII., was to blame for that gradual corruption of the Court and the

Government, which brought about the Revolution of 1789, of which all

subsequent disturbances have been the fruit? However that may be, the

false position which women occupy, demonstrated as it is, in the most

glaring way, by the institution of the _lady_, is a fundamental defect

in our social scheme, and this defect, proceeding from the very heart

of it, must spread its baneful influence in all directions.



[Footnote 1: Bk. I, ch. 9.]



       *       *       *       *       *



That woman is by nature meant to obey may be seen by the fact that

every woman who is placed in the unnatural position of complete

independence, immediately attaches herself to some man, by whom she

allows herself to be guided and ruled. It is because she needs a lord

and master. If she is young, it will be a lover; if she is old, a

priest.









ON NOISE.





Kant wrote a treatise on _The Vital Powers_. I should prefer to write

a dirge for them. The superabundant display of vitality, which takes

the form of knocking, hammering, and tumbling things about, has proved

a daily torment to me all my life long. There are people, it is

true--nay, a great many people--who smile at such things, because they

are not sensitive to noise; but they are just the very people who are

also not sensitive to argument, or thought, or poetry, or art, in a

word, to any kind of intellectual influence. The reason of it is that

the tissue of their brains is of a very rough and coarse quality. On

the other hand, noise is a torture to intellectual people. In the

biographies of almost all great writers, or wherever else their

personal utterances are recorded, I find complaints about it; in the

case of Kant, for instance, Goethe, Lichtenberg, Jean Paul; and if it

should happen that any writer has omitted to express himself on the

matter, it is only for want of an opportunity.



This aversion to noise I should explain as follows: If you cut up a

large diamond into little bits, it will entirely lose the value it

had as a whole; and an army divided up into small bodies of soldiers,

loses all its strength. So a great intellect sinks to the level of

an ordinary one, as soon as it is interrupted and disturbed, its

attention distracted and drawn off from the matter in hand; for its

superiority depends upon its power of concentration--of bringing all

its strength to bear upon one theme, in the same way as a concave

mirror collects into one point all the rays of light that strike upon

it. Noisy interruption is a hindrance to this concentration. That is

why distinguished minds have always shown such an extreme dislike

to disturbance in any form, as something that breaks in upon and

distracts their thoughts. Above all have they been averse to that

violent interruption that comes from noise. Ordinary people are

not much put out by anything of the sort. The most sensible and

intelligent of all nations in Europe lays down the rule, _Never

Interrupt_! as the eleventh commandment. Noise is the most impertinent

of all forms of interruption. It is not only an interruption, but

also a disruption of thought. Of course, where there is nothing to

interrupt, noise will not be so particularly painful. Occasionally it

happens that some slight but constant noise continues to bother and

distract me for a time before I become distinctly conscious of it. All

I feel is a steady increase in the labor of thinking--just as though I

were trying to walk with a weight on my foot. At last I find out what

it is. Let me now, however, pass from genus to species. The most

inexcusable and disgraceful of all noises is the cracking of whips--a

truly infernal thing when it is done in the narrow resounding streets

of a town. I denounce it as making a peaceful life impossible; it puts

an end to all quiet thought. That this cracking of whips should be

allowed at all seems to me to show in the clearest way how senseless

and thoughtless is the nature of mankind. No one with anything like an

idea in his head can avoid a feeling of actual pain at this sudden,

sharp crack, which paralyzes the brain, rends the thread of

reflection, and murders thought. Every time this noise is made, it

must disturb a hundred people who are applying their minds to business

of some sort, no matter how trivial it may be; while on the thinker

its effect is woeful and disastrous, cutting his thoughts asunder,

much as the executioner's axe severs the head from the body. No sound,

be it ever so shrill, cuts so sharply into the brain as this cursed

cracking of whips; you feel the sting of the lash right inside your

head; and it affects the brain in the same way as touch affects a

sensitive plant, and for the same length of time.



With all due respect for the most holy doctrine of utility, I really

cannot see why a fellow who is taking away a wagon-load of gravel or

dung should thereby obtain the right to kill in the bud the thoughts

which may happen to be springing up in ten thousand heads--the number

he will disturb one after another in half an hour's drive through the

town. Hammering, the barking of dogs, and the crying of children are

horrible to hear; but your only genuine assassin of thought is the

crack of a whip; it exists for the purpose of destroying every

pleasant moment of quiet thought that any one may now and then enjoy.

If the driver had no other way of urging on his horse than by making

this most abominable of all noises, it would be excusable; but quite

the contrary is the case. This cursed cracking of whips is not only

unnecessary, but even useless. Its aim is to produce an effect upon

the intelligence of the horse; but through the constant abuse of it,

the animal becomes habituated to the sound, which falls upon blunted

feelings and produces no effect at all. The horse does not go any

faster for it. You have a remarkable example of this in the ceaseless

cracking of his whip on the part of a cab-driver, while he is

proceeding at a slow pace on the lookout for a fare. If he were to

give his horse the slightest touch with the whip, it would have much

more effect. Supposing, however, that it were absolutely necessary to

crack the whip in order to keep the horse constantly in mind of its

presence, it would be enough to make the hundredth part of the noise.

For it is a well-known fact that, in regard to sight and hearing,

animals are sensitive to even the faintest indications; they are alive

to things that we can scarcely perceive. The most surprising instances

of this are furnished by trained dogs and canary birds.



It is obvious, therefore, that here we have to do with an act of pure

wantonness; nay, with an impudent defiance offered to those members of

the community who work with their heads by those who work with their

hands. That such infamy should be tolerated in a town is a piece of

barbarity and iniquity, all the more as it could easily be remedied by

a police-notice to the effect that every lash shall have a knot at the

end of it. There can be no harm in drawing the attention of the mob to

the fact that the classes above them work with their heads, for any

kind of headwork is mortal anguish to the man in the street. A fellow

who rides through the narrow alleys of a populous town with unemployed

post-horses or cart-horses, and keeps on cracking a whip several yards

long with all his might, deserves there and then to stand down and

receive five really good blows with a stick.



All the philanthropists in the world, and all the legislators, meeting

to advocate and decree the total abolition of corporal punishment,

will never persuade me to the contrary! There is something even more

disgraceful than what I have just mentioned. Often enough you may see

a carter walking along the street, quite alone, without any horses,

and still cracking away incessantly; so accustomed has the wretch

become to it in consequence of the unwarrantable toleration of this

practice. A man's body and the needs of his body are now everywhere

treated with a tender indulgence. Is the thinking mind then, to be

the only thing that is never to obtain the slightest measure of

consideration or protection, to say nothing of respect? Carters,

porters, messengers--these are the beasts of burden amongst mankind;

by all means let them be treated justly, fairly, indulgently, and with

forethought; but they must not be permitted to stand in the way of

the higher endeavors of humanity by wantonly making a noise. How many

great and splendid thoughts, I should like to know, have been lost to

the world by the crack of a whip? If I had the upper hand, I should

soon produce in the heads of these people an indissoluble association

of ideas between cracking a whip and getting a whipping.



Let us hope that the more intelligent and refined among the nations

will make a beginning in this matter, and then that the Germans may

take example by it and follow suit.[1] Meanwhile, I may quote what

Thomas Hood says of them[2]: _For a musical nation, they are the most

noisy I ever met with_. That they are so is due to the fact, not that

they are more fond of making a noise than other people--they would

deny it if you asked them--but that their senses are obtuse;

consequently, when they hear a noise, it does not affect them much. It

does not disturb them in reading or thinking, simply because they do

not think; they only smoke, which is their substitute for thought. The

general toleration of unnecessary noise--the slamming of doors, for

instance, a very unmannerly and ill-bred thing--is direct evidence

that the prevailing habit of mind is dullness and lack of thought. In

Germany it seems as though care were taken that no one should ever

think for mere noise--to mention one form of it, the way in which

drumming goes on for no purpose at all.



[Footnote 1: According to a notice issued by the Society for the

Protection of Animals in Munich, the superfluous whipping and the

cracking of whips were, in December, 1858, positively forbidden in

Nuremberg.]



[Footnote 2: In _Up the Rhine_.]



Finally, as regards the literature of the subject treated of in this

chapter, I have only one work to recommend, but it is a good one. I

refer to a poetical epistle in _terzo rimo_ by the famous painter

Bronzino, entitled _De' Romori: a Messer Luca Martini_. It gives a

detailed description of the torture to which people are put by the

various noises of a small Italian town. Written in a tragicomic style,

it is very amusing. The epistle may be found in _Opere burlesche del

Berni, Aretino ed altri_, Vol. II., p. 258; apparently published in

Utrecht in 1771.









A FEW PARABLES.





In a field of ripening corn I came to a place which had been trampled

down by some ruthless foot; and as I glanced amongst the countless

stalks, every one of them alike, standing there so erect and bearing

the full weight of the ear, I saw a multitude of different flowers,

red and blue and violet. How pretty they looked as they grew there so

naturally with their little foliage! But, thought I, they are quite

useless; they bear no fruit; they are mere weeds, suffered to remain

only because there is no getting rid of them. And yet, but for these

flowers, there would be nothing to charm the eye in that wilderness

of stalks. They are emblematic of poetry and art, which, in civic

life--so severe, but still useful and not without its fruit--play the

same part as flowers in the corn.



       *       *       *       *       *



There are some really beautifully landscapes in the world, but the

human figures in them are poor, and you had not better look at them.



       *       *       *       *       *



The fly should be used as the symbol of impertinence and audacity; for

whilst all other animals shun man more than anything else, and run

away even before he comes near them, the fly lights upon his very

nose.



       *       *       *       *       *



Two Chinamen traveling in Europe went to the theatre for the first

time. One of them did nothing but study the machinery, and he

succeeded in finding out how it was worked. The other tried to get at

the meaning of the piece in spite of his ignorance of the language.

Here you have the Astronomer and the Philosopher.



       *       *       *       *       *



Wisdom which is only theoretical and never put into practice, is like

a double rose; its color and perfume are delightful, but it withers

away and leaves no seed.



No rose without a thorn. Yes, but many a thorn without a rose.



       *       *       *       *       *



A wide-spreading apple-tree stood in full bloom, and behind it a

straight fir raised its dark and tapering head. _Look at the thousands

of gay blossoms which cover me everywhere_, said the apple-tree; _what

have you to show in comparison? Dark-green needles! That is true_,

replied the fir, _but when winter comes, you will be bared of your

glory; and I shall be as I am now_.



       *       *       *       *       *



Once, as I was botanizing under an oak, I found amongst a number

of other plants of similar height one that was dark in color, with

tightly closed leaves and a stalk that was very straight and stiff.

When I touched it, it said to me in firm tones: _Let me alone; I am

not for your collection, like these plants to which Nature has given

only a single year of life. I am a little oak_.



So it is with a man whose influence is to last for hundreds of years.

As a child, as a youth, often even as a full-grown man, nay, his whole

life long, he goes about among his fellows, looking like them and

seemingly as unimportant. But let him alone; he will not die. Time

will come and bring those who know how to value him.



       *       *       *       *       *



The man who goes up in a balloon does not feel as though he were

ascending; he only sees the earth sinking deeper under him.



There is a mystery which only those will understand who feel the truth

of it.



       *       *       *       *       *



Your estimation of a man's size will be affected by the distance at

which you stand from him, but in two entirely opposite ways according

as it is his physical or his mental stature that you are considering.

The one will seem smaller, the farther off you move; the other,

greater.



       *       *       *       *       *



Nature covers all her works with a varnish of beauty, like the tender

bloom that is breathed, as it were, on the surface of a peach or a

plum. Painters and poets lay themselves out to take off this varnish,

to store it up, and give it us to be enjoyed at our leisure. We drink

deep of this beauty long before we enter upon life itself; and when

afterwards we come to see the works of Nature for ourselves, the

varnish is gone: the artists have used it up and we have enjoyed it in

advance. Thus it is that the world so often appears harsh and devoid

of charm, nay, actually repulsive. It were better to leave us to

discover the varnish for ourselves. This would mean that we should

not enjoy it all at once and in large quantities; we should have no

finished pictures, no perfect poems; but we should look at all things

in that genial and pleasing light in which even now a child of Nature

sometimes sees them--some one who has not anticipated his aesthetic

pleasures by the help of art, or taken the charms of life too early.



       *       *       *       *       *



The Cathedral in Mayence is so shut in by the houses that are built

round about it, that there is no one spot from which you can see it

as a whole. This is symbolic of everything great or beautiful in the

world. It ought to exist for its own sake alone, but before very long

it is misused to serve alien ends. People come from all directions

wanting to find in it support and maintenance for themselves; they

stand in the way and spoil its effect. To be sure, there is nothing

surprising in this, for in a world of need and imperfection everything

is seized upon which can be used to satisfy want. Nothing is exempt

from this service, no, not even those very things which arise only

when need and want are for a moment lost sight of--the beautiful and

the true, sought for their own sakes.



This is especially illustrated and corroborated in the case of

institutions--whether great or small, wealthy or poor, founded, no

matter in what century or in what land, to maintain and advance human

knowledge, and generally to afford help to those intellectual efforts

which ennoble the race. Wherever these institutions may be, it is not

long before people sneak up to them under the pretence of wishing to

further those special ends, while they are really led on by the desire

to secure the emoluments which have been left for their furtherance,

and thus to satisfy certain coarse and brutal instincts of their own.

Thus it is that we come to have so many charlatans in every branch

of knowledge. The charlatan takes very different shapes according

to circumstances; but at bottom he is a man who cares nothing about

knowledge for its own sake, and only strives to gain the semblance

of it that he may use it for his own personal ends, which are always

selfish and material.



       *       *       *       *       *



Every hero is a Samson. The strong man succumbs to the intrigues of

the weak and the many; and if in the end he loses all patience he

crushes both them and himself. Or he is like Gulliver at Lilliput,

overwhelmed by an enormous number of little men.



       *       *       *       *       *



A mother gave her children Aesop's fables to read, in the hope of

educating and improving their minds; but they very soon brought the

book back, and the eldest, wise beyond his years, delivered himself as

follows: _This is no book for us; it's much too childish and stupid.

You can't make us believe that foxes and wolves and ravens are able to

talk; we've got beyond stories of that kind_!



In these young hopefuls you have the enlightened Rationalists of the

future.



       *       *       *       *       *



A number of porcupines huddled together for warmth on a cold day in

winter; but, as they began to prick one another with their quills,

they were obliged to disperse. However the cold drove them together

again, when just the same thing happened. At last, after many turns of

huddling and dispersing, they discovered that they would be best off

by remaining at a little distance from one another. In the same way

the need of society drives the human porcupines together, only to be

mutually repelled by the many prickly and disagreeable qualities of

their nature. The moderate distance which they at last discover to be

the only tolerable condition of intercourse, is the code of politeness

and fine manners; and those who transgress it are roughly told--in

the English phrase--_to keep their distance_. By this arrangement the

mutual need of warmth is only very moderately satisfied; but then

people do not get pricked. A man who has some heat in himself prefers

to remain outside, where he will neither prick other people nor get

pricked himself.